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This Christian spirit, however, was far from being shared.
“That’s all very well,” said MacQueen restlessly. “We may be here for days.”
“What is this country anyway?” demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.
On being told it was Yugo-Slavia she said:
“Oh! one of these Balkan things. What can you expect?”
“You are the only patient one, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot to Miss Debenham.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“What can one do?”
“You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”
“That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.”
She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snow lay in heavy masses.
“You are a strong character, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “You are, I think, the strongest character amongst us.”
“Oh, no. No, indeed. I know one far far stronger than I am.”
“And that is—?”
She seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realize that she was talking to a stranger and a foreigner with whom, until this morning, she had only exchanged half a dozen sentences.
She laughed a polite but estranging laugh.
“Well—that old lady, for instance. You have probably noticed her. A very ugly old lady, but rather fascinating. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice—and the whole train runs.”
“It runs also for my friend M. Bouc,” said Poirot. “But that is because he is a director of the line, not because he has a masterful character.”
Mary Debenham smiled.
The morning wore away. Several people, Poirot amongst them, remained in the dining car. The communal life was felt, at the moment, to pass the time better. He heard a good deal more about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter and he heard the lifelong habits of Mr. Hubbard, deceased, from his rising in the morning and commencing breakfast with a cereal to his final rest at night in the bedsocks that Mrs. Hubbard herself had been in the habit of knitting for him.
It was when he was listening to a confused account of the missionary aims of the Swedish lady that one of the Wagon Lit conductors came into the car and stood at his elbow.
“Pardon, Monsieur.”
“Yes?”
“The compliments of M. Bouc, and he would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes.”
Poirot rose, uttered excuses to the Swedish lady and followed the man out of the dining car.
It was not his own conductor, but a big fair man.
He followed his guide down the corridor of his own carriage and along the corridor of the next one. The man tapped at a door, then stood aside to let Poirot enter.
The compartment was not M. Bouc’s own. It was a second-class one—chosen presumably because of its slightly larger size. It certainly gave the impression of being crowded.
M. Bouc himself was sitting on the small seat in the opposite corner. In the corner next the window facing him was a small, dark man looking out at the snow. Standing up and quite preventing Poirot from advancing any farther was a big man in blue uniform (the chef de train) and his own Wagon Lit conductor.
“Ah, my good friend,” cried M. Bouc. “Come in. We have need of you.”
The little man in the window shifted along the seat, Poirot squeezed past the other two men and sat down facing his friend.
The expression on M. Bouc’s face gave him, as he would have expressed it, furiously to think. It was clear that something out of the common had happened.
“What has occurred?” he asked.
“You may well ask that. First this snow—this stoppage. And now—”
He paused—and a sort of strangled gasp came from the Wagon Lit conductor.
“And now what?”
“And now a passenger lies dead in his berth—stabbed.”
M. Bouc spoke with a kind of calm desperation.
“A passenger? Which passenger?”
“An American. A man called—called—” he consulted some notes in front of him. “Ratchett—that is right—Ratchett?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” the Wagon Lit man gulped.
Poirot looked at him. He was as white as chalk.
“You had better let that man sit down,” he said. “He may faint otherwise.”
The chef de train moved slightly and the Wagon Lit man sank down in the corner and buried his face in his hands.
“Brr!” said Poirot. “This is serious!”
“Certainly it is serious. To begin with, a murder—that by itself is a calamity of the first water. But not only that, the circumstances are unusual. Here we are, brought to a standstill. We may be here for hours—and not only hours—days! Another circumstance. Passing through most countries we have the police of that country on the train. But in Yugoslavia—no. You comprehend?”
“It is a position of great difficulty,” said Poirot.
“There is worse to come. Dr. Constantine—I forgot, I have not introduced you—Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot.”
The little dark man bowed and Poirot returned it.
“Dr. Constantine is of the opinion that death occurred at about 1 a.m.”
“It is difficult to say exactly in these matters,” said the doctor, “but I think I can say definitely that death occurred between midnight and two in the morning.”
“When was this M. Ratchett last seen alive?” asked Poirot.
“He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes to one, when he spoke to the conductor,” said M. Bouc.
“That is quite correct,” said Poirot. “I myself heard what passed. That is the last thing known?”
“Yes.”
Poirot turned toward the doctor, who continued:
“The window of M. Ratchett’s compartment was found wide open, leading one to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But in my opinion that open window is a blind. Anyone departing that way would have left distinct traces in the snow. There were none.”
“The crime was discovered—when?” asked Poirot.
“Michel!”
The Wagon Lit conductor sat up. His face still looked pale and frightened.
“Tell this gentleman exactly what occurred,” ordered M. Bouc.
The man spoke somewhat jerkily.
“The valet of this M. Ratchett, he tapped several times at the door this morning. There was no answer. Then, half an hour ago, the restaurant car attendant came. He wanted to know if Monsieur was taking déjeuner. It was eleven o’clock, you comprehend.
“I open the door for him with my key. But there is a chain, too, and that is fastened. There is no answer and it is very still in there, and cold—but cold. With the window open and snow drifting in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit, perhaps. I got the chef de train. We broke the chain and went in. He was—Ah! c’était terrible!”
He buried his face in his hands again.
“The door was locked and chained on the inside,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It was not suicide—eh?”
The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh.
“Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?” he asked.
Poirot’s eyes opened.
“That is great ferocity,” he said.
“It is a woman,” said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. “Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.”
Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully.
“She must have been a very strong woman,” he said. “It is not my desire to speak technically—that is only confusing—but I can assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.”
“It was not, clearly, a scientific crime,” said Poirot.
“It was most unscientific,” said Dr. Constantine. “The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard
and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut their eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.”
“C’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.” He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.
“I have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchett spoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was in danger of his life.”
“‘Bumped off’—that is the American expression, is it not?” said M. Bouc. “Then it is not a woman. It is a ‘Gangster’ or a ‘gunman.’”
The chef de train looked pained at his theory having come to naught.
“If so,” said Poirot, “it seems to have been done very amateurishly.”
His tone expressed professional disapproval.
“There is a large American on the train,” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea—“a common-looking man with terrible clothes. He chews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?”
The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded.
“Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been he. I should have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”
“You might not. You might not. But we will go into that presently. The question is, what to do?” He looked at Poirot.
Poirot looked back at him.
“Come, my friend,” said M. Bouc. “You comprehend what I am about to ask of you. I know your powers. Take command of this investigation! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is serious—I speak for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits. By the time the Yugo-Slavian police arrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance to innocent persons. Instead—you solve the mystery! We say, ‘A murder has occurred—this is the criminal!’”
“And suppose I do not solve it?”
“Ah! mon cher.” M. Bouc’s voice became positively caressing. “I know your reputation. I know something of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all these people, to discover their bona fides—all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are and then—well, I have faith in you! I am assured that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie back and think—use (as I have heard you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind—and you will know!”
He leaned forward, looking affectionately at his friend.
