Seven

THE BODY

Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and the compartmentoccupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.

The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion.

“How much has been disarranged in this compartment¹?”

“Nothing has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination.”

Poirot nodded. He looked round him.

The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as faras it would go and the blind was drawn² up.

“Brrr,” observed Poirot.

The other smiled appreciatively.

“I did not like to close it,” he said.

Poirot examined the window carefully.

“You are right,” he announced. “Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open windowwas intended to suggest the fact, but, if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s object.”

He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew alittle powder over it.

“No fingerprints³ at all,” he said. “That means it has been wiped. Well, if there had beenfingerprints it would have told us very little. They would have been those of M. Ratchett or hisvalet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.

“And that being so,” he added cheerfully, “we might as well shut the window. Positively⁵ it isthe cold storage in here!”

He suited the action to the word and then turned his attention for the first time to the motionlessfigure lying in the bunk⁶.

Ratchett lay on his back. His pyjama jacket, stained with rusty⁷ patches, had been unbuttonedand thrown back.

“I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see,” explained the doctor.

Poirot nodded. He bent⁹ over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace¹⁰.

“It is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again.

How many wounds are there exactly?”

“I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, atleast three would be capable of causing death.”

Something in the doctor’s tone caught Poirot’s attention. He looked at him sharply. The littleGreek was standing¹¹ staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.

“Something strikes you as odd, does it not?” he asked gently. “Speak, my friend. There issomething here that puzzles you?”

“You are right,” acknowledged the other.

“What is it?”

“You see, these two wounds—here and here,”—he pointed¹². “They are deep, each cut must havesevered blood vessels—and yet—the edges do not gape¹³. They have not bled as one would haveexpected.”

“Which suggests?”

“That the man was already dead—some little time dead—when they were delivered. But that issurely absurd.”

“It would seem so,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Unless our murderer figured to himself that hehad not accomplished¹⁴ his job properly and came back to make quite sure; but that is manifestlyabsurd! Anything else?”

“Well, just one thing.”

“And that?”

“You see this wound here—under the right arm—near the right shoulder. Take this pencil ofmine. Could you deliver such a blow?”

Poirot raised his hand.

“Précisément,” he said. “I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult — almostimpossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with theleft hand—”

“Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”

“So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”

“As you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed.”

“Two people. We are back at two people again,” murmured the detective. He asked abruptly¹⁵:

“Was the electric light on?”

“It is difficult to say. You see it is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o’clock.”

“The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.

He examined the switch of the top light and also the roll back bed-head light. The former wasturned off. The latter was closed.

“Eh bien,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and Second Murderer,as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left thecompartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that hisor her work had been done and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez vous de ?a?”

“Magnificent,” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

The other’s eyes twinkled.

“You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”

“What other explanation can there be?”

“That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence or what? Are there any otherinconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”

“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness—a lackof strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble glancing blows. But this one here—and thisone—” Again he pointed. “Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated¹⁶ themuscle.”

“They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?”

“Most certainly.”

“They could not have been delivered by a woman?”

“A young, vigorous, athletic¹⁷ woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the gripof a strong emotion, but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.”

Poirot was silent a moment or two.

The other said anxiously.

“You understand my point?”

“Perfectly,” said Poirot. “The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was aman of great strength, he was feeble, it was a woman, it was a right-handed person, it was a left-handed person—Ah! c’est rigolo, tout¹⁸ ?a!”

He spoke¹⁹ with sudden anger.

“And the victim—what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does hedefend himself?”

He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett hadshown him the day before.

“Fully loaded, you see,” he said.

They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. Onthe small table formed by the lid of the washing basin were various objects—false teeth in a glassof water; another glass, empty; a bottle of mineral water, a large flask²⁰ and an ashtray²¹ containingthe butt⁸ of a cigar and some charred²² fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed²³ it.

“Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.

“Drugged?”

“Yes.”

Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinized²⁴ them carefully.

“You have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly.

“Those two matches are of a different shape,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. Yousee?”

“It is the kind you get on a train,” said the doctor, “in paper covers.”

Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box ofmatches. He compared them carefully.

“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also theflatter kind.”

But a further search showed no other matches.

Poirot’s eyes were darting²⁵ about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s.

One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny²⁶.

With a little exclamation²⁷ he bent and picked up something from the floor.

It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. “Our friend the chef de train was right. There is awoman concerned in this.”

“And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as ithappens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us it is marked with aninitial.”

“What a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Is it not?” said Poirot.

Something in his tone surprised the doctor.

But before he could ask for elucidation²⁸, Poirot had made another dive on to the floor.

This time he held out on the palm of his hand—a pipe cleaner.

“It is perhaps the property of M. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor.

“There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch²⁹.”

“Then it is a clue.”

“Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue this time, you note!

One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By theway, what have you done with the weapon?”

“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

“I wonder why,” mused³⁰ Poirot.

“Ah!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man.

“I overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.”

From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented³¹ savagely³², and thehands pointed to a quarter past one.

“You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with mycalculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about oneo’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation³³. A quarterpast one. That was the hour of the crime.”

“It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”

The doctor looked at him curiously³⁴.

“You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”

“I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all, and, as you perceive, itworries me.”

He sighed and bent over the little table, examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmuredto himself.

“What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman’s hatbox.”

Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case, Poirotgave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor.

The man arrived at a run.

“How many women are there in this coach?”

The conductor counted on his fingers.

“One, two, three—six, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Swedish lady, the young Englishlady, the Countess Andrenyi and Madame la Princess Dragomiroff and her maid.”

Poirot considered.

“They all have hatboxes, yes?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s maid. Those twoare the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that occursto you.”

“That will be all right Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment.”

“Then be quick.”

The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the lady’smaid and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady’s and uttered an exclamation ofsatisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire netting.

“Ah, here is what we need. About fifteen years ago hatboxes were made like this. You skeweredthrough the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire netting.”

As he spoke he was skilfully³⁵ removing two of the attachments³⁶. Then he repacked the hatboxand told the conductor to return them both where they belonged.

When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.

“See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is thepsychology I seek, not the fingerprint⁴ or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a littlescientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are reallywhat they seem to be?”

“I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot.”

“Well, to give you an example—we find a woman’s handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Or dida man, committing the crime, say to himself ‘I will make this look like a woman’s crime. I willstab my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows feeble and ineffective,and I will drop this handkerchief where no one can miss it.’ That is one possibility. Then there isanother. Did a woman kill him and did she deliberately³⁷ drop a pipe cleaner to make it look like aman’s work? Or are we seriously to suppose that two people—a man and a woman—wereseparately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to their identity? It is a littletoo much of a coincidence, that!”

“But where does the hatbox come in?” asked the doctor, still puzzled.

“Ah! I’m coming to that. As I say, these clues, the watch stopped at a quarter past one, thehandkerchief, the pipe cleaner, they may be genuine, or they may be fake. As to that I cannot yettell. But there is one clue here which I believe—though again I may be wrong—has not beenfaked. I mean this flat match, M. le docteur. I believe that that match was used by the murderer,not by M. Ratchett. It was used to burn an incriminating paper of some kind. Possibly a note. If so,there was something in that note, some mistake, some error, that left a possible clue to theassailant. I am going to endeavour to resurrect what that something was.”

He went out of the compartment and returned a few moments later with a small spirit stove anda pair of curling tongs³⁸.

“I use them for the moustaches,” he said, referring to the latter.

The doctor watched him with great interest. He flattened³⁹ out the two humps of wire, and withgreat care wriggled⁴⁰ the charred scrap⁴¹ of paper on to one of them. He clapped the other on top of itand then, holding both pieces together with the tongs, held the whole thing over the flame of thespirit lamp.

“It is a very makeshift affair, this,” he said over his shoulder. “Let us hope that it will answer itspurpose.”

The doctor watched the proceedings⁴² attentively⁴³. The metal began to glow. Suddenly he sawfaint indications of letters. Words formed themselves slowly—words of fire.

It was a very tiny scrap. Only three words and a part of another showed.

“—member little Daisy Armstrong.”

“Ah!” Poirot gave a sharp exclamation.

“It tells you something?” asked the doctor.

Poirot’s eyes were shining. He laid down the tongs carefully.

“Yes,” he said. “I know the dead man’s real name. I know why he had to leave America.”

“What was his name?”

“Cassetti.”

“Cassetti.” Constantine knitted his brows. “It brings back to me something. Some years ago. Icannot remember…It was a case in America, was it not?”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “A case in America.”

Further than that Poirot was not disposed to be communicative. He looked round him as he wenton:

“We will go into all that presently. Let us first make sure that we have seen all there is to beseen here.”

Quickly and deftly⁴⁴ he went once more through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes but foundnothing there of interest. He tried the communicating door which led through to the nextcompartment, but it was bolted on the other side.

“There is one thing that I do not understand,” said Dr. Constantine. “If the murderer did notescape through the window, and if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and ifthe door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside but chained, how then did themurderer leave the compartment?”

“That is what the audience says when a person bound hand and foot is shut into a cabinet—anddisappears.”

“You mean—”

“I mean,” explained Poirot, “that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped byway of the window he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible.

Like the ‘disappearing person’ in the cabinet—it is a trick. It is our business to find out how thetrick is done.”

He locked the communicating door on their side.

“In case,” he said, “the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to acquire first-handdetails of the crime to write to her daughter.”

He looked round once more.

“There is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin M. Bouc.”

 

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