Five

THE CRIME

He found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing, he missed the motion of the train.

If it was a station outside it was curiously¹ quiet. By contrast, the noises on the train seemedunusually loud. He could hear Ratchett moving about next door—a click as he pulled down thewashbasin, the sound of the tap running, a splashing noise, then another click as the basin shut toagain. Footsteps passed up the corridor outside, the shuffling² footsteps of someone in bedroomslippers.

Hercule Poirot lay awake staring at the ceiling. Why was the station outside so silent? His throatfelt dry. He had forgotten to ask for his usual bottle of mineral water. He looked at his watchagain. Just after a quarter past one. He would ring for the conductor and ask him for some mineralwater. His finger went out to the bell, but he paused as in the stillness he heard a ting. The mancouldn’t answer every bell at once.

Ting…ting…ting…

It sounded again and again. Where was the man? Somebody was getting impatient.

Ting…

Whoever it was was keeping their finger solidly on the push.

Suddenly with a rush, his footsteps echoing up the aisle³, the man came. He knocked at a doornot far from Poirot’s own.

Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential⁴, apologetic, and a woman’s—insistent andvoluble.

Mrs. Hubbard.

Poirot smiled to himself.

The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time. It’s proportions were ninety per cent ofMrs. Hubbard’s to a soothing⁵ ten per cent of the conductor’s. Finally the matter seemed to beadjusted. Poirot heard distinctly:

“Bonne nuit, Madame,” and a closing door.

He pressed his own finger on the bell.

The conductor arrived promptly⁷. He looked hot and worried.

“De l’eau minerale, s’il vous plait.”

“Bien, Monsieur.” Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot’s eye led him to unburden himself.

“La Dame⁶ Americaine—”

“Yes?”

He wiped his forehead.

“Imagine to yourself the time I have had with her! She insists—but insists—that there is a manin her compartment⁸! Figure to yourself, Monsieur. In a space of this size.” He swept a hand round.

“Where would he conceal⁹ himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists.

She woke up and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door boltedbehind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though, there were not enough to worry usalready. This snow—”

“Snow?”

“But yes, Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The train has stopped. We have run into asnowdrift. Heaven knows how long we shall be here. I remember once being snowed up for sevendays.”

“Where are we?”

“Between Vincovi and Brod.”

“Là là,” said Poirot vexedly.

The man withdrew and returned with the water.

“Bon soir, Monsieur.”

Poirot drank a glass of water and composed himself to sleep.

He was just dropping off when something again woke him. This time it was as thoughsomething heavy had fallen with a thud against the door.

He sprang up, opened it and looked out. Nothing. But to his right some way down the corridor awoman wrapped in a scarlet¹⁰ kimono was retreating from him. At the other end, sitting on his littleseat, the conductor was entering up figures on large sheets of paper. Everything was deathly quiet.

“Decidedly I suffer from the nerves,” said Poirot and retired¹¹ to bed again. This time he slept tillmorning.

When he awoke the train was still at a standstill. He raised a blind and looked out. Heavy banksof snow surrounded the train.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was past nine o’clock.

At a quarter to ten, neat, spruce, and dandified as ever, he made his way to the restaurant car,where a chorus of woe¹² was going on.

Any barriers there might have been between the passengers had now quite broken down. Allwere united by a common misfortune. Mrs. Hubbard was loudest in her lamentations.

“My daughter said it would be the easiest way in the world. Just sit in the train until I got toParrus. And now we may be here for days and days,” she wailed¹⁴. “And my boat sails the day aftertomorrow. How am I going to catch it now? Why, I can’t even wire to cancel my passage. I feeltoo mad to talk about it.”

The Italian said that he had urgent business himself in Milan. The large American said that thatwas “too bad, Ma’am,” and soothingly¹⁵ expressed a hope that the train might make up time.

“My sister—her children wait me,” said the Swedish lady and wept. “I get no word to them.

What they think? They will say bad things have happen to me.”

“How long shall we be here?” demanded Mary Debenham. “Doesn’t anybody know?”

Her voice sounded impatient, but Poirot noted¹⁶ that there were no signs of that almost feverishanxiety which she had displayed during the check to the Taurus Express.

Mrs. Hubbard was off again.

“There isn’t anybody knows a thing on this train. And nobody’s trying to do anything. Just apack of useless foreigners. Why, if this were at home, there’d be someone at least trying to dosomething.”

Arbuthnot turned to Poirot and spoke¹⁷ in careful British French.

“Vous êtes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur. Vous pouvez nous dire—”

Smiling Poirot corrected him.

“No, no,” he said in English. “It is not I. You confound me with my friend M. Bouc.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. It is most natural. I am now in the compartment that he had formerly¹⁸.”

M. Bouc was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot looked about to notice who else wasabsent.

Princess Dragomiroff was missing and the Hungarian couple. Also Ratchett, his valet, and theGerman lady’s maid.

The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.

“I am foolish,” she said. “I am baby to cry. All for the best, whatever happen.”

This Christian¹⁹ 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 shrugged²⁰ 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 savemyself useless emotion.”

She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snowlay in heavy masses.

“You are a strong character, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “You are, I think, the strongestcharacter 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 aforeigner with whom, until this morning, she had only exchanged half a dozen sentences.

She laughed a polite but estranging²¹ laugh.

“Well—that old lady, for instance. You have probably noticed her. A very ugly old lady, butrather fascinating. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice—andthe whole train runs.”

“It runs also for my friend M. Bouc,” said Poirot. “But that is because he is a director of theline, not because he has a masterful character.”

Mary Debenham smiled.

The morning wore away. Several people, Poirot amongst them, remained in the dining car. Thecommunal life was felt, at the moment, to pass the time better. He heard a good deal more aboutMrs. Hubbard’s daughter and he heard the lifelong habits of Mr. Hubbard, deceased, from hisrising in the morning and commencing breakfast with a cereal to his final rest at night in thebedsocks 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 missionary²² aims of the Swedish ladythat one of the Wagon²³ 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 himfor 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 nextone. 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 presumablybecause 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 thewindow facing him was a small, dark man looking out at the snow. Standing²⁴ up and quitepreventing 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 andsat 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 gasp²⁵ 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 gulped²⁶.

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 hisface in his hands.

“Brr!” said Poirot. “This is serious!”

“Certainly it is serious. To begin with, a murder—that by itself is a calamity²⁷ of the first water.

But not only that, the circumstances are unusual. Here we are, brought to a standstill. We may behere for hours—and not only hours—days! Another circumstance. Passing through most countrieswe 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 definitelythat 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 theconductor,” 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 thatthe murderer escaped that way. But in my opinion that open window is a blind. Anyone departingthat 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 noanswer. Then, half an hour ago, the restaurant car attendant came. He wanted to know if Monsieurwas 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 noanswer and it is very still in there, and cold—but cold. With the window open and snow driftingin. I thought the gentleman had had a fit, perhaps. I got the chef de train. We broke the chain andwent 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 sardonic²⁸ 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 awoman. 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 suchforce 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 deliveredhaphazard and at random²⁹. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as thoughsomebody had shut their eyes and then in a frenzy³⁰ struck blindly again and again.”

“C’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enragedthey have great strength.” He nodded so sagely³¹ that everyone suspected a personal experience ofhis own.

“I have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchettspoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was in danger ofhis life.”

“‘Bumped off’—that is the American expression, is it not?” said M. Bouc. “Then it is not awoman. It is a ‘Gangster’ or a ‘gunman.’”

The chef de train looked pained at his theory having come to naught³².

“If so,” said Poirot, “it seems to have been done very amateurishly³³.”

His tone expressed professional disapproval³⁴.

“There is a large American on the train,” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea—“a common-lookingman with terrible clothes. He chews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles. Youknow 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 leavethe compartment.”

“You might not. You might not. But we will go into that presently. The question is, what todo?” 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 knowyour powers. Take command of this investigation³⁵! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is serious—Ispeak for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons³⁶ Lits. By the time the Yugo-Slavian policearrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances³⁷, amillion and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance³⁸ 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 positively³⁹ caressing⁴⁰. “I know your reputation. I knowsomething of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all thesepeople, to discover their bona fides—all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I notheard 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 Ihave heard you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind—and you will know!”

He leaned forward, looking affectionately at his friend.

“Your faith touches me, my friend,” said Poirot emotionally. “As you say, this cannot be adifficult case. I myself, last night—but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problemintrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom⁴¹ lay ahead whilstwe are stuck here. And now—a problem lies ready to my hand.”

“You accept then?” said M. Bouc eagerly.

“C’est entendu. You place the matter in my hands.”

“Good—we are all at your service.”

“To begin with, I should like a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach, with a note of the people whooccupied the several compartments⁴², and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets.”

“Michel will get you those.”

The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment.

“What other passengers are there on the train?” asked Poirot.

“In this coach Dr. Constantine and I are the only travellers. In the coach from Bucharest is anold gentleman with a lame¹³ leg. He is well known to the conductor. Beyond that are the ordinarycarriages, but these do not concern us, since they were locked after dinner had been served lastnight. Forward of the Istanbul-Calais coach there is only the dining car.”

“Then it seems,” said Poirot slowly, “as though we must look for our murderer in the Istanbul-Calais coach.” He turned to the doctor. “That is what you were hinting, I think?”

The Greek nodded.

“At half an hour after midnight we ran into the snowdrift. No one can have left the train sincethen.”

M. Bouc said solemnly.

“The murderer is with us—on the train now….”

 

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