Fourteen

THE EVIDENCE OF THE WEAPON

With more vigour¹ than chivalry², M. Bouc deposited the fainting lady with her head on the table.

Dr. Constantine yelled for one of the restaurant attendants, who came at a run.

“Keep her head so,” said the doctor. “If she revives give her a little cognac. You understand?”

Then he hurried off after the other two. His interest lay wholly in the crime—swooning middle-aged³ ladies did not interest him at all.

It is possible that Mrs. Hubbard revived rather quicker with these methods than she mightotherwise have done. A few minutes later she was sitting up, sipping⁴ cognac from a glass profferedby the attendant, and talking once more.

“I just can’t say how terrible it was. I don’t suppose anybody on this train can understand myfeelings. I’ve always been vurry, vurry sensitive ever since a child. The mere⁶ sight of blood—ugh—why even now I come over queer when I think about it.”

The attendant proffered⁵ the glass again.

“Encore un peu, Madame.”

“D’you think I’d better? I’m a lifelong teetotaller. I just never touch spirits or wine at any time.

All my family are abstainers. Still perhaps as this is only medical—”

She sipped⁷ once more.

In the meantime Poirot and M. Bouc, closely followed by Dr. Constantine, had hurried out ofthe restaurant car and along the corridor of the Stamboul coach towards Mrs. Hubbard’scompartment.

Every traveller on the train seemed to be congregated⁹ outside the door. The conductor, aharrassed look on his face, was keeping them back.

“Mais il n’y a rien à voir,” he said, and repeated the sentiment in several other languages.

“Let me pass, if you please,” said M. Bouc.

Squeezing his rotundity past the obstructing¹⁰ passengers, he entered the compartment⁸, Poirotclose behind him.

“I am glad you have come Monsieur,” said the conductor with a sigh of relief. “Everyone hasbeen trying to enter. The American lady—such screams as she gave—ma foi! I thought she toohad been murdered! I came at a run and there she was screaming like a mad woman, and she criedout that she must fetch you and she departed, screeching¹¹ at the top of her voice and tellingeverybody whose carriage she passed what had occurred.”

He added, with a gesture of the hand:

“It is in there, Monsieur. I have not touched it.”

Hanging on the handle of the door that gave access to the next compartment was a large-sizechecked rubber sponge bag. Below it on the floor, just where it had fallen from Mrs. Hubbard’shand, was a straightbladed dagger—a cheap affair, sham¹² Oriental, with an embossed hilt and atapering blade. The blade was stained with patches of what looked like rust¹³.

Poirot picked it up delicately.

“Yes,” he murmured. “There is no mistake. Here is our missing weapon all right—eh, docteur?”

The doctor examined it.

“You need not be so careful,” said Poirot. “There will be no fingerprints¹⁴ on it save those of Mrs.

Hubbard.”

Constantine’s examination did not take long.

“It is the weapon all right,” he said. “It would account for any of the wounds.”

“I implore¹⁵ you, my friend, do not say that.”

The doctor looked astonished.

“Already we are heavily overburdened by coincidence. Two people decide to stab M. Ratchettlast night. It is too much of a good thing that each of them should select an identical weapon.”

“As to that, the coincidence is not, perhaps, so great as it seems,” said the doctor. “Thousands ofthese sham Eastern daggers¹⁶ are made and shipped to the bazaars¹⁷ of Constantinople.”

“You console me a little, but only a little,” said Poirot. He looked thoughtfully at the door infront of him, then, lifting off the sponge bag, he tried the handle. The door did not budge¹⁸. About afoot above the handle was the door bolt, Poirot drew it back and tried again, but still the doorremained fast.

“We locked it from the other side, you remember,” said the doctor.

“That is true,” said Poirot absently. He seemed to be thinking about something else. His browwas furrowed¹⁹ as though in perplexity.

“It agrees, does it not?” said M. Bouc. “The man passes through this carriage. As he shuts thecommunicating door behind him he feels the sponge bag. A thought comes to him and he quicklyslips the bloodstained knife inside. Then, all unwitting that he has awakened²⁰ Mrs. Hubbard, heslips out through the other door into the corridor.”

“As you say,” murmured Poirot. “That is how it must have happened.”

But the puzzled look did not leave his face.

“But what is it?” demanded M. Bouc. “There is something, is there not, that does not satisfyyou?”

Poirot darted²¹ a quick look at him.

“The same point does not strike you? No, evidently not. Well, it is a small matter.”

The conductor looked into the carriage.

“The American lady is coming back.”

Dr. Constantine looked rather guilty. He had, he felt, treated Mrs. Hubbard rather cavalierly.

But she had no reproaches for him. Her energies were concentrated on another matter.

“I’m just going to say one thing right out,” she said breathlessly as she arrived in the doorway²².

“I’m not going on any longer in this compartment! Why, I wouldn’t sleep in it tonight if you paidme a million dollars.”

“But, Madame—”

“I know what you are going to say, and I’m telling you right now that I won’t do any suchthing! Why, I’d rather sit up all night in the corridor.”

She began to cry.

“Oh! if my daughter could only know—if she could see me now, why—”

Poirot interrupted firmly.

“You misunderstand, Madame. Your demand is most reasonable. Your baggage shall bechanged at once to another compartment.”

Mrs. Hubbard lowered her handkerchief.

“Is that so? Oh, I feel better right away. But surely it’s all full up, unless one of the gentlemen—”

M. Bouc spoke²³.

“Your baggage, Madame, shall be moved out of this coach altogether. You shall have acompartment in the next coach which was put on at Belgrade.”

“Why, that’s splendid. I’m not an out of the way nervous woman, but to sleep in thatcompartment next door to a dead man—” She shivered. “It would drive me plumb²⁴ crazy.”

“Michel,” called M. Bouc. “Move this baggage into a vacant compartment in the Athens-Pariscoach.”

“Yes, Monsieur—the same one as this—the No. 3?”

“No,” said Poirot before his friend could reply. “I think it would be better for Madame to have adifferent number altogether. The No. 12, for instance.”

“Bien, Monsieur.”

The conductor seized the luggage. Mrs. Hubbard turned gratefully to Poirot.

“That’s vurry kind and delicate of you. I appreciate it, I assure you.”

“Do not mention it, Madame. We will come with you and see you comfortably installed.”

Mrs. Hubbard was escorted by the three men to her new home. She looked round her happily.

“This is fine.”

“It suits you, Madame? It is, you see, exactly like the compartment you have left.”

“That’s so—only it faces the other way. But that doesn’t matter, for these trains go first one wayand then the other. I said to my daughter, ‘I want a carriage facing the engine,’ and she said,‘Why, Momma, that’ll be no good to you, for if you go to sleep one way, when you wake up thetrain’s going the other.’ And it was quite true what she said. Why, last evening we went intoBelgrade one way and out the other.”

“At any rate, Madame, you are quite happy and contented²⁵ now?”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. Here we are stuck in a snowdrift and nobody doing anythingabout it, and my boat sailing the day after tomorrow.”

“Madame,” said M. Bouc, “we are all in the same case—every one of us.”

“Well, that’s true,” admitted Mrs. Hubbard. “But nobody else has had a murderer walking rightthrough their compartment in the middle of the night.”

“What still puzzles me, Madame,” said Poirot, “is how the man got into your compartment ifthe communicating door was bolted as you say. You are sure that it was bolted?”

“Why, the Swedish lady tried it before my eyes.”

“Let us just reconstruct that little scene. You were lying in your bunk—so—and you could notsee for yourself, you say?”

“No, because of the sponge bag. Oh, my, I shall have to get a new sponge bag. It makes me feelsick in my stomach to look at this one.”

Poirot picked up the sponge bag and hung it on the handle of the communicating door into thenext carriage.

“Précisément—I see,” he said. “The bolt is just underneath²⁶ the handle—the sponge bag masksit. You could not see from where you were lying whether the bolt were turned or not.”

“Why, that’s just what I’ve been telling you!”

“And the Swedish lady, Miss Ohlsson, stood so, between you and the door. She tried it and toldyou it was bolted.”

“That’s so.”

“All the same, Madame, she may have made an error. You see what I mean.” Poirot seemedanxious to explain. “The bolt is just a projection²⁷ of metal—so. Turned to the right the door islocked, left straight, it is not. Possibly she merely tried the door, and as it was locked on the otherside she may have assumed that it was locked on your side.”

“Well I guess that would be rather stupid of her.”

“Madame, the most kind, the most amiable²⁸ are not always the cleverest.”

“That’s so, of course.”

“By the way, Madame, did you travel out to Smyrna this way?”

“No. I sailed right to Stamboul, and a friend of my daughter’s—Mr. Johnson (a perfectly²⁹ lovelyman; I’d like to have you know him)—met me and showed me all round Stamboul, which I founda very disappointing city—all tumbling down. And as for those mosques³⁰ and putting on thosegreat shuffling³¹ things over your shoes—where was I?”

“You were saying that Mr. Johnson met you.”

“That’s so, and he saw me on board a French Messagerie boat for Smyrna, and my daughter’shusband was waiting right on the quay³². What he’ll say when he hears about all this! My daughtersaid this would be just the safest, easiest way imaginable. ‘You just sit in your carriage,’ she said,‘and you get right to Parrus and there the American Express will meet you.’ And, oh dear, whatam I to do about cancelling my steamship³³ passage? I ought to let them know. I can’t possiblymake it now. This is just too terrible—”

Mrs. Hubbard showed signs of tears once more.

Poirot, who had been fidgeting slightly, seized his opportunity.

“You have had a shock, Madame. The restaurant attendant shall be instructed to bring you alongsome tea and some biscuits.”

“I don’t know that I’m so set on tea,” said Mrs. Hubbard tearfully. “That’s more an Englishhabit.”

“Coffee, then, Madame. You need some stimulant³⁴.”

“That cognac’s made my head feel mighty³⁵ funny. I think I would like some coffee.”

“Excellent. You must revive your forces.”

“My, what a funny expression.”

“But first, Madame, a little matter of routine. You permit that I make a search of yourbaggage?”

“Whatever for?”

“We are about to commence a search of all the passengers’ luggage. I do not want to remindyou of an unpleasant experience, but your sponge bag—remember.”

“Mercy! Perhaps you’d better! I just couldn’t bear to get any more surprises of that kind.”

The examination was quickly over. Mrs. Hubbard was travelling with the minimum of luggage—a hat box, a cheap suitcase, and a well-burdened travelling bag. The contents of all three weresimple and straightforward³⁶, and the examination would not have taken more than a couple ofminutes had not Mrs. Hubbard delayed matters by insisting on due attention being paid tophotographs of “My daughter” and two rather ugly children—“My daughter’s children. Aren’tthey cunning?”

 

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