Ten

THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN

“And now,” said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, “we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and seethe¹ Italian.”

Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining car with a swift, catlike tread. His face beamed. It was atypical Italian face, sunny looking and swarthy.

He spoke² French well and fluently, with only a slight accent.

“Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“You are, I see, a naturalized American subject?”

The American grinned.

“Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business.”

“You are an agent for Ford³ motor cars?”

“Yes, you see—”

A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it, anything that the three men did not know aboutFoscarelli’s business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States andmost European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was not a man who had to haveinformation dragged from him. It gushed⁴ out.

His good-natured childish face beamed with satisfaction as with a last eloquent⁵ gesture, hepaused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“So you see,” he said, “I do big business. I am up to date. I understand salesmanship!”

“You have been in the United States, then, for the last ten years on and off?”

“Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took the boat—to go to America, so faraway! My mother, my little sister—”

Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.

“During your sojourn⁶ in the United States did you ever come across the deceased?”

“Never. But I know the type. Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers expressively⁷. “It is veryrespectable, very well dressed, but underneath⁸ it is all wrong. Out of my experience, I should sayhe was the big crook⁹. I give you my opinion for what it is worth.”

“Your opinion is quite right,” said Poirot dryly. “Ratchett was Cassetti, the kidnapper¹⁰.”

“What did I tell you? I have learned to be very acute—to read the face. It is necessary. Only inAmerica do they teach you the proper way to sell.”

“You remember the Armstrong case?

“I do not quite remember. The name, yes? It was a little girl—a baby—was it not?”

“Yes, a very tragic¹¹ affair.”

The Italian seemed the first person to demur¹² to this view.

“Ah, well, these things they happen,” he said philosophically¹³, “in a great civilization such asAmerica—”

Poirot cut him short.

“Did you ever come across any members of the Armstrong family?”

“No, I do not think so. It is difficult to say. I will give you some figures. Last year alone I sold—”

“Monsieur, pray confine yourself to the point.”

The Italian’s hands flung themselves out in a gesture of apology.

“A thousand pardons.”

“Tell me, if you please, your exact movements last night from dinner onwards.”

“With pleasure. I stay here as long as I can. It is more amusing. I talk to the Americangentleman at my table. He sells typewriter ribbons. Then I go back to my compartment¹⁴. It isempty. The miserable¹⁵ John Bull who shares it with me is away attending to his master. At last hecomes back—very long face as usual. He will not talk—says yes and no. A miserable race, theEnglish—not sympathetic. He sits in the corner, very stiff, reading a book. Then the conductorcomes and makes our beds.”

“Nos. 4 and 5,” murmured Poirot.

“Exactly—the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth¹⁶. I get up there. I smoke and read. Thelittle Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells verystrong. He lies in bed and groans¹⁷. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning¹⁸.”

“Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?”

“I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the corridor—one wakes up automaticallythinking it is the Customs examination at some frontier.”

“Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus¹⁹ against him?”

“I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish.”

“You smoke, you say—a pipe, cigarettes, cigars?”

“Cigarettes only.”

Poirot proffered²⁰ him one which he accepted.

“Have you ever been in Chicago?” inquired M. Bouc.

“Oh, yes—a fine city—but I know best New York, Washington, Detroit. You have been to theStates? No? You should go, it—”

Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.

“If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please.”

The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose—his smile was as engaging as ever.

“That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could getout of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan—” He shook his head sadly. “I shall lose thebusiness.”

He departed.

Poirot looked at his friend.

“He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use theknife! And they are great liars²¹! I do not like Italians.”

“?a se voit,” said Poirot with a smile. “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out toyou, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.”

“And what about the psychology²²? Do not Italians stab?”

“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind ofcrime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is afar-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not—how shall I express it?—a Latin crime. It is a crime thatshows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain.”

He picked up the last two passports.

“Let us now,” he said, “see Miss Mary Debenham.”

 

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