y which door did you leave the train?”

“By the one nearest to our compartment.”

“The one next to the dining-car?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember if it was bolted?”

MacQueen considered.

“Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?”

“Why, no – I don’t think I did. I got in last. No, I don’t seem to remember doing so.” He added suddenly, “Is that an important point?”

“It may be. Now, I presume, Monsieur, that while you and Colonel Arbuthnot were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?”

Hector MacQueen nodded.

“I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Vincovci up to the time you parted company for the night.”

MacQueen drew his brows together.

“I think the conductor passed along once,” he said, “coming from the direction of the dining-car. And a woman passed the other way, going towards it.”

“Which woman?”

“I couldn’t say. I didn’t really notice. You see I was arguing a point with Arbuthnot. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn’t look, and anyway I wouldn’t have seen the person’s face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining-car end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she’d passed.”

Poirot nodded. “She was going to the toilet, I presume?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you saw her return?”

“Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn’t notice her returning but I suppose she must have done so.”

“One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. MacQueen?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

Poirot paused a moment. “I think that is all at present. I should now like to see the valet of Mr. Ratchett. By the way, did both you and he always travel second-class?”

“He did. But I usually went first – if possible in the compartment adjoining Mr. Ratchett’s. Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easily whenever he chose. But on this occasion all the first-class berths were booked except the one that he took.”

“I comprehend. Thank you, Mr. MacQueen.”

3. The Evidence of the Valet

The American was succeeded by the pale Englishman with the inexpressive face whom Poirot had already noticed on the day before. He stood waiting very correctly. Poirot motioned to him to sit down.

“You are, I understand, the valet of M. Ratchett.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Edward Henry Masterman.”

“Your age?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“And your home address?”

“21 Friar Street, Clerkenwell.”

“You have heard that your master has been murdered?”

“Yes, sir. A very shocking occurrence.”

“Will you now tell me, please, at what hour you last saw M. Ratchett?”

The valet considered.

“It must have been aboutnine o’clock, sir, last night. That or a little after.”

“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened.”

“I went in to Mr. Ratchett as usual, sir, and attended to his wants.”

“What were your duties exactly?”

“To fold or hang up his clothes, sir, put his dental plate in water and see that he had everything he wanted for the night.”

“Was his manner much the same as usual?”

The valet considered a moment.

“Well, sir, I think he was upset.”

“In what way – upset?”

“Over a letter he’d been reading. He asked me if it was I who had put it in his compartment. Of course I told him I hadn’t done any such thing, but he swore at me and found fault with everything I did.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Oh, no, sir. He lost his temper easily – as I say, it just depended what had happened to upset him.”

“Did your master ever take a sleeping draught?”

Dr. Constantine leaned forward a little.

“Always when travelling by train, sir. He said he couldn’t sleep otherwise.”

“Do you know what drug he was in the habit of taking?”

“I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir. There was no name on the bottle – just ‘The Sleeping Draught to be taken at bedtime.’ ”

“Did he take it last night?”

“Yes, sir. I poured it into a glass and put it on top of the toilet table ready for him.”

“You didn’t actually see him drink it?”

“No, sir.”

“What happened next?”

“I asked if there was anything further, and also asked what time he would like to be called in the morning. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed till he rang.”

“Was that usual?”

“Quite usual, sir. When he was ready to get up he used to ring the bell for the conductor and then send him for me.”

“Was he usually an early or a late riser?”

“It depended, sir, on his mood. Sometimes he’d get up for breakfast, sometimes he wouldn’t get up till just on lunch time.”

“So that you weren’t alarmed when the morning wore on and no summons came?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you know that your master had enemies?”

“Yes, sir.” The man spoke quite unemotionally.

“How did you know?”

“I had heard him discussing some letters, sir, with Mr. MacQueen.”

“Had you an affection for your employer, Masterman?”

Masterman’s face became, if possible, even more inexpressive than it was normally.

“I should hardly like to say that, sir. He was a generous employer.”

“But you didn’t like him?”

“Shall we put it that I don’t care very much for Americans, sir?”

“Have you ever been in America?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you remember reading in the paper of the Armstrong kidnapping case?”

A little colour came into the man’s cheeks.

“Yes, indeed, sir. A little baby girl, wasn’t it? A very shocking affair.”

“Did you know that your employer, Mr. Ratchett, was the principal instigator in that affair?”

“No, indeed, sir.” The valet’s tone held positive warmth and feeling for the first time. “I can hardly believe it, sir.”

“Nevertheless, it is true. Now, to pass to your own movements last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you do after leaving your master?”

“I told Mr. MacQueen, sir, that the master wanted him. Then I went to my own compartment and read.”

“Your compartment was–”

“The end second-class one, sir. Next to the dining-car.”

Poirot was looking at his plan.

“I see – and you had which berth?”

“The lower one, sir.”

“That is No. 4?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anyone in with you?”

“Yes, sir. A big Italian fellow.”

“Does he speak English?”

“Well, a kind of English, sir.” The valet’s tone was deprecating. “He’s been in America – Chicago, I understand.”

“Do you and he talk together much?”

“No, sir. I prefer to read.”

Poirot smiled. He could visualize the scene – the large, voluble Italian, and the snub direct administered by the gentleman’s gentleman.

“And what, may I ask, are you reading?” he inquired.

“At present, sir, I am reading Love’s Captive, by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.”

“A good story?”

“I find it highly enjoyable, sir.”

“Well, let us continue. You returned to your compartment and read Love’s Captive till – when?”

“At about ten thirty, sir, this Italian wanted to go to bed. So the conductor came and made the beds up.”

“And then you went to bed and to sleep?”

“I went to bed, sir, but I didn’t sleep.”

“Why didn’t you sleep?”

“I had the toothache, sir.”

“Oh, la-la – that is painful.”

“Most painful, sir.”

“Did you do anything for it?”

“I applied a little oil of cloves, sir, which relieved the pain a little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the light on above my head and continued to read – to take my mind off, as it were.”

“And did you not go to sleep at all?”

“Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning.”

“And your companion?”

“The Italian fellow? Oh, he just snored.”

“He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you hear anything during the night?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Nothing unusual, I mean. The train being at a standstill made it all very quiet.”

Poirot was silent a moment or two. Then he spoke.

“Well, I think there is very little more to be said. You cannot throw any light upon the tragedy?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, sir.”

“As far as you know, was there any quarrel or bad blood between your master and Mr. MacQueen?”

“Oh! no, sir. Mr. MacQueen was a very pleasant gentleman.”

“Where were you in service before you came to Mr. Ratchett?”

“With Sir Henry Tomlinson, sir, in Grosvenor Square.”

“Why did you leave him?”

“He was going to East Africa, sir, and did not require my services any longer. But I am sure he will speak for me, sir. I was with him some years.”

“And you have been with Mr. Ratchett – how long?”

“Just over nine months, sir.”

“Thank you, Masterman. By the way, are you a pipe-smoker?”

“No, sir. I only smoke cigarettes – gaspers, sir.”

“Thank you, that will do.”

Poirot gave him a nod of dismissal.

The valet hesitated a moment.

“You’ll excuse me, sir, but the elderly American lady is in what I might describe as a state, sir. She’s saying she knows all about the murderer. She’s in a very excitable condition, sir.”

“In that case,” said Poirot, smiling, “we had better see her next.”

“Shall I tell her, sir? She’s been demanding to see someone in authority for a long time. The conductor’s been trying to pacify her.”

“Send her to us, my friend,” said Poirot. “We will listen to her story now.”

4. The Evidence of the American Lady

Mrs. Hubbard arrived in the dining-car in such a state of breathless excitement that she was hardly able to articulate her words.

“Now just tell me this – who’s in authority here? I’ve got some very important information, very important indeed, and I’m going to tell it to someone in authority just as soon as I can. If you gentlemen–”

Her wavering glance fluctuated between the three men. Poirot leaned forward.

“Tell it to me, Madame,” he said. “But first, pray be seated.”

Mrs. Hubbard plumped heavily down on to the seat opposite to him.

“What I’ve got to tell you is just this. There was a murder on the train last night, and the murderer was right there in my compartment!”

She paused to give dramatic emphasis to her words.

“You are sure of this, Madame?”

“Of course I’m sure! The idea! I know what I’m talking about. I’ll tell you everything there is to tell. I’d gotten into bed and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up – everything was dark – and I knew there was a man in my compartment. I was just so scared I couldn’t scream, if you know what I mean. I just lay there and thought, ‘Mercy, I’m going to be killed!’ I just can’t describe to you how I felt. These nasty trains, I thought, and all the outrages I’d read of. And I thought, ‘Well, anyway, he won’t get my jewellery’ – because, you see, I’d put that in a stocking and hidden it under my pillow – which isn’t any too comfortable, by the way; kinda bumpy, if you know what I mean. But that’s neither here nor there. Where was I?”

“You realised, Madame, that there was a man in your compartment.”

“Yes, well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and wondered what I’d do. And I thought, well, I’m just thankful that my daughter doesn’t know the plight I’m in. And then, somehow, I got my wits about me and I felt about with my hand and I pressed the bell for the conductor. I pressed it and I pressed it, but nothing happened – and I can tell you, I thought my heart was going to stop beating. ‘Mercy,’ I said to myself, ‘maybe they’ve murdered every single soul on the train.’ It was at a standstill anyhow and there was a nasty quiet feel in the air. But I just went on pressing that bell and oh! the relief when I heard footsteps coming running down the corridor and a knock on the door! ‘Come in,’ I screamed, and I switched on the lights at the same time. And would you believe it, there wasn’t a soul there!”

This seemed to Mrs. Hubbard to be a dramatic cl**ax rather than an anticlimax.

“And what happened next, Madame?”

“Why, I told the man what had happened and he didn’t seem to believe me. Seemed to imagine I’d dreamed the whole thing. I made him look under the seat, though he said there wasn’t room for a man to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough that the man had got away – but there had been a man there, and it just made me mad the way the conductor tried to soothe me down! I’m not one to imagine things, Mr. – I don’t think I know your name?”