Eight

THE ARMSTRONG KIDNAPPING CASE

They found M. Bouc finishing an omelet.

“I thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car,” he said. “Afterwardsit will be cleared and M. Poirot can conduct his examination of the passengers there. In themeantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here.”

“An excellent idea,” said Poirot.

Neither of the other two men was hungry, and the meal was soon eaten, but not till they weresipping their coffee did M. Bouc mention the subject that was occupying all their minds.

“Eh bien?” he asked.

“Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative¹ he shouldleave America.”

“Who was he?”

“Do you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man who murdered little DaisyArmstrong—Cassetti.”

“I recall it now. A shocking affair—though I cannot remember the details.”

“Colonel Armstrong was an Englishman—a V.C. He was half American, as his mother was adaughter of W. K. Van der Halt, the Wall Street millionaire. He married the daughter of LindaArden, the most famous tragic² American actress of her day. They lived in America and had onechild—a girl—whom they idolized. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and animpossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return. I will not weary you with all theintricacies that followed. I will come to the moment, when, after having paid over the enormoussum of two hundred thousand dollars, the child’s dead body was discovered, it having been deadat least a fortnight. Public indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse to follow. Mrs.

Armstrong was expecting another child. Following the shock of the discovery, she gave birth to adead child born prematurely³, and herself died. Her broken-hearted husband shot himself.”

“Mon Dieu, what a tragedy. I remember now,” said M. Bouc. “There was also another death, if Iremember rightly?”

“Yes—an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were convinced that she hadsome knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical⁴ denials. Finally, in a fit ofdespair, the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved afterwards thatshe was absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime.”

“It is not good to think of,” said M. Bouc.

“About six months later, this man Cassetti was arrested as the head of the gang who hadkidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to geton their trail, they had killed their prisoner, hidden the body, and continued to extract as muchmoney as possible before the crime was discovered.

“Now, I will make clear to you this, my friend. Cassetti was the man! But by means of theenormous wealth he had piled up and by the secret hold he had over various persons, he wasacquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by thepopulace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip. It is now clear to me whathappened. He changed his name and left America. Since then he has been a gentleman of leisure,travelling abroad and living on his rentes.”

“Ah! quel animal!” M. Bouc’s tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust. “I cannot regret that he isdead—not at all!”

“I agree with you.”

“Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orient Express. There areother places.”

Poirot smiled a little. He realized that M. Bouc was biased⁵ in the matter.

“The question we have now to ask ourselves is this,” he said. “Is this murder the work of somerival gang whom Cassetti had double-crossed in the past, or is it an act of private vengeance⁶?”

He explained his discovery of the few words on the charred⁷ fragment of paper.

“If I am right in my assumption, then the letter was burnt by the murderer. Why? Because itmentioned the word ‘Armstrong,’ which is the clue to the mystery.”

“Are there any members of the Armstrong family living?”

“That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading of a younger sister of Mrs.

Armstrong’s.”

Poirot went on to relate the joint⁸ conclusions of himself and Dr. Constantine. M. Boucbrightened at the mention of the broken watch.

“That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very convenient.”

There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at himcuriously.

“You say that you yourself heard Ratchett speak to the conductor at twenty minutes to one?”

Poirot related just what had occurred.

“Well,” said M. Bouc, “that proves at least that Cassetti—or Ratchett, as I shall continue to callhim—was certainly alive at twenty minutes to one.”

“Twenty-three minutes to one, to be precise.”

“Then at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, M. Ratchett was alive. That is one fact, atleast.”

Poirot did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front of him.

There was a tap on the door, and the restaurant attendant entered.

“The 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 procedure, “Après vous, Monsieur.” “Mais non, aprèsvous,” they left the compartment⁹.

 

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