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It was signed “S.E. Ratchett.”
“Eh bien?”
“I reported at the time stated and Mr. Ratchett put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he’d got.”
“He was alarmed?”
“Pretended not to be, but he was rattled all right. He put up a proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train and, in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn’t look any too good for me.”
“Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?”
“Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his—well, that was blown upon straight away. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a bit of a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that’s neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining car in front of the Stamboul sleeping car, the door on to the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear end door to the platform or along the train from the rear—in either case he’d have to pass right by my compartment.”
“You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant.”
“Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr. Ratchett described him to me.”
“What?”
All three men leaned forward eagerly.
Hardman went on:
“A small man, dark, with a womanish kind of voice—that’s what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn’t think it would be the first night out. More likely the second or third.”
“He knew something,” said M. Bouc.
“He certainly knew more than he told his secretary,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?”
“No, he was kinder reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it.”
“A small man—dark—with a womanish voice,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he said:
“You knew who he really was, of course?”
“Which, mister?”
“Ratchett. You recognized him?”
“I don’t get you.”
“Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer.”
Mr. Hardman gave way to a prolonged whistle.
“That certainly is some surprise!” he said. “Yes, sir! No, I didn’t recognize him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her. Well, I don’t doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right.”
“Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description—small, dark, womanish voice?”
Hardman reflected a minute or two.
“It’s hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone to do with that case is dead.”
“There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember.”
“Sure. That’s a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe she had some wop relations. But you’ve got to remember that there were other cases besides the Armstrong case. Cassetti had been running this kidnapping stunt some time. You can’t concentrate on that only.”
“Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Armstrong case.”
Mr. Hardman cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The American shook his head.
“I can’t call to mind anybody answering that description in the Armstrong case,” he said slowly. “But of course I wasn’t in it and didn’t know much about it.”
“Well, continue your narrative, M. Hardman.”
“There’s very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and stayed awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious happened the first night. Last night was the same, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar and watched. No stranger passed.”
“You are sure of that, M. Hardman?”
“I’m plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside and nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I’ll take my oath on that.”
“Could you see the conductor from your position?”
“Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door.”
“Did he leave that seat at all after the train stopped at Vincovci?”
“That was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple of bells—that would be just after the train came to a halt for good. Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach—was there about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about—felt a mite nervous, you understand—but it was only the American dame. She was raising hell about something or other. I grinned. Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone. After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody’s bed up. I don’t think he stirred after that until about five o’clock this morning.”
“Did he doze off at all?”
“That I can’t say. He may have done.”
Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the official card once more.
“Be so good as just to initial this,” he said.
The other complied.
“There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, M. Hardman?”
“On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young MacQueen. I know him well enough—seen him in his father’s office in New York—but that’s not to say he’ll remember me from a crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you’ll have to wait and cable New York when the snow lets up. But it’s O.K. I’m not telling the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot proffered his cigarette case.
“But perhaps you prefer a pipe?”
“Not me.”
He helped himself, then strode briskly off.
The three men looked at each other.
“You think he is genuine?” asked Dr. Constantine.
“Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easily disproved.”
“He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence,” said M. Bouc.
“Yes, indeed.”
“A small man, dark, with a high-pitched voice,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully.
“A description which applies to no one on the train,” said Poirot.
Ten
THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN
“And now,” said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, “we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian.”
Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining car with a swift, catlike tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny looking and swarthy.
He spoke French well and fluently, with only a slight accent.
“Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You are, I see, a naturalized American subject?”
The American grinned.
“Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business.”
“You are an agent for Ford motor cars?”
“Yes, you see—”
A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it, anything that the three men did not know about Foscarelli’s business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States and most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed out.
His good-natured childish face beamed with satisfaction as with a last eloquent gesture, he paused and wiped his forehead
with a handkerchief.
“So you see,” he said, “I do big business. I am up to date. I understand salesmanship!”
“You have been in the United States, then, for the last ten years on and off?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took the boat—to go to America, so far away! My mother, my little sister—”
Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.
“During your sojourn in the United States did you ever come across the deceased?”
“Never. But I know the type. Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers expressively. “It is very respectable, very well dressed, but underneath it is all wrong. Out of my experience, I should say he was the big crook. I give you my opinion for what it is worth.”
“Your opinion is quite right,” said Poirot dryly. “Ratchett was Cassetti, the kidnapper.”
“What did I tell you? I have learned to be very acute—to read the face. It is necessary. Only in America do they teach you the proper way to sell.”
“You remember the Armstrong case?
“I do not quite remember. The name, yes? It was a little girl—a baby—was it not?”
“Yes, a very tragic affair.”
The Italian seemed the first person to demur to this view.
“Ah, well, these things they happen,” he said philosophically, “in a great civilization such as America—”
Poirot cut him short.
“Did you ever come across any members of the Armstrong family?”
“No, I do not think so. It is difficult to say. I will give you some figures. Last year alone I sold—”
“Monsieur, pray confine yourself to the point.”
The Italian’s hands flung themselves out in a gesture of apology.
“A thousand pardons.”
