he restaurant car is free now, Monsieur,” he said.

“We will go there,” said M. Bouc, rising.

“I may accompany you?” asked Constantine.

“Certainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?”

“Not at all. Not at all,” said Poirot.

After a little politeness in the matter of precedence – “Après vous, Monsieur” – “Mais non, après vous” – they left the compartment.

Part II. The Evidence

1. The Evidence of the Wagon Lit Conductor

In the restaurant car all was in readiness.

Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle.

On the table in front of Poirot was a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in red ink. The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There was writing paper, ink, pen, and pencils.

“Excellent,” said Poirot. “We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. You probably know something about the man. What character has he? Is he a man on whose word you would place reliance?”

“I should say so, most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for over fifteen years. He is a Frenchman – lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains.”

Poirot nodded comprehendingly. “Good,” he said. “Let us see him.”

Murder on the Orient Express

Pierre Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still extremely nervous.

“I hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part,” he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. “It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?”

Having soothed the man’s fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel’s name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease.

“And now,” went on Poirot, “let us come to the events of Last night. M. Ratchett retired to bed – when?”

“Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we leftBelgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.”

“Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?”

“His valet, Monsieur, and the young American gentleman, his secretary.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, Monsieur, not that I know of.”

“Good. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?”

“No, Monsieur. You forget he rang his bell about twenty to one – soon after we had stopped.”

“What happened exactly?”

“I knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made a mistake.”

“In English or in French?”

“In French.”

“What were his words exactly?”

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.”

“Quite right,” said Poirot. “That is what I heard. And then you went away?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Did you go back to your seat?”

“No, Monsieur, I went first to answer another bell that had just rung.”

“Now, Michel, I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?’

“I, Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end – facing up the corridor.”

“You are sure?”

“Mais oui – at least–”

“I went into the next coach, the Athens coach, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some time soon after one o’clock. I cannot say exactly.”

“And you returned – when?”

“One of my bells rang, Monsieur – I remember – I told you. It was the American lady. She had rung several times.”

“I recollect,” said Poirot. “And after that?”

“After that, Monsieur? I answered your bell and brought you some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the bed in one of the other compartments – that of the young American gentleman, Mr. Ratchett’s secretary.”

“Was Mr. MacQueen alone in his compartment when you went to make up his bed?”

“The English Colonel from No. 15 was with him. They had been sitting talking.”

“What did the Colonel do when he left Mr. MacQueen?”

“He went back to his own compartment.”

“No. 15 – that is quite close to your seat, is it not?”

“Yes, Monsieur, it is the second compartment from that end of the corridor.”

“His bed was already made up?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I had made it up while he was at dinner.”

“What time was all this?”

“I could not say exactly, Monsieur. Not later thantwo o’clock certainly.”

“And after that?”

“After that, Monsieur, I sat in my seat till morning.”

“You did not go again into the Athens coach?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Perhaps you slept?”

“I do not think so, Monsieur. The train being at a standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do.”

“Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?”

The man reflected. “One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end, I think.”

“Which lady?”

“I do not know, Monsieur. It was far down the corridor and she had her back to me. She had on a kimono of scarlet with dragons on it.”

Poirot nodded. “And after that?”

“Nothing, Monsieur, until the morning.”

“You are sure?”

“Ah, pardon – you yourself, Monsieur, opened your door and looked out for a second.”

“Good, my friend,” said Poirot. “I wondered whether you would remember that. By the way, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea what that could have been?”

The man stared at him. “There was nothing, Monsieur. Nothing, I am positive of it.”

“Then I must have had the cauchemar,” said Poirot philosophically.

“Unless,” put in M. Bouc, “it was something in the compartment next door that you heard.”

Poirot took no notice of the suggestion. Perhaps he did not wish to before the Wagon Lit conductor.

“Let us pass to another point,” he said. “Supposing that last night an assassin joined the train. Is it quite certain that he could not have left it after committing the crime?”

Pierre Michel shook his head.

“Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?”

“It has been well searched,” said M. Bouc. “Abandon that idea, my friend.”

“Besides,” said Michel, “no one could get on to the sleeping-car without my seeing them.”

“When was the last stop?”

“Vincovci.”

“What time was that?”

“We should have left there at 11:58, but owing to the weather we were twenty minutes late.”

“Someone might have come along from the ordinary part of the train?”

“No, Monsieur. After the service of dinner, the door between the ordinary carriages and the sleeping-cars is locked.”

“Did you yourself descend from the train at Vincovci?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I got down onto the platform as usual and stood by the step up into the train. The other conductors did the same.”

“What about the forward door – the one near the restaurant car?”

“It is always fastened on the inside.”

“It is not so fastened now.”

The man looked surprised; then his face cleared. “Doubtless one of the passengers opened it to look out on the snow.”

“Probably,” said Poirot.

He tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.

“Monsieur does not blame me?” said the man timidly.

Poirot smiled on him kindly.

“You have had the evil chance, my friend,” he said. “Ah! one other point while I remember it. You said that another bell rang just as you were knocking at M. Ratchett’s door. In fact I heard it myself Whose was it?”

“It was the bell of Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff. She desired me to summon her maid.”

“And you did so?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Poirot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head.

“That is all,” he said, “for the moment.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.”

The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc.

“Do not distress yourself,” said the latter kindly; “I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part.”

Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.

2. The Evidence of the Secretary

For a minute or two Poirot remained lost, in thought.

“I think,” he said at last, “that it would be well to have a further word with Mr. MacQueen, in view of what we now know.”

The young American appeared promptly.

“Well,” he said, “how are things going?”

“Not too badly. Since our last conversation, I have learnt something – the identity of Mr. Ratchett.”

Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. “Yes?” he said.

“ ‘Ratchett,’ as you suspected, was merely an alias. The man ‘Ratchett’ was Cassetti, who ran the celebrated kidnapping stunts – including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.”

An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen’s face. Then it darkened. “The damned skunk!” he exclaimed.

“You had no idea of this, Mr. MacQueen?”

“No, sir,” said the young American decidedly. “If I had, I’d have cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!”

“You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. MacQueen?”

“I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, Mr. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once – she was a lovely woman. So gentle and heartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett – or Cassetti – is the man. I’m rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn’t fit to live!”

“You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?”

“I do. I–” He paused, then added rather guiltily, “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.”

“I should be more inclined to suspect you, Mr. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer’s decease.”

“I don’t think I could do that even to save myself from the chair,” said MacQueen grimly. Then he added: “If I’m not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s identity, I mean.”

“By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment.”

“But surely – I mean – that was rather careless of the old man?”

“That depends,” said Poirot, “on the point of view.”

The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.

“The task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of every one on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand. It is only a matter of routine.”

“Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can.”

“I need hardly ask you the number of your compartment,” said Poirot, smiling, “since I shared it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure you had it to yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Now, Mr. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time of leaving the dining-car.”

“That’s quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform at Belgrade, decided it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is in the compartment next to mine. Then I fell into conversation with that Englishman, Colonel Arbuthnot – as a matter of fact I think you passed us as we were talking. Then I went in to Mr. Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of letters he wanted written. I said good tight to him and left him. Colonel Arbuthnot was still standing in the corridor. His compartment was already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come along to mine. I ordered a couple of drinks and we got right down to it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India and our own troubles with Prohibition and the Wall Street crisis. I don’t as a rule cotton to Britishers – they’re a stiff-necked lot – but I liked this one.”

“Do you know what time it was when he left you?”

“Pretty late. Nearly two o’clock, I should say.”

“You noticed that the train had stopped?”

‘Oh, yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying very thick, but we didn’t think it was serious.”

“What happened when Colonel Arbuthnot finally said good night?”

“He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor to make up my bed.”

“Where were you whilst he was making it?”

“Standing just outside the door in the corridor smoking a cigarette.”

“And then?”

“And then I went to bed and slept till morning.”

“During the evening did you leave the train at all?”

“Arbuthnot and I thought we’d get out at – what was the name of the place? – Vincovci – to stretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold – a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again.”