Murder on the Orient Express (11 page)

“A
nd now,” said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, “we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian.”

Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining car with a swift, catlike tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny looking and swarthy.

He spoke French well and fluently, with only a slight accent.

“Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“You are, I see, a naturalized American subject?”

The American grinned.

“Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business.”

“You are an agent for Ford motor cars?”

“Yes, you see—”

A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it, anything that the three men did not know about Foscarelli's business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States and most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was
not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed out.

His good-natured childish face beamed with satisfaction as with a last eloquent gesture, he paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“So you see,” he said, “I do big business. I am up to date. I understand salesmanship!”

“You have been in the United States, then, for the last ten years on and off?”

“Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took the boat—to go to America, so far away! My mother, my little sister—”

Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.

“During your sojourn in the United States did you ever come across the deceased?”

“Never. But I know the type. Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers expressively. “It is very respectable, very well dressed, but underneath it is all wrong. Out of my experience, I should say he was the big crook. I give you my opinion for what it is worth.”

“Your opinion is quite right,” said Poirot dryly. “Ratchett was Cassetti, the kidnapper.”

“What did I tell you? I have learned to be very acute—to read the face. It is necessary. Only in America do they teach you the proper way to sell.”

“You remember the Armstrong case?

“I do not quite remember. The name, yes? It was a little girl—a baby—was it not?”

“Yes, a very tragic affair.”

The Italian seemed the first person to demur to this view.

“Ah, well, these things they happen,” he said philosophically, “in a great civilization such as America—”

Poirot cut him short.

“Did you ever come across any members of the Armstrong family?”

“No, I do not think so. It is difficult to say. I will give you some figures. Last year alone I sold—”

“Monsieur, pray confine yourself to the point.”

The Italian's hands flung themselves out in a gesture of apology.

“A thousand pardons.”

“Tell me, if you please, your exact movements last night from dinner onwards.”

“With pleasure. I stay here as long as I can. It is more amusing. I talk to the American gentleman at my table. He sells typewriter ribbons. Then I go back to my compartment. It is empty. The miserable John Bull who shares it with me is away attending to his master. At last he comes back—very long face as usual. He will not talk—says yes and no. A miserable race, the English—not sympathetic. He sits in the corner, very stiff, reading a book. Then the conductor comes and makes our beds.”

“Nos. 4 and 5,” murmured Poirot.

“Exactly—the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up there. I smoke and read. The little Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells very strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning.”

“Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?”

“I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the
corridor—one wakes up automatically thinking it is the Customs examination at some frontier.”

“Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus against him?”

“I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish.”

“You smoke, you say—a pipe, cigarettes, cigars?”

“Cigarettes only.”

Poirot proffered him one which he accepted.

“Have you ever been in Chicago?” inquired M. Bouc.

“Oh, yes—a fine city—but I know best New York, Washington, Detroit. You have been to the States? No? You should go, it—”

Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.

“If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please.”

The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose—his smile was as engaging as ever.

“That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could get out of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan—” He shook his head sadly. “I shall lose the business.”

He departed.

Poirot looked at his friend.

“He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians.”

“Ça se voit,”
said Poirot with a smile. “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.”

“And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?”

“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not—how shall I express it?—a
Latin
crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain.”

He picked up the last two passports.

“Let us now,” he said, “see Miss Mary Debenham.”

W
hen Mary Debenham entered the dining car she confirmed Poirot's previous estimate of her.

Very neatly dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, the smooth waves of her dark head were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.

She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.

“Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham, and you are twenty-six years of age?” began Poirot.

“Yes.”

“English?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?”

She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.

“And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?”

“I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept.”

“Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?”

The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.

“I don't quite understand you.”

“It was a perfectly simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that a crime should have been committed on this train?”

“I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed.”

“A crime—it is all in the day's work to you, eh?”

“It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen,” said Mary Debenham quietly.

“You are very Anglo-Saxon. Mademoiselle.
Vous n'éprouvez pas d'émotion
.”

She smiled a little.

“I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day.”

“They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“You were not acquainted with the dead man?”

“I saw him for the first time when lunching here yesterday.”

“And how did he strike you?”

“I hardly noticed him.”

“He did not strike you as an evil personality.”

She shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“Really, I cannot say I thought about it.”

Poirot looked at her keenly.

“You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute my inquiries,” he said with a twinkle. “Not so, you think, would an English inquiry be conducted. There everything would be cut and dried—it would be all kept to the facts—a well-ordered business. But I, Mademoiselle, have my little originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up his or her character, and I frame my questions accordingly. Just a little minute ago I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants to tell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly to the point. I want him to answer yes or no, this or that. And then you come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical. You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers will be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human nature is perverse, I ask of you quite different questions. I ask what you
feel,
what you
thought.
It does not please you this method?”

“If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I liked Mr. Ratchett's face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him.”

“Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?”

She nodded.

“Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone.”

“And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?”

“It was quite abominable,” said the girl crisply.

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

“You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?”

“Yes.”

“To London?”

“Yes.”

“What have you been doing in Baghdad?”

“I have been acting as governess to two children.”

“Are you returning to your post after your holiday?”

“I am not sure.”

“Why is that?”

“Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of a suitable one.”

“I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married.”

Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glance said plainly, “You are impertinent.”

“What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment—Miss Ohlsson?”

“She seems a pleasant, simple creature.”

“What colour is her dressing gown?”

Mary Debenham stared.

“A kind of brownish colour—natural wool.”

“Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing gown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe.”

“Yes, that is right.”

“Have you any other dressing gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing gown, for example?”

“No, that is not mine.”

Poirot leaned forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

“Whose, then?”

The girl drew back a little, startled.

“I don't know. What do you mean?”

“You do not say, ‘No, I have no such thing.' You say, ‘That is not mine'—meaning that such a thing
does
belong to someone else.”

She nodded.

“Somebody else on this train?”

“Yes.”

“Whose is it?”

“I told you just now. I don't know. I woke up this morning about five o'clock with the feeling that the train had been standing still for a long time. I opened the door and looked out into the corridor, thinking we might be at a station. I saw someone in a scarlet kimono some way down the corridor.”

“And you don't know who it was? Was she fair or dark or grey-haired?”

“I can't say. She had on a shingle cap and I only saw the back of her head.”

“And in build?”

“Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it's difficult to say. The kimono was embroidered with dragons.”

“Yes, yes that is right, dragons.”

He was silent a minute. He murmured to himself:

“I cannot understand. I cannot understand. None of this makes sense.”

Then, looking up, he said:

“I need not keep you further, Mademoiselle.”

“Oh!” she seemed rather taken aback, but rose promptly. In the doorway, however, she hesitated a minute and then came back.

“The Swedish lady—Miss Ohlsson, is it?—seems rather worried. She says you told her she was the last person to see this man
alive. She thinks, I believe, that you suspect her on that account. Can't I tell her that she has made a mistake? Really, you know, she is the kind of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly.”

She smiled a little as she spoke.

“What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin from Mrs. Hubbard?”

“Just after half-past ten.”

“She was away—how long?”

“About five minutes.”

“Did she leave the compartment again during the night?”

“No.”

Poirot turned to the doctor.

“Could Ratchett have been killed as early as that?”

The doctor shook his head.

“Then I think you can reassure your friend, Mademoiselle.”

“Thank you.” She smiled suddenly at him, a smile that invited sympathy. “She's like a sheep, you know. She gets anxious and bleats.”

She turned and went out.

M
. Bouc was looking at his friend curiously.

“I do not quite understand you,
mon vieux
. You were trying to do—what?”

“I was searching for a flaw, my friend.”

“A flaw?”

“Yes—in the armour of a young lady's self-possession. I wished to shake her
sangfroid
. Did I succeed? I do not know. But I know this—she did not expect me to tackle the matter as I did.”

“You suspect her,” said M. Bouc slowly. “But why? She seems a very charming young lady—the last person in the world to be mixed up in a crime of this kind.”

“I agree,” said Constantine. “She is cold. She has not emotions. She would not stab a man; she would sue him in the law courts.”

Poirot sighed “You must, both of you, get rid of your obsession that this is an unpremeditated and sudden crime. As for the reason
why I suspect Miss Debenham, there are two. One is because of something that I overheard, and that you do not as yet know.”

He retailed to them the curious interchange of phrases he had overheard on the journey from Aleppo.

“That is curious, certainly,” said M. Bouc when he had finished. “It needs explaining. If it means what you suspect it means, then they are both of them in it together—she and the stiff Englishman.”

Poirot nodded.

“And that is just what is not borne out by the facts,” he said. “See you, if they were both in this together, what should we expect to find—that each of them would provide an alibi for the other. Is not that so? But no—that does not happen. Miss Debenham's alibi is provided by a Swedish woman whom she has never seen before, and Colonel Arbuthnot's alibi is vouched for by MacQueen, the dead man's secretary. No, that solution of the puzzle is too easy.”

“You said there was another reason for your suspicions of her,” M. Bouc reminded him.

Poirot smiled.

“Ah! but that is only psychological. I ask myself, is it possible for Miss Debenham to have planned this crime? Behind this business, I am convinced, there is a cool, intelligent, resourceful brain. Miss Debenham answers to that description.”

M. Bouc shook his head.

“I think you are wrong, my friend. I do not see that young English girl as a criminal.”

“Ah, well,” said Poirot, picking up the last passport, “to the final name on our list. Hildegarde Schmidt, lady's maid.”

Summoned by the attendant, Hildegarde Schmidt came into the restaurant car and stood waiting respectfully.

Poirot motioned her to sit down.

She did so, folding her hands and waiting placidly till he questioned her. She seemed a placid creature altogether—eminently respectable—perhaps not over intelligent.

Poirot's methods with Hildegarde Schmidt were a complete contrast to his handling of Mary Debenham.

He was at his kindest and most genial, setting the woman at her ease. Then, having got her to write down her name and address, he slid gently into his questions.

The interview took place in German.

“We want to know as much as possible about what happened last night,” he said. “We know that you cannot give us much information bearing on the crime itself, but you may have seen or heard something that, while conveying nothing to you, may be valuable to us. You understand?”

She did not seem to. Her broad, kindly face remained set in its expression of placid stupidity as she answered:

“I do not know anything, Monsieur.”

“Well, for instance, you know that your mistress sent for you last night?”

“That, yes.”

“Do you remember the time?”

“I do not, Monsieur. I was asleep, you see, when the attendant came and told me.”

“Yes, yes. Was it usual for you to be sent for in this way?”

“It was not unusual, Monsieur. The gracious lady often required attention at night. She did not sleep well.”

“
Eh bien,
then, you received the summons and you got up. Did you put on a dressing gown?”

“No, Monsieur, I put on a few clothes. I would not like to go in to her Excellency in my dressing gown.”

“And yet it is a very nice dressing gown—scarlet, is it not?”

She stared at him.

“It is a dark-blue flannel dressing gown, Monsieur.”

“Ah! continue. A little pleasantry on my part, that is all. So you went along to Madame la Princesse. And what did you do when you got there?”

“I gave her massage, Monsieur, and then I read aloud. I do not read aloud very well, but her Excellency says that is all the better. So it sends her better to sleep. When she became sleepy, Monsieur, she told me to go, so I closed the book and I returned to my own compartment.”

“Do you know what time that was?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Well, how long had you been with Madame la Princesse?”

“About half an hour, Monsieur.”

“Good, continue.”

“First, I fetched her Excellency an extra rug from my compartment. It was very cold in spite of the heating. I arranged the rug over her and she wished me good night. I poured her out some mineral water. Then I turned out the light and left her.”

“And then?”

“There is nothing more, Monsieur. I returned to my carriage and went to sleep.”

“And you met no one in the corridor?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“You did not, for instance, see a lady in a scarlet kimono with dragons on it?”

Her mild eyes bulged at him.

“No, indeed, Monsieur. There was nobody about except the attendant. Everyone was asleep.”

“But you did see the conductor?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“What was he doing?”

“He came out of one of the compartments, Monsieur.”

“What?” M. Bouc leaned forward. “Which one?”

Hildegarde Schmidt looked frightened again and Poirot cast a reproachful glance at his friend.

“Naturally,” he said. “The conductor often has to answer bells at night. Do you remember which compartment it was?”

“It was about the middle of the coach, Monsieur. Two or three doors from Madame la Princesse.”

“Ah! tell us, if you please, exactly where this was and what happened.”

“He nearly ran into me, Monsieur. It was when I was returning from my compartment to that of the Princess with the rug.”

“And he came out of a compartment and almost collided with you? In which direction was he going?”

“Towards me, Monsieur. He apologized and passed on down the corridor towards the dining car. A bell began ringing, but I do not think he answered it.”

She paused and then said:

“I do not understand. How is it—?”

Poirot spoke reassuringly.

“It is just a question of times,” he said. “All a matter of rou
tine. This poor conductor, he seems to have had a busy night—first waking you and then answering bells.”

“It was not the same conductor who woke me, Monsieur. It was another one.”

“Ah, another one! Had you seen him before?”

“No. Monsieur.”

“Ah! Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him?”

“I think so, Monsieur.”

Poirot murmured something in M. Bouc's ear. The latter got up and went to the door to give an order.

Poirot was continuing his questions in an easy friendly manner.

“Have you ever been to America, Frau Schmidt?”

“Never, Monsieur. It must be a fine country.”

“You have heard, perhaps, of who this man who was killed really was—that he was responsible for the death of a little child.”

“Yes, I have heard, Monsieur. It was abominable—wicked. The good God should not allow such things. We are not so wicked as that in Germany.”

Tears had come into the woman's eyes. Her strong motherly soul was moved.

“It was an abominable crime,” said Poirot gravely.

He drew a scrap of cambric from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Is this your handkerchief, Frau Schmidt?”

There was a moment's silence as the woman examined it. She looked up after a minute. The colour had mounted a little in her face.

“Ah! no, indeed. It is not mine, Monsieur.”

“It has the initial H, you see. That is why I thought it was yours.”

“Ah! Monsieur, it is a lady's handkerchief, that. A very expensive handkerchief. Embroidered by hand. It comes from Paris, I should say.”

“It is not yours and you do not know whose it is?”

“I? Oh, no, Monsieur.”

Of the three listening, only Poirot caught the nuance of hesitation in the reply.

M. Bouc whispered in his ear. Poirot nodded and said to the woman:

“The three sleeping car attendants are coming in. Will you be so kind as to tell me which is the one you met last night as you were going with the rug to the Princess?”

The three men entered. Pierre Michel, the big blond conductor of the Athens-Paris coach, and the stout burly conductor of the Bucharest one.

Hildegarde Schmidt looked at them and immediately shook her head.

“No, Monsieur,” she said. “None of these is the man I saw last night.”

“But these are the only conductors on the train. You must be mistaken.”

“I am quite sure, Monsieur. These are all tall, big men. The one I saw was small and dark. He had a little moustache. His voice when he said
‘Pardon'
was weak like a woman's. Indeed, I remember him very well, Monsieur.”