my buttons are intact.”
Both of the other conductors also declared that they had not lost a button; also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time.
“Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?”
“Again, no, Monsieur.”
“Odd,” said M. Bouc.
“Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time-“
“For what? For what,mon cher ! Remember, there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.”
“There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat into either of the toilets or-he could disappear into one of the compartments.”
“But they were all occupied.”
“Yes.”
“You mean that he could retreat into hisown compartment?”
Poirot nodded.
“It fits-it fits;’ murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment, and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives.”
Poirot murmured: “It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.”
With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.
“We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers-Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot, and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers-Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli, and the lady’s-maid, Fräulein Schmidt.”
“Whom will you see first-the Italian?”
“How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car.
“Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc.
But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining-car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.
Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.
Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it.
She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.
“You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power.”
“You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot.
“Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?”
“Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?”
Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.
“You can write it,” she said. “There is nothing difficult. Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kléber, Paris.”
“You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?”
“Yes. I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.”
“Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?”
“Willingly.
Both of the other conductors also declared that they had not lost a button; also that they had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment at any time.
“Calm yourself, Michel,” said M. Bouc, “and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?”
“Again, no, Monsieur.”
“Odd,” said M. Bouc.
“Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time-“
“For what? For what,mon cher ! Remember, there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.”
“There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat into either of the toilets or-he could disappear into one of the compartments.”
“But they were all occupied.”
“Yes.”
“You mean that he could retreat into hisown compartment?”
Poirot nodded.
“It fits-it fits;’ murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment, and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives.”
Poirot murmured: “It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will tell you so.”
With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart.
“We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers-Princess Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot, and Mr. Hardman. Three second-class passengers-Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli, and the lady’s-maid, Fräulein Schmidt.”
“Whom will you see first-the Italian?”
“How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, Michel.”
“Oui, Monsieur,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car.
“Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc.
But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining-car, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot.
Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.
Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it.
She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc.
“You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power.”
“You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot.
“Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?”
“Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?”
Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.
“You can write it,” she said. “There is nothing difficult. Natalia Dragomiroff, 17 Avenue Kléber, Paris.”
“You are travelling home from Constantinople, Madame?”
“Yes. I have been staying at the Austrian Embassy. My maid is with me.”
“Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?”
“Willingly.
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