列车谋杀案 英文名著｜第18章

I have had well-paid, pleasant posts. I was not going to risk the position I had attained when no good end could have been served.”

“I will venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I would have been the best judge of that, not you.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“For instance, you could have helped me in the matter of identification.”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it possible, Mademoiselle, that you did not recognize in the Countess Andrenyi Mrs. Armstrong’s young sister whom you taught in New York?”

“Countess Andrenyi? No.” She shook her head. “It may seem extraordinary to you, but I did not recognize her. She was not grown up, you see, when I knew her. That was over three years ago. It is true that the Countess reminded me of someone—it puzzled me. But she looks so foreign—I never connected her with the little American schoolgirl. It is true that I only glanced at her casually when coming into the restaurant car. I noticed her clothes more than her face—” she smiled faintly—“women do! And then—well, I had my own preoccupations.”

“You will not tell me your secret, Mademoiselle?”

Poirot’s voice was very gentle and persuasive.

She said in a low voice:

“I can’t—I can’t.”

And suddenly, without warning she broke down, dropping her face down upon her outstretched arms and crying as though her heart would break.

The Colonel sprang up and stood awkwardly beside her.

“I—look here—”

He stopped and, turning round, scowled fiercely at Poirot.

“I’ll break every bone in your damned body, you dirty little whippersnapper,” he said.

“Monsieur,” protested M. Bouc.

Arbuthnot had turned back to the girl.

“Mary—for God’s sake—”

She sprang up.

“It’s nothing. I’m all right. You don’t need me any more, do you, M. Poirot? If you do, you must come and find me. Oh, what an idiot—what an idiot I’m making of myself!”

She hurried out of the car. Arbuthnot, before following her, turned once more on Poirot.

“Miss Debenham’s got nothing to do with this business—nothing, do you hear? And if she’s worried and interfered with, you’ll have me to deal with.”

He strode out.

“I like to see an angry Englishman,” said Poirot. “They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”

But M. Bouc was not interested in the emotional reactions of Englishmen. He was overcome by admiration of his friend.

“Mon cher, vous êtes épatant,” he cried. “Another miraculous guess. C’est formidable.”

“It is incredible how you think of these things,” said Dr. Constantine admiringly.

“Oh, I claim no credit this time. It was not a guess. Countess Andrenyi practically told me.”

“Comment? Surely not?”

“You remember I asked her about her governess or companion? I had already decided in my mind that if Mary Debenham were mixed up in the matter, she must have figured in the household in some such capacity.”

“Yes, but the Countess Andrenyi described a totally different person.”

“Exactly. A tall, middle-aged woman with red hair—in fact, the exact opposite in every respect of Miss Debenham, so much so as to be quite remarkable. But then she had to invent a name quickly, and there it was that the unconscious association of ideas gave her away. She said Miss Freebody, you remember.”

“Yes?”

“Eh bien, you may not know it, but there is a shop in London that was called, until recently, Debenham & Freebody. With the name Debenham running in her head, the Countess clutches at another name quickly, and the first that comes is Freebody. Naturally I understood immediately.”

“That is yet another lie. Why did she do it?”

“Possibly more loyalty. It makes things a little difficult.”

“Ma foi,” said M. Bouc with violence. “But does everybody on this train tell lies?”

“That,” said Poirot, “is what we are about to find out.”

Eight

FURTHER SURPRISING REVELATIONS

“Nothing would surprise me now,” said M. Bouc. “Nothing! Even if everybody in the train proved to 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 favourite suspect, 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 wary look in his eye as he came in. He shot nervous glances from side to side 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 geniality had gone out of his manner.

“Mais oui. It may be that I know it already. But it will be a point in your favour if it comes from you 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 chauffeur?”

His eyes met those of the Italian. The bluster went out of the big man. He was like a pricked balloon.

“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. They would 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 cannot prove 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 conspiracy. You are going to frame me? All for a pig of a man who should have gone to the chair! It was an infamy 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, she called me. And she would sit in the car and pretend to hold the wheel. All the household worshipped her! Even the police came to understand that. Ah, the beautiful little one.”

His voice had softened. The tears came into his eyes. Then he wheeled round abruptly on his heel 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 motive for killing Ratchett, we have to know. Once we know, we can settle once for all where the guilt lies.”

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

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

She collapsed on the seat facing Poirot and wept steadily into a large handkerchief.

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

“It is true—it is true,” wept the wretched woman. “Ah, she was an angel—a little sweet, trustful angel. 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 cannot understand—you cannot know—if you had been there as I was—if you had seen the whole terrible tragedy—I ought to have told you the truth about myself this morning. But I was afraid—afraid. I did so rejoice that that evil man was dead—that he could not any more kill or torture little children. Ah! I cannot speak—I have no words….”

She wept with more vehemence than ever.

Poirot continued to pat her gently on the shoulder.

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

By now inarticulate with sobs, 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 spoke in his usual, quiet, unemotional voice.

“I hope I’m not intruding, sir. I thought it best to come along at once, sir, and tell you the truth. I was Colonel Armstrong’s batman in the war, sir, and afterwards I was his valet in New York. I’m afraid I concealed that fact this morning. It was very wrong of me, sir, and I thought I’d better come 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 positively that he never left the carriage all last night. So, you see, sir, he couldn’t have done it. Tonio may be a foreigner, sir, but he’s a very gentle 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 a momentary hesitation 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 ever read.”

“I agree,” said M. Bouc. “Of the twelve passengers in that coach, nine have been proved to have had 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 American sleuth, M. Hardman.”

“Is he, too, coming to confess?”

Before Poirot could reply, the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at them and, 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 Armstrong home?”

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

“Or the butler?”

“Haven’t got the fancy manner for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with the Armstrong 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 which one is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this, that’s what I want to know?”

“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 to you. 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 that we know who killed M. Ratchett?”

“Count me out,” said Mr. Hardman. “I’m not saying anything at all. I’m just full of natural admiration. What about the other two you’ve not had a guess at yet? The old American dame and the 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 you know 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 seen it also.” He looked at Hardman and asked, “And you?”

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

“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 solutions of this case. I want to lay them both before you all.”

Nine

POIROT PROPOUNDS TWO SOLUTIONS

The passengers came crowding into the restaurant car and took their seats round the tables. They all bore more or less the same expression, one of expectancy mingled with apprehension. The Swedish lady was still weeping and Mrs. Hubbard was comforting her.

“Now you must just take a hold on yourself, my dear. Everything’s going to be perfectly all right. You mustn’t lose your grip on yourself. If one of us is a nasty murderer we know quite well it isn’t you. Why, anyone would be crazy even to think of such a thing. You sit here and I’ll stay right by you; and don’t you worry any.”

Her voice died away as Poirot stood up.

The Wagon Lit conductor was hovering in the doorway.

“You permit that I stay, Monsieur?”

“Certainly, Michel.”

Poirot cleared his throat.

“Messieurs et Mesdames, I will speak in English, since I think all of you know a little of that language. We are here to investigate the death of Samuel Edward Ratchett—alias Cassetti. There are two possible solutions of the crime. I shall put them both before you, and I shall ask M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine here to judge which solution is the right one.

“Now you all know the facts of the case. Mr. Ratchett was found stabbed this morning. He was last known to be alive at 12:37 last night, when he spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor through the door. A watch in his pyjama pocket was found to be badly dented and it had stopped at a quarter past one. Dr. Constantine, who examined the body when found, puts the time of death as having occurred between midnight and two in the morning. At half an hour after midnight, as you all know, the train ran into a snowdrift. After that time it was impossible for anyone to leave the train.

“The evidence of Mr. Hardman, who is a member of a New York Detective Agency” (several heads turned to look at Mr. Hardman) “shows that no one could have passed his compartment (No. 16 at the extreme end) without being seen by him. We are therefore forced to the conclusion that the murderer is to be found among the occupants of one particular coach—the Stamboul-Calais coach.

“That, I will say, was our theory.”

“Comment?” ejaculated M. Bouc, startled.

“But I will put before you an alternative theory. It is very simple. Mr. Ratchett had a certain enemy whom he feared. He gave Mr. Hardman a description of this enemy and told him that the attempt, if made at all, would most probably be made on the second night out from Stamboul.”

“Now I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Ratchett knew a good deal more than he told. The enemy as Mr. Ratchett expected, joined the train at Belgrade, or possibly at Vincouci, by the door left open by Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. MacQueen who had just descended to the platform. He was provided with a suit of Wagon Lit uniform, which he wore over his ordinary clothes, and a pass key which enabled him to gain access to Mr. Ratchett’s compartment in spite of the door being locked. Mr. Ratchett was under the influence of a sleeping draught. This man stabbed him with great ferocity and left the compartment through the communicating door leading to Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment—”

“That’s so,” said Mrs. Hubbard, nodding her head.

“He thrust the dagger he had used into Mrs. Hubbard’s sponge bag in passing. Without knowing it, he lost a button of his uniform. Then he slipped out of the compartment and along the corridor. He hastily thrust the uniform into a suitcase in an empty compartment, and a few minutes later, dressed in ordinary clothes, he left the train just before it started off. Again using the same means of egress—the door near the dining car.”

Everybody gasped.

“What about that watch?” demanded Mr. Hardman.

“There you have the explanation of the whole thing. Mr. Ratchett had ommitted to put his watch back an hour as he should have done at Tzaribrod.