Four

THE EVIDENCE OF THE AMERICAN LADY

Mrs. Hubbard arrived in the dining car in such a state of breathless excitement that she was hardlyable to articulate her words.

“Now just tell me this. Who’s in authority here? I’ve got some vurry important information,vurry important, indeed, and I just want to tell it to someone in authority as soon as may be. If yougentlemen—”

Her wavering glance fluctuated between the three men. Poirot leaned forward.

“Tell it to me, Madame,” he said. “But, first, pray be seated.”

Mrs. Hubbard plumped heavily down on to the seat opposite to him.

“What I’ve got to tell you is just this. There was a murder on the train last night, and themurderer was right there in my compartment¹!”

She paused to give dramatic emphasis to her words.

“You are sure of this, Madame?”

“Of course I’m sure! The idea! I know what I’m talking about. I’ll tell you just everything thereis to tell. I’d gotten into bed and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up—all in the dark, it was—and I knew there was a man in my compartment. I was just so scared I couldn’t scream, if youknow what I mean. I just lay there and thought, ‘Mercy, I’m going to be killed.’ I just can’tdescribe to you how I felt. These nasty trains, I thought, and all the outrages² I’d read of. And Ithought, ‘Well, anyway, he won’t get my jewellery.’ Because, you see, I’d put that in a stockingand hidden it under my pillow—which isn’t so mighty³ comfortable, by the way, kinder bumpy⁴, ifyou know what I mean. But that’s neither here nor there. Where was I?”

“You realized, Madame, that there was a man in your compartment.”

“Yes, well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and I thought whatever should I do, and Ithought, ‘Well, I’m just thankful that my daughter doesn’t know the plight⁵ I’m in.’ And then,somehow, I got my wits about me and I felt about with my hand and I pressed the bell for theconductor. I pressed it and I pressed it, but nothing happened, and I can tell you I thought my heartwas going to stop beating. ‘Mercy,’ I said to myself, ‘maybe they’ve murdered every single soulon the train.’ It was at a standstill, anyhow, and a nasty quiet feel in the air. But I just went onpressing that bell, and oh! the relief when I heard footsteps coming running down the corridor anda knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ I screamed, and I switched on the lights at the same time. And,would you believe it, there wasn’t a soul there.”

This seemed to Mrs. Hubbard to be a dramatic climax⁶ rather than an anticlimax⁷.

“And what happened next, Madame?”

“Why, I told the man what had happened, and he didn’t seem to believe me. Seemed to imagineI’d dreamt the whole thing. I made him look under the seat, though he said there wasn’t room for aman to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough the man had got away, but there had been aman there and it just made me mad the way the conductor tried to soothe⁸ me down! I’m not one toimagine things, Mr.—I don’t think I know your name?”

“Poirot, Madame, and this is M. Bouc, a director of the company, and Dr. Constantine.”

Mrs. Hubbard murmured:

“Please to meet you, I’m sure,” to all three of them in an abstracted manner, and then plungedonce more into her recital⁹.

“Now I’m just not going to pretend I was as bright as I might have been. I got it into my headthat it was the man from next door—the poor fellow who’s been killed. I told the conductor tolook at the door between the compartments¹⁰, and sure enough it wasn’t bolted. Well, I soon saw tothat, I told him to bolt it then and there, and after he’d gone out I got up and put a suitcase againstit to make sure.”

“What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?”

“Well, I’m sure I can’t tell you. I never looked to see. I was so upset.”

“And what is your theory now?”

“Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be. The man in my compartment was themurderer. Who else could he be?”

“And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?”

“How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut.”

“He must have slipped out through the door into the corridor.”

“Well, I couldn’t say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut.”

Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively.

“Mercy, I was scared! If my daughter only knew—”

“You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of someone moving about nextdoor—in the murdered man’s compartment?”

“No, I do not, Mr.—what is it?—Poirot. The man was right there in the same compartment withme. And, what’s more, I’ve got proof of it.”

Triumphantly¹¹ she hauled a large handbag into view and proceeded to burrow¹² in its interior.

She took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a bottle ofaspirin, a packet of Glauber’s salts, a celluloid tube of bright green peppermints¹⁴, a bunch of keys,a pair of scissors, a book of American Express cheques, a snapshot of an extraordinarily¹⁵ plain-looking child, some letters, five strings¹⁶ of pseudo Oriental beads¹⁷ and a small metal object—abutton.

“You see this button? Well, it’s not one of my buttons. It’s not off anything I’ve got. I found itthis morning when I got up.”

As she placed it on the table, M. Bouc leaned forward and gave an exclamation¹⁸.

“But this is a button from the tunic¹⁹ of a Wagon²⁰ Lit attendant!”

“There may be a natural explanation for that,” said Poirot.

He turned gently to the lady.

“This button, Madame, may have dropped from the conductor’s uniform, either when hesearched your cabin, or when he was making the bed up last night.”

“I just don’t know what’s the matter with all you people. Seems as though you don’t doanything but make objections. Now listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I wentto sleep. Before I turned the light out I placed that magazine on a little case that was standing²¹ onthe floor near the window. Have you got that?”

They assured her that they had.

“Very well, then. The conductor looked under the seat from near the door and then he came inand bolted the door between me and the next compartment, but he never went up near the window.

Well, this morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine. What do you call that, Ishould like to know?”

“That, Madame, I call evidence,” said Poirot.

The answer seemed to appease²² the lady.

“It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained.

“You have given us most interesting and valuable evidence,” said Poirot soothingly²³. “Now, mayI ask you a few questions?”

“Why, willingly.”

“How was it, since you were nervous of this man Ratchett, that you hadn’t already bolted thedoor between the compartments?”

“I had,” returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly²⁴.

“Oh, you had?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I asked that Swedish creature—a pleasant soul—if it was bolted, andshe said it was.”

“How was it you couldn’t see for yourself?”

“Because I was in bed and my sponge bag was hanging on the door handle.”

“What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?”

“Now let me think. It must have been round about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. She’dcome along to see if I’d got an aspirin¹³. I told her where to find it, and she got it out of my grip.”

“You yourself were in bed?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly she laughed.

“Poor soul—she was in quite a taking. You see, she’d opened the door of the next compartmentby mistake.”

“M. Ratchett’s?”

“Yes. You know how difficult it is as you come along the train and all the doors are shut. Sheopened his by mistake. She was very distressed²⁵ about it. He’d laughed, it seemed, and I fancy hemay have said something not quite nice. Poor thing, she was all in a flutter. ‘Oh! I make mistake,’

she said. ‘I ashamed make mistake. Not nice man,’ she said. ‘He say, “You too old.’”

Dr. Constantine sniggered and Mrs. Hubbard immediately froze him with a glance.

“He wasn’t a nice kind of man,” she said, “to say a thing like that to a lady. It’s not right tolaugh at such things.”

Dr. Constantine hastily apologized.

“Did you hear any noise from M. Ratchett’s compartment after that?” asked Poirot.

“Well—not exactly.”

“What do you mean by that, Madame?”

“Well—” she paused. “He snored.”

“Ah! he snored, did he?”

“Terribly. The night before it quite kept me awake.”

“You didn’t hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in yourcompartment?”

“Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead.”

“Ah, yes, truly,” said Poirot. He appeared confused.

“Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnapping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch²⁶ that did it escaped scot free! My, I’d have liked to getmy hands on him.”

“He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.”

“You don’t mean—?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.

“But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.”

“Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last nightthat that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When Momma’sgot a hunch²⁷, you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’”

“Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?”

“No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I’ve always heard that Mrs. Armstrong was aperfectly lovely woman and that her husband worshipped her.”

“Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much—very much indeed. Perhaps you will giveme your full name?”

“Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.”

“Will you write your address down here?”

Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak.

“I just can’t get over it. Cassetti—on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr.

Poirot?”

“Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet²⁸ silk dressing²⁹ gown?”

“Mercy, what an odd question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing gowns with me—a pink flannelone that’s kind of cosy³⁰ for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind oflocal affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gownsfor?”

“Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’scompartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut toknow which compartment is which.”

“Well, no one in a scarlet dressing gown came into my compartment.”

“Then she must have gone into M. Ratchett’s.”

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:

“That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

Poirot leaned forward.

“So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

“I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But—well—as a matter of fact, Idid.”

“But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr.

Ratchett snoring.”

“Well that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard gotrather pink. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

“What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

“I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plainenough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well that’s the kind of man he is. Well, I’m notsurprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything ofthe kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

“Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

“Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if hewere dead, would he?”

“Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

“I guess even you get kinder muddled³¹ now and then. I just can’t get over it being that monsterCassetti. What my daughter will say—”

Poirot managed adroitly³² to help the good lady to restore the contents of her handbag and he thenshepherded her towards the door.

At the last moment he said:

“You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap³³ of cambric he held out to her.

“That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”

“Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—”

“Well, now, that’s curious, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’resensible things—not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’snose?”

Neither of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question, and Mrs. Hubbard sailedout triumphantly.

 

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