列车谋杀案 英文名著｜第10章

Does anyone pass the door—think?”

Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance.

“Difficult to say,” he said. “You see, I wasn’t paying any attention.”

“But you have the soldier’s observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak.”

The Colonel thought again, but shook his head.

“I couldn’t say. I don’t remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—and there was a woman, I think.”

“You saw her? Was she old—young?”

“Didn’t see her. Wasn’t looking that way. Just a rustle and a sort of smell of scent.”

“Scent? A good scent?”

“Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you’d smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you,” the Colonel went on hastily, “this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, as you said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said to myself, ‘Woman—scent—got it on pretty thick.’ But when it was I can’t be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Vincovci.”

“Why?”

“Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washout Stalin’s Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea—woman—brought the idea of the position of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn’t got on to Russia until pretty near the end of our talk.”

“You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?”

“N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half hour.”

“It was after the train had stopped?”

The other nodded.

“Yes, I’m almost sure it was.”

“Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?”

“Never. Don’t want to go.”

“Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?”

“Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrong in the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—he was killed on the Somme.”

“I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child was kidnapped and killed.”

“Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.”

“The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel Armstrong’s child.”

Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim.

“Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.”

“In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?”

“Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.

“Yes,” he said. “I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?”

Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two.

“No,” he said. “Nothing at all. Unless—” he hesitated.

“But yes, continue, I pray of you.”

“Well, it’s nothing really,” said the Colonel slowly. “But you said anything.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—”

“Yes, No. 16.”

“Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.”

“Ye-es,” said Poirot doubtfully.

“I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot apologetically. “But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense, really.”

He rose.

“Well, if you don’t want me any more—”

“Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.”

The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by “foreigners” had evaporated.

“About Miss Debenham,” he said rather awkwardly. “You can take it from me that she’s all right. She’s a pukka sahib.”

Flushing a little, he withdrew.

“What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a pukka sahib mean?”

“It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.”

“Oh!” said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. “Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.”

“Exactly,” said Poirot.

He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up.

“Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,” he said. “In the compartment of Mr. Ratchett I found a pipe cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.”

“You think—?”

“He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.”

“So you think it possible—”

Poirot shook his head violently.

“That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?”

“That is the psychology,” said M. Bouc.

“And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.”

This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.

Nine

THE EVIDENCE OF MR. HARDMAN

The last of the first-class passengers to be interviewed—Mr. Hardman—was the big flamboyant American who had shared a table with the Italian and the valet.

He wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, a flashy tiepin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered the dining car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with a good humoured expression.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“You have heard of this murder, Mr.—er—Hardman?”

“Sure.”

He shifted the chewing gum deftly.

“We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train.”

“That’s all right by me. Guess that’s the only way to tackle the job.”

Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him.

“You are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject, forty-one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?”

“O.K., that’s me.”

“You are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?”

“That’s so.”

“Reason?”

“Business.”

“Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?”

“Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.”

He winked.

“Now, Mr. Hardman, we come to the events of last night.”

The American nodded.

“What can you tell us about the matter?”

“Exactly nothing at all.”

“Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr. Hardman, you will tell us exactly what you did last night, from dinner onwards?”

For the first time the American did not seem ready with his reply. At last he said:

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who are you? Put me wise.”

“This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body.”

“And you yourself?”

“I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said Mr. Hardman. He reflected a minute or two longer. “Guess I’d better come clean.”

“It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know,” said Poirot dryly.

“You’d have said a mouthful if there was anything I did know. But I don’t. I know nothing at all—just as I said. But I ought to know something. That’s what makes me sore. I ought to.”

“Please explain, Mr. Hardman.”

Mr. Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person. The resonant nasal tones of his voice became modified.

“That passport’s a bit of bluff,” he said. “That’s who I really am.”

Poirot scrutinized the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered over his shoulder.

Mr. CYRUS B. HARDMAN

McNeil’s Detective Agency,

NEW YORK.

Poirot knew the name. It was one of the best known and most reputable private detective agencies in New York.

“Now, Mr. Hardman,” he said. “Let us hear the meaning of this.”

“Sure. Things came about this way. I’d come over to Europe trailing a couple of crooks—nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Stamboul. I wired the Chief and got his instructions to return, and I would have been making my tracks back to little old New York when I got this.”

He pushed across a letter.

The heading at the top was the Tokatlian Hotel.

Dear Sir,—You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency. Kindly report to my suite at four o’clock this afternoon.

It was signed “S.E. Ratchett.”

“Eh bien?”

“I reported at the time stated and Mr. Ratchett put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he’d got.”

“He was alarmed?”

“Pretended not to be, but he was rattled all right. He put up a proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train and, in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn’t look any too good for me.”

“Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?”

“Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his—well, that was blown upon straight away. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a bit of a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that’s neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining car in front of the Stamboul sleeping car, the door on to the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear end door to the platform or along the train from the rear—in either case he’d have to pass right by my compartment.”

“You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant.”

“Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr. Ratchett described him to me.”

“What?”

All three men leaned forward eagerly.

Hardman went on:

“A small man, dark, with a womanish kind of voice—that’s what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn’t think it would be the first night out. More likely the second or third.”

“He knew something,” said M. Bouc.

“He certainly knew more than he told his secretary,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?”

“No, he was kinder reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it.”

“A small man—dark—with a womanish voice,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he said:

“You knew who he really was, of course?”

“Which, mister?”

“Ratchett. You recognized him?”

“I don’t get you.”

“Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer.”

Mr. Hardman gave way to a prolonged whistle.

“That certainly is some surprise!” he said. “Yes, sir! No, I didn’t recognize him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her. Well, I don’t doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right.”

“Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description—small, dark, womanish voice?”

Hardman reflected a minute or two.

“It’s hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone to do with that case is dead.”

“There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember.”

“Sure. That’s a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe she had some wop relations. But you’ve got to remember that there were other cases besides the Armstrong case. Cassetti had been running this kidnapping stunt some time. You can’t concentrate on that only.”

“Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Armstrong case.”

Mr. Hardman cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The American shook his head.

“I can’t call to mind anybody answering that description in the Armstrong case,” he said slowly. “But of course I wasn’t in it and didn’t know much about it.”

“Well, continue your narrative, M. Hardman.”

“There’s very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and stayed awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious happened the first night. Last night was the same, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar and watched. No stranger passed.”

“You are sure of that, M. Hardman?”

“I’m plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside and nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I’ll take my oath on that.”

“Could you see the conductor from your position?”

“Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door.”

“Did he leave that seat at all after the train stopped at Vincovci?”

“That was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple of bells—that would be just after the train came to a halt for good. Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach—was there about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about—felt a mite nervous, you understand—but it was only the American dame. She was raising hell about something or other. I grinned. Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone. After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody’s bed up. I don’t think he stirred after that until about five o’clock this morning.”

“Did he doze off at all?”

“That I can’t say. He may have done.”

Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the official card once more.

“Be so good as just to initial this,” he said.

The other complied.

“There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, M. Hardman?”

“On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young MacQueen. I know him well enough—seen him in his father’s office in New York—but that’s not to say he’ll remember me from a crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you’ll have to wait and cable New York when the snow lets up. But it’s O.K. I’m not telling the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Poirot.”

Poirot proffered his cigarette case.

“But perhaps you prefer a pipe?”

“Not me.”

He helped himself, then strode briskly off.

The three men looked at each other.

“You think he is genuine?” asked Dr. Constantine.

“Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easily disproved.”

“He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence,” said M. Bouc.

“Yes, indeed.”

“A small man, dark, with a high-pitched voice,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully.

“A description which applies to no one on the train,” said Poirot.

Ten

THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN

“And 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..."