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

“Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much – very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?”

“Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.”

“Will you write your address down here?”

Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak.

“I just can’t get over it. Cassetti – on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr. Poirot?”

“Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing-gown?”

“Mercy, what a funny question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing-gowns with me – a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present – a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?”

“Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”

“Well, no one in a scarlet dressing-gown came into my compartment.”

“Then she must have gone into Mr. Ratchett’s.”

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:

“That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

Poirot leaned forward.

“So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

“I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But – well – as a matter of fact, I did.”

“But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”

“Well, that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard got rather embarrassed. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

“What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

“I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well, that’s the kind of man he is! I’m not surprised’—and then I went to sleep again. And I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

“Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

“Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”

“Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

“I guess even you get kinda muddled now and then. I just can’t get over its being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—”

Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to replace the contents of her handbag, and he then shepherded her towards the door. At the last moment, he said:

“You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.

“That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”

“Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—”

“Well, now, that’s funny, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things – not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?”

None of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.

Chapter 5 The Evidence Of The Swedish Lady

M. Bouc was handling the button that Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.

“This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he asked. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?”

“That button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence that we have heard.” He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him. “Ah! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.”

M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish grey bun of hair and the long, mild, sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered short-sightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.

It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers – her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.

She was, she told him, matron in a missionary school near Stamboul. She was a trained nurse.

“You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?”

“Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment.”

“I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?”

“I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake.”

“You actually saw him?”

“Yes. He was reading a book. I apologised quickly and withdrew.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

A slight flush showed on the worthy lady’s cheek.

“He laughed and said a few words. I–I did not quite catch them.”

“And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully.