Eight

FURTHER SURPRISING REVELATIONS

“Nothing would surprise me now,” said M. Bouc. “Nothing! Even if everybody in the train provedto have been in the Armstrong household I should not express surprise.”

“That is a very profound remark,” said Poirot. “Would you like to see what your favouritesuspect, the Italian, has to say for himself?”

“You are going to make another of these famous guesses of yours?”

“Precisely.”

“It is really a most extraordinary case,” said Constantine.

“No, it is most natural.” M. Bouc flung up his arms in comic despair.

“If this is what you call natural, mom ami—”

Words failed him.

Poirot had by this time requested the dining car attendant to fetch Antonio Foscarelli.

The big Italian had a wary¹ look in his eye as he came in. He shot nervous glances from side toside like a trapped animal.

“What do you want?” he said. “I have nothing to tell you—nothing, do you hear! Per Dio—”

He struck his hand on the table.

“Yes, you have something more to tell us,” said Poirot firmly. “The truth!”

“The truth?” He shot an uneasy glance at Poirot. All the assurance and geniality² had gone out ofhis manner.

“Mais oui. It may be that I know it already. But it will be a point in your favour if it comes fromyou spontaneously.”

“You talk like the American police. ‘Come clean,’ that is what they say—‘come clean.’”

“Ah! so you have had experience of the New York police?”

“No, no, never. They could not prove a thing against me—but it was not for want of trying.”

Poirot said quietly:

“That was in the Armstrong case, was it not? You were the chauffeur³?”

His eyes met those of the Italian. The bluster⁴ went out of the big man. He was like a prickedballoon.

“Since you know—why ask me?”

“Why did you lie this morning?”

“Business reasons. Besides, I do not trust the Yugo-Slav police. They hate the Italians. Theywould not have given me justice.”

“Perhaps it is exactly justice that they would have given you!”

“No, no, I had nothing to do with this business last night. I never left my carriage. The long-faced Englishman, he can tell you so. It was not I who killed this pig—this Ratchett. You cannotprove anything against me.”

Poirot was writing something on a sheet of paper. He looked up and said quietly:

“Very good. You can go.”

Foscarelli lingered uneasily.

“You realize that it was not I—that I could have had nothing to do with it?”

“I said that you could go.”

“It is a conspiracy⁵. You are going to frame me? All for a pig of a man who should have gone tothe chair! It was an infamy⁶ that he did not. If it had been me—if I had been arrested—”

“But it was not you. You had nothing to do with the kidnapping of the child.”

“What is that you are saying? Why, that little one—she was the delight of the house. Tonio, shecalled me. And she would sit in the car and pretend to hold the wheel. All the householdworshipped her! Even the police came to understand that. Ah, the beautiful little one.”

His voice had softened⁷. The tears came into his eyes. Then he wheeled round abruptly⁸ on hisheel and strode out of the dining car.

“Pietro,” called Poirot.

The dining car attendant came at a run.

“The No. 10—the Swedish lady.”

“Bien, Monsieur.”

“Another?” cried M. Bouc. “Ah, no—it is not possible. I tell you it is not possible.”

“Mon cher, we have to know. Even if in the end everybody on the train proves to have a motivefor killing⁹ Ratchett, we have to know. Once we know, we can settle once for all where the guiltlies.”

“My head is spinning,” groaned¹⁰ M. Bouc.

Greta Ohlsson was ushered¹¹ in sympathetically by the attendant. She was weeping bitterly.

She collapsed¹² on the seat facing Poirot and wept steadily¹³ into a large handkerchief.

“Now do not distress¹⁴ yourself, Mademoiselle. Do not distress yourself.” Poirot patted her on theshoulder. “Just a few little words of truth, that is all. You were the nurse who was in charge oflittle Daisy Armstrong?”

“It is true—it is true,” wept the wretched woman. “Ah, she was an angel—a little sweet, trustfulangel. She knew nothing but kindness and love—and she was taken away by that wicked man—cruelly treated—and her poor mother—and the other little one who never lived at all. You cannotunderstand—you cannot know—if you had been there as I was—if you had seen the whole terribletragedy—I ought to have told you the truth about myself this morning. But I was afraid—afraid. Idid so rejoice that that evil man was dead—that he could not any more kill or torture littlechildren. Ah! I cannot speak—I have no words….”

She wept with more vehemence¹⁵ than ever.

Poirot continued to pat her gently on the shoulder.

“There—there—I comprehend—I comprehend everything—everything, I tell you. I will askyou no more questions. It is enough that you have admitted what I know to be the truth. Iunderstand, I tell you.”

By now inarticulate with sobs¹⁶, Greta Ohlsson rose and groped her way blindly towards the door.

As she reached it she collided with a man coming in.

It was the valet—Masterman.

He came straight up to Poirot and spoke¹⁷ in his usual, quiet, unemotional voice.

“I hope I’m not intruding¹⁸, sir. I thought it best to come along at once, sir, and tell you the truth. Iwas Colonel Armstrong’s batman in the war, sir, and afterwards I was his valet in New York. I’mafraid I concealed¹⁹ that fact this morning. It was very wrong of me, sir, and I thought I’d bettercome and make a clean breast of it. But I hope, sir, that you’re not suspecting Tonio in any way.

Old Tonio, sir, wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I can swear positively²⁰ that he never left the carriage alllast night. So, you see, sir, he couldn’t have done it. Tonio may be a foreigner, sir, but he’s a verygentle creature—not like those nasty murdering Italians one reads about.”

He stopped.

Poirot looked steadily at him.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“That is all, sir.”

He paused, then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic little bow, and after amomentary hesitation²¹ left the dining car in the same quiet, unobtrusive fashion as he had come.

“This,” said Dr. Constantine, “is more wildly improbable than any roman policier I have everread.”

“I agree,” said M. Bouc. “Of the twelve passengers in that coach, nine have been proved to havehad a connection with the Armstrong case. What next, I ask you? Or, should I say, who next?”

“I can almost give you the answer to your question,” said Poirot. “Here comes our Americansleuth, M. Hardman.”

“Is he, too, coming to confess?”

Before Poirot could reply, the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at themand, sitting down, he drawled out:

“Just exactly what’s up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.”

Poirot twinkled at him:

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Hardman, that you yourself were not the gardener at the Armstronghome?”

“They didn’t have a garden,” replied Mr. Hardman literally²².

“Or the butler?”

“Haven’t got the fancy manner for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with theArmstrong house—but I’m beginning to believe I’m about the only one on this train who hadn’t!

Can you beat it—that’s what I say? Can you beat it?”

“It is certainly a little surprising,” said Poirot mildly.

“C’est rigolo,” burst from M. Bouc.

“Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, M. Hardman?” inquired Poirot.

“No, sir. It’s got me beat. I don’t know how to figure it out. They can’t all be in it; but whichone is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this, that’s what I want toknow?”

“I just guessed.”

“Then, believe me, you’re a pretty slick guesser. Yes, I’ll tell the world you’re a slick guesser.”

Mr. Hardman leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly.

“You’ll excuse me,” he said, “but no one would believe it to look at you. I take off my hat toyou. I do, indeed.”

“You are too kind, M. Hardman.”

“Not at all. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“All the same,” said Poirot, “the problem is not yet quite solved. Can we say with authority thatwe know who killed M. Ratchett?”

“Count me out,” said Mr. Hardman. “I’m not saying anything at all. I’m just full of naturaladmiration. What about the other two you’ve not had a guess at yet? The old American dame²³ andthe lady’s maid? I suppose we can take it that they’re the only innocent parties on the train?”

“Unless,” said Poirot, smiling, “we can fit them into our little collection as—shall we say?—housekeeper and cook in the Armstrong household.”

“Well, nothing in the world would surprise me now,” said Mr. Hardman with quiet resignation.

“Bughouse—that’s what this business is—bughouse!”

“Ah, mon cher, that would be indeed stretching coincidence a little too far,” said M. Bouc.

“They cannot all be in it.”

Poirot looked at him.

“You do not understand,” he said. “You do not understand at all. Tell me,” he said, “do youknow who killed Ratchett?”

“Do you?” countered M. Bouc.

Poirot nodded.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “I have known for some time. It is so clear that I wonder you have not seenit also.” He looked at Hardman and asked, “And you?”

The detective shook his head. He stared at Poirot curiously²⁴.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know at all. Which of them was it?”

Poirot was silent a minute. Then he said:

“If you will be so good, M. Hardman, assemble everyone here. There are two possible solutionsof this case. I want to lay them both before you all.”

 

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