Two

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 M. MacQueen, inview of what we now know.”

The young American appeared promptly¹.

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

“Not too badly. Since our last conversation I have learnt something — the identity of M.

Ratchett.”

Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly.

“Yes?” he said.

“Ratchett, as you suspected, was merely an alias². Ratchett was Cassetti, the man who ran thecelebrated kidnapping stunts—including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.”

An expression of utter astonishment³ appeared on MacQueen’s face; then it darkened.

“The damned skunk⁴!” he exclaimed.

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

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

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

“I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled thecase, M. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once—she was a lovely woman. So gentle andheartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett or Cassetti is theman. 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 flushed rather guiltily. “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.”

“I should be more inclined to suspect you, M. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate⁶ sorrowat 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 unduly⁷ curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s identity, I mean.”

“By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment⁸.”

“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 tryingto make him out.

“The task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of everyone 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 itwith you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure youhad it to yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Now, M. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time ofleaving the dining car.”

“That’s quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform atBelgrade, decided⁵ it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English ladywho 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 toMr. Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda⁹ of letters he wanted written. I saidgood night to him and left him. Colonel Arbuthnot was still standing¹⁰ in the corridor. Hiscompartment 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 theGovernment of India and our own troubles with the financial situation and the Wall Street crisis. Idon’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. Getting on for 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’tthink 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 tostretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold—a blizzard¹¹ on. We soon hopped¹² back again.”

“By 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 thehandle. 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 sittingtalking 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 leftVincovci until 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 just arguing a point with Arbuthnot. I justseem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet¹³ silk affair passing the door. I didn’t look, and anywayI wouldn’t have seen the person’s face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining car end of thetrain, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon asshe 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 havedone so.”

“One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, M. 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 M. Ratchett. By the way, didboth you and he always travel second-class?”

“He did. But I usually went first—if possible in the adjoining compartment to Mr. Ratchett.

Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easilywhenever he chose. But on this occasion all the first-class berths¹⁴ were booked except the onewhich he took.”

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

 

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