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He bowed and left the compartment, closing the door after him.
“Was that wise, my friend?” asked M. Bouc. “You have put her on her guard—and through her you have put the Colonel on his guard also.”
“Mon ami, if you wish to catch a rabbit you put a ferret into the hole, and if the rabbit is there he runs. That is all I have done.”
They entered the compartment of Hildegarde Schmidt.
The woman was standing in readiness, her face respectful but unemotional.
Poirot took a quick glance through the contents of the small case on the seat. Then he motioned to the attendant to get down the bigger suitcase from the rack.
“The keys?” he said.
“It is not locked, Monsieur.”
Poirot undid the hasps and lifted the lid.
“Aha!” he said, and turning to M. Bouc, “You remember what I said? Look here a little moment!”
On the top of the suitcase was a hastily rolled up brown Wagon Lit uniform.
The stolidity of the German woman underwent a sudden change.
“Ach!” she cried. “That is not mine. I did not put it there. I have never looked in that case since we left Stamboul. Indeed, indeed, it is true.”
She looked from one to another pleadingly.
Poirot took her gently by the arm and soothed her.
“No, no all is well. We believe you. Do not be agitated. I am as sure you did not hide the uniform there as I am sure that you are a good cook. See. You are a good cook, are you not?”
Bewildered, the woman smiled in spite of herself.
“Yes, indeed, all my ladies have said so. I—”
She stopped, her mouth open, looking frightened again.
“No, no,” said Poirot. “I assure you all is well. See, I will tell you how this happened. This man, the man you saw in Wagon Lit uniform, comes out of the dead man’s compartment. He collides with you. That is bad luck for him. He has hoped that no one will see him. What to do next? He must get rid of his uniform. It is now not a safeguard, but a danger.”
His glance went to M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine, who were listening attentively.
“There is the snow, you see. The snow which confuses all his plans. Where can he hide these clothes? All the compartments are full. No, he passes one where the door is open and shows it to be unoccupied. It must be the one belonging to the woman with whom he has just collided. He slips in, removes the uniform and jams it hurriedly into a suitcase on the rack. It may be some time before it is discovered.”
“And then?” said M. Bouc.
“That we must discuss,” said Poirot with a warning glance.
He held up the tunic. A button, the third down, was missing. Poirot slipped his hand into the pocket and took out a conductor’s pass key, used to unlock the doors of the compartments.
“Here is the explanation of how our man was able to pass through locked doors,” said M. Bouc. “Your questions to Mrs. Hubbard were unnecessary. Locked or not locked, the man could easily get through the communicating door. After all, if a Wagon Lit uniform, why not a Wagon Lit key?”
“Why not, indeed,” said Poirot.
“We might have known it, really. You remember Michel said that the door into the corridor of Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment was locked when he came in answer to her bell.”
“That is so, Monsieur,” said the conductor. “That is why I thought the lady must have been dreaming.”
“But now it is easy,” continued M. Bouc. “Doubtless he meant to relock the communicating door also, but perhaps he heard some movement from the bed and it startled him.”
“We have now,” said Poirot, “only to find the scarlet kimono.”
“True. And these last two compartments are occupied by men.”
“We will search all the same.”
“Oh! assuredly. Besides, I remember what you said.”
Hector MacQueen acquiesced willingly in the search.
“I’d just as soon you did,” he said with a rueful smile. “I feel I’m just definitely the most suspicious character on the train. You’ve only got to find a will in which the old man left me all his money, and that’ll just about fix things.”
M. Bouc bent a suspicious glance upon him.
“That’s just my fun,” said MacQueen hastily. “He’d never have left me a cent, really. I was just useful to him—languages and so on. You’re apt to be done down, you know, if you don’t speak anything but good American. I’m no linguist myself, but I know what I call shopping and hotel snappy bits in French and German and Italian.”
His voice was a little louder than usual. It was as though he was slightly uneasy at the search in spite of his willingness.
Poirot emerged.
“Nothing,” he said. “Not even a compromising bequest!”
MacQueen sighed.
“Well, that’s a load off my mind,” he said humorously.
They moved on to the last compartment. The examination of the luggage of the big Italian and of the valet yielded no result.
The three men stood at the end of the coach looking at each other.
“What next?” asked M. Bouc.
“We will go back to the dining car,” said Poirot. “We know now all that we can know. We have the evidence of the passengers, the evidence of their baggage, the evidence of our eyes. We can expect no further help. It must be our part now to use our brains.”
He felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. It was empty.
“I will join you in a moment,” he said. “I shall need the cigarettes. This is a very difficult, a very curious affair. Who wore that scarlet kimono? Where is it now? I wish I knew. There is something in this case—some factor—that escapes me! It is difficult because it has been made difficult. But we will discuss it. Pardon me a moment.”
He went hurriedly along the corridor to his own compartment. He had, he knew, a further supply of cigarettes in one of his valises.
He got it down and snapped back the lock.
Then he sat back on his heels and stared.
Neatly folded on the top of the case was a thin scarlet silk kimono embroidered with dragons.
“So,” he murmured. “It is like that. A defiance. Very well. I take it up.”
PART THREE
HERCULE POIROT SITS BACK AND THINKS
One
WHICH OF THEM?
M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine were talking together when Poirot entered the dining car. M. Bouc was looking depressed.
“Le voilà,” said the latter when he saw Poirot.
Then he added as his friend sat down:
“If you solve this case, mon cher, I shall indeed believe in miracles!”
“It worries you, this case?”
“Naturally it worries me. I cannot make head or tail of it.”
“I agree,” said the doctor.
He looked at Poirot with interest.
“To be frank,” he said, “I cannot see what you are going to do next.”
“No?” said Poirot thoughtfully.
He took out his cigarette case and lit one of his tiny cigarettes. His eyes were dreamy.
“That, to me, is the interest of this case,” he said. “We are cut off from all the normal routes of procedure. Are these people whose evidence we have taken speaking the truth or lying? We have no means of finding out—except such means as we can devise ourselves. It is an exercise, this, of the brain.”
“That is all very fine,” said M. Bouc. “But what have you to go upon?”
“I told you just now. We have the evidence of the passengers and the evidence of our own eyes.”
“Pretty evidence—that of the passengers! It told us just nothing at all.”
Poirot shook his head.
“I do not agree, my friend. The evidence of the passengers gave us several points of interest.”
“Indeed,” said M. Bouc sceptically. “I did not observe it.”
“That is because you did not listen.”
&
nbsp; “Well, tell me—what did I miss?”
“I will just take one instance—the first evidence we heard—that of the young MacQueen. He uttered, to my mind, one very significant phrase.”
“About the letters?”
“No, not about the letters. As far as I can remember, his words were: ‘We travelled about. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier than a secretary.’”
He looked from the doctor’s face to that of M. Bouc.
“What? You still do not see? That is inexcusable—for you had a second chance again just now when he said, ‘You’re apt to be done down if you speak nothing but good American.’”
“You mean—?” M. Bouc still looked puzzled.
“Ah, it is that you want it given to you in words of one syllable. Well, here it is! M. Ratchett spoke no French. Yet, when the conductor came in answer to his bell last night, it was a voice speaking in French that told him that it was a mistake and that he was not wanted. It was, moreover, a perfectly idiomatic phrase that was used, not one that a man knowing only a few words of French would have selected. ‘Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.’”
“It is true,” cried Constantine excitedly. “We should have seen that! I remember your laying stress on the words when you repeated them to us. Now I understand your reluctance to rely upon the evidence of the dented watch. Already, at twenty-three minutes to one, Ratchett was dead—”
“And it was his murderer speaking!” finished M. Bouc impressively.
Poirot raised a deprecating hand.
“Let us not go too fast. And do not let us assume more than we actually know. It is safe, I think, to say that at that time, twenty-three minutes to one, some other person was in Ratchett’s compartment and that that person was either French, or could speak the French language fluently.”
