Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе» / Murder on the Orient Express

“You acquit him of suspicion?”

“Not at all. You misunderstand me. For all I know, any American detective might have his own private reasons for wishing to murder Ratchett. No, what I am saying is that I think we can accept Hardman’s own account of himself. This story, then, that he tells of Ratchett’s seeking him out and employing him is not unlikely, and is most probably – though not of course certainly – true. If we are going to accept it as true, we must see if there is any confirmation of it. We find it in rather an unlikely place – in the evidence of Hildegarde Schmidt. Her description of the man she saw in Wagon Lit uniform tallies exactly. Is there any further confirmation of these two stories? There is. There is the button that Mrs. Hubbard found in her compartment. And there is also another corroborating statement which you may not have noticed.”

“What is that?”

“The fact that both Colonel Arbuthnot and Hector MacQueen mention that the conductor passed their carriage. They attached no importance to the fact, but, Messieurs, Pierre Michel has declared that he did not leave his seat except on certain specified occasions – none of which would take him down to the far end of the coach past the compartment in which Arbuthnot and MacQueen were sitting.

“Therefore this story, the story of a small dark man with a womanish voice dressed in Wagon Lit uniform, rests on the testimony, direct or indirect, of four witnesses.”

“One small point,” said Dr. Constantine. “If Hildegarde Schmidt’s story is true, how is it that the real conductor did not mention having seen her when he came to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell?”

“That is explained, I think. When he arrived to answer Mrs. Hubbard, the maid was in with her mistress. When she finally returned to her own compartment, the conductor was in with Mrs. Hubbard.”

M. Bouc had been waiting with difficulty until they had finished.

“Yes, yes, my friend,” he said impatiently to Poirot. “But whilst I admire your caution, your method of advancing a step at a time, I submit that you have not yet touched the point at issue. We are all agreed that this person exists. The point is, where did he go?”

Poirot shook his head reprovingly.

“You are in error. You are inclined to put the cart before the horse. Before I ask myself, ‘Where did this man vanish to?’ I ask myself, ‘Did such a man really exist?’ Because, you see, if the man were an invention – a fabrication – how much easier to make him disappear! So I try to establish first that there really is such a flesh-and-blood person.”

“And having arrived at the fact that there is – eh bien, where is he now?”

“There are only two answers to that, mon cher. Either he is still hidden on the train in a place of such extraordinary ingenuity that we cannot even think of it; or else he is, as one might say, two persons. That is, he is both himself – the man feared by M. Ratchett – and a passenger on the train so well disguised that M. Ratchett did not recognise him.”

“It is an idea, that,” said M. Bouc, his face lighting up. Then it clouded over again. “But there is one objection—”

Poirot took the words out of his mouth.

“The height of the man. It is that you would say? With the exception of Mr. Ratchett’s valet, all the passengers are big men – the Italian, Colonel Arbuthnot, Hector MacQueen, Count Andrenyi. Well, that leaves us the valet – not a very likely supposition. But there is another possibility. Remember the ‘womanish’ voice. That gives us a choice of alternatives. The man may be disguised as a woman, or, alternatively, he may actually be a woman. A tall woman dressed in men’s clothes would look small.”

“But surely Ratchett would have known—”

“Perhaps he did know. Perhaps, already, this woman had attempted his life, wearing a mares clothes the better to accomplish her purpose. Ratchett may have guessed that she would use the same trick again, so he tells Hardman to look for a man. But he mentions, however, a womanish voice.”

“It is a possibility,” said M. Bouc. “But—”

“Listen, my friend, I think that I should now tell you of certain inconsistencies noticed by Dr. Constantine.”

He retailed at length the conclusions that he and the doctor had arrived at together from the nature of the dead man’s wounds. M. Bouc groaned and held his head again.

“I know,” said Poirot sympathetically. “I know exactly how you feel. The head spins, does it not?”

“The whole thing is a fantasy!” cried M. Bouc.

“Exactly. It is absurd – improbable – it cannot be. So I myself have said. And yet, my friend, there it is! One cannot escape from the facts.”

“It is madness!”

“Is it not? It is so mad, my friend, that sometimes I am haunted by the sensation that really it must be very simple… But that is only one of my ‘little ideas’!”

“Two murderers,” groaned M. Bouc. “And on the Orient Express—”

The thought almost made him weep.