Eight

THE EVIDENCE OF COLONEL ARBUTHNOT

Poirot roused himself with a slight start. His eyes twinkled a little as they met the eager ones of M.

Bouc.

“Ah! my dear old friend,” he said. “You see, I have become what they call the snob¹! The first-class, I feel it should be attended to before the second-class. Next, I think, we will interview thegood looking Colonel Arbuthnot.”

Finding the Colonel’s French to be of a severely² limited description, Poirot conducted hisinterrogation in English.

Arbuthnot’s name, age, home address and exact military standing³ were all ascertained⁴. Poirotproceeded:

“It is that you come home from India on what is called the leave—what we call en permission?”

Colonel Arbuthnot, uninterested in what a pack of foreigners called anything, replied with trueBritish brevity:

“Yes.”

“But you do not come home on the P. & O. boat?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own.”

“And that,” his manner seemed to say, “is one for you, you interfering⁵ little jackanapes.”

“You came straight through from India?”

The Colonel replied dryly:

“I stopped for one night to see Ur of the Chaldees and for three days in Baghdad with theA.O.C., who happens to be an old friend of mine.”

“You stopped three days in Baghdad. I understand that the young English lady, MissDebenham, also comes from Baghdad. Perhaps you met her there?”

“No, I did not. I first met Miss Debenham when she and I shared the railway convoy⁶ car fromKirkuk to Nissibin.”

Poirot leaned forward. He became persuasive⁷ and a little more foreign than he need have been.

“Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Debenham are the only two Englishpeople on the train. It is necessary that I should ask you each your opinion of the other.”

“Highly irregular,” said Colonel Arbuthnot coldly.

“Not so. You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by a woman. The man wasstabbed no less than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, ‘It is a woman.’ Well, then,what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the Stamboul- Calais coach whatAmericans call the ‘once over.’ But to judge of an Englishwoman is difficult. They are veryreserved, the English. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interests of justice. What sort of aperson is this Miss Debenham? What do you know about her?”

“Miss Debenham,” said the Colonel with some warmth, “is a lady.”

“Ah!” said Poirot with every appearance of being much gratified. “So you do not think that sheis likely to be implicated⁸ in this crime?”

“The idea is absurd,” said Arbuthnot. “The man was a perfect stranger—she had never seen himbefore.”

“Did she tell you so?”

“She did. She commented at once upon his somewhat unpleasant appearance. If a woman isconcerned, as you seem to think (to my mind without any evidence but mere⁹ assumption), I canassure you that Miss Debenham could not possibly be indicated.”

“You feel warmly in the matter,” said Poirot with a smile.

Colonel Arbuthnot gave him a cold stare.

“I really don’t know what you mean,” he said.

The stare seemed to abash¹⁰ Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began fiddling¹¹ with the papers infront of him.

“All this is by the way,” he said. “Let us be practical and come to facts. This crime, we havereason to believe, took place at a quarter past one last night. It is part of the necessary routine toask everyone on the train what he or she was doing at that time.”

“Quite so. At a quarter past one, to the best of my belief, I was talking to the young Americanfellow—secretary to the dead man.”

“Ah! Were you in his compartment¹², or was he in yours?”

“I was in his.”

“That is the young man of the name of MacQueen?”

“Yes.”

“He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?”

“No, I never saw him before this journey. We fell into casual conversation yesterday and bothbecame interested. I don’t as a rule like Americans—haven’t any use for ’em—”

Poirot smiled, remembering MacQueen’s strictures on “Britishers.”

“—But I liked this young fellow. He’d got hold of some tom-fool idiotic¹³ ideas about thesituation in India; that’s the worst of Americans—they’re so sentimental¹⁴ and idealistic. Well, hewas interested in what I had to tell him. I’ve had nearly thirty years experience of the country. AndI was interested in what he had to tell me about the financial situation in America. Then we gotdown to world politics in general. I was quite surprised to look at my watch and find it was aquarter to two.”

“That is the time you broke up this conversation?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then?”

“Walked along to my own compartment and turned in.”

“Your bed was made up ready?”

“Yes.”

“That is the compartment—let me see—No. 15—the one next but one to the end away from thedining car?”

“Yes.”

“Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?”

“Sitting at the end at a little table. As a matter of fact, MacQueen called him just as I went to myown compartment.”

“Why did he call him?”

“To make up his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn’t been made up for the night.”

“Now, Colonel Arbuthnot, I want you to think carefully. During the time you were talking toMr. MacQueen did anyone pass along the corridor outside the door?”

“A good many people, I should think. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Ah! but I am referring to—let us say the last hour and a half of your conversation. You got outat Vincovci, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard¹⁵ on. The cold was something frightful¹⁶.

Made one quite thankful to get back to the fug, though as a rule I think the way these trains areoverheated is something scandalous.”

M. Bouc sighed.

“It is very difficult to please everybody,” he said. “The English, they open everything—thenothers, they come along and shut every thing. It is very difficult.”

Neither Poirot nor Colonel Arbuthnot paid any attention to him.

“Now, Monsieur, cast your mind back,” said Poirot encouragingly. “It was cold outside. Youhave returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke—perhaps a cigarette, perhaps a pipe—”

He paused for the fraction of a second.

“A pipe for me. MacQueen smoked cigarettes.”

“The train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss the state of Europe—of the world. Itis late now. Most people have retired¹⁷ for the night. Does anyone pass the door—think?”

Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance.

“Difficult to say,” he said. “You see, I wasn’t paying any attention.”

“But you have the soldier’s observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak.”

The Colonel thought again, but shook his head.

“I couldn’t say. I don’t remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—andthere was a woman, I think.”

“You saw her? Was she old—young?”

“Didn’t see her. Wasn’t looking that way. Just a rustle¹⁸ and a sort of smell of scent¹⁹.”

“Scent? A good scent?”

“Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you’d smell it a hundred yards away. Butmind you,” the Colonel went on hastily, “this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, asyou said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Sometime that evening I said to myself, ‘Woman—scent—got it on pretty thick.’ But when it was Ican’t be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Vincovci.”

“Why?”

“Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washoutStalin’s Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea—woman—brought the idea of theposition of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn’t got on to Russia until prettynear the end of our talk.”

“You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?”

“N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half hour.”

“It was after the train had stopped?”

The other nodded.

“Yes, I’m almost sure it was.”

“Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?”

“Never. Don’t want to go.”

“Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?”

“Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrongin the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—he was killed on the Somme.”

“I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child waskidnapped and killed.”

“Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever cameacross the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybodyliked him. He had a very distinguished²⁰ career. Got the V.C.”

“The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of ColonelArmstrong’s child.”

Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim.

“Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to haveseen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.”

“In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance²¹?”

“Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds²² and stabbing each other like Corsicans or theMafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.

“Yes,” he said. “I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not thinkthere is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that inany way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?”

Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two.

“No,” he said. “Nothing at all. Unless—” he hesitated.

“But yes, continue, I pray of you.”

“Well, it’s nothing really,” said the Colonel slowly. “But you said anything.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door ofthe one beyond mine—the end one, you know—”

“Yes, No. 16.”

“Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive²³ sort ofway. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it juststruck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you wantto see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.”

“Ye-es,” said Poirot doubtfully.

“I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot apologetically. “But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still—the thing had a sinister²⁴ look—like a detectivestory. All nonsense, really.”

He rose.

“Well, if you don’t want me any more—”

“Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.”

The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by “foreigners”

had evaporated.

“About Miss Debenham,” he said rather awkwardly. “You can take it from me that she’s allright. She’s a pukka sahib.”

Flushing a little, he withdrew.

“What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a pukka sahib mean?”

“It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind ofschool as Colonel Arbuthnot.”

“Oh!” said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. “Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.”

“Exactly,” said Poirot.

He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo²⁵ on the table. Then he looked up.

“Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,” he said. “In the compartment of Mr. Ratchett I found apipe cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.”

“You think—?”

“He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.”

“So you think it possible—”

Poirot shook his head violently.

“That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable²⁶, slightly stupid, uprightEnglishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, howimpossible it is?”

“That is the psychology²⁷,” said M. Bouc.

“And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not thesignature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.”

This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.

 

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