Murder on the Orient Express / Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе». Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
have, perhaps, something to add to your knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchett told me yesterday that his life was in danger.”
“Then it is not a woman. It is a 'gangster' or a 'gunman',” said M. Bouc.
The chief of the train was disappointed that his theory had come to nothing.
“If so,” said Poirot, “it has been done very amateurishly.”
In M. Bouc's opinion, a large American in terrible clothes, who chews the gum (and that is not done in good society), might be the murderer.
The sleeping-car conductor said it was impossible.
“I would have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”
“You might not. But we will go into that later. The question is, what to do?” He looked at Poirot.
Poirot looked back at him.
“I know your abilities, my friend,” said M. Bouc. “Take command of this investigation! Please, do not refuse. It is very important for my Company. It will be so simple if by the time the Jugoslavian police arrive, we can say 'A murder has occurred – this is the criminal!' Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences.”
“And suppose I do not solve the mystery?”
“Ah, my dear!” M. Bouc said gently. “This is the ideal case for you. Have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Use (as you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind – and you will know! I have faith in you!”
He looked affectionately at the detective.
“I'm touched by your faith, my friend,” said Poirot emotionally. “In truth, this problem intrigues me. Instead of many hours of boredom while we are stuck here, a problem lies ready to my hand.”
Poirot agreed to take the case and asked for the plan of the Istanbul – Calais carriage, with a note of the people who occupied the several compartments, and he also wanted to see their passports and their tickets. The conductor went to fetch them.
Poirot asked about other passengers on the train. From what he was told it seemed that the murderer could only be in the Istanbul – Calais carriage.
The doctor said, “At half an hour after midnight we ran into the snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then.”
M. Bouc said solemnly, “The murderer is with us – on the train now…”
Chapter VI
A Woman
First of all, Poirot wanted to talk to young Mr. MacQueen. “He may be able to give us valuable information.”
M. Bouc asked the chief of the train to invite Mr. MacQueen to come to their compartment.
The conductor returned with passports and tickets. M. Bouc took them from him and told him to go back to his post.
“We will take your evidence formally later,” he said.
“Very good, Monsieur,” said Michel, and left the carriage.
The chief of the train returned with Hector MacQueen.
M. Bouc rose. “We are a little crowded here,” he said pleasantly. “Take my seat, Mr. MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you – so.”
He turned to the chief of the train and told him to ask all the passengers leave the restaurant car free for M. Poirot.
“You will conduct your interviews there, my dear?”
“It would be the most convenient, yes,” agreed Poirot.
“What's up on the train? Has anything happened?” MacQueen looked from one man to another.
Poirot nodded. “Yes. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!”
MacQueen didn't show any sign of shock. He just whistled, and his eyes grew a bit brighter.
“So they got him after all,” he said.
“You suppose,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?”
“That's just what I thought,” MacQueen said slowly. “Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was so strong.”
“No, no,” said Poirot. “Your supposition was quite right.
M. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I would like to know why you were so sure it was murder.”
MacQueen didn't answer at once. “I must understand,” he said, “who you are exactly.”
“I represent the Sleeping-cars International Company.” Poirot paused, then added, “I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot.”
His words didn't produce the effect he expected.
“You know the name, perhaps?”
“Well, it seems familiar. Only I always thought it was a woman's dressmaker.”
Hercule Poirot looked at him with dislike. “It is incredible!”
Poirot began to ask his questions. From MacQueen's answers he learnt that the young man had become Ratchett's secretary in Persia over a year ago. He had come to Persia from New York on business, but things had gone badly for him. Mr. Ratchett was in the same hotel. He had just parted with his secretary and offered the job to MacQueen.
“And since then?”
“We've travelled a lot. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world, but he didn't know any foreign language. I acted more as a courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life.”
“Now tell me as much as you can about your employer.”
The young man said it was not easy.
“I know that his full name is Samuel Edward Ratchett, that he was an American citizen”
“What else do you know?”
“In fact, Mr. Poirot, I know nothing at all! Mr. Ratchett never spoke of himself, of his relatives, or of his life in America.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I don't know. He might be ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are.”
“You must have formed some theory, Mr. MacQueen.”
“Well, I don't believe Ratchett was his real name. I think he left America in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful – until a few weeks ago when he began to get threatening letters. The first letter came a fortnight ago.”
“Were these letters destroyed?”
“No, I think I've got a couple still in my files.”
Poirot asked MacQueen to bring those letters. In a few minutes he laid down two letters before Poirot.
The first letter ran as follows:
Thought you'd escape, did you? Never. We're out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!
There was no signature.
Poirot read the second letter.
We're going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We're going to GET you – see?
“The style is monotonous!” Poirot said. “But not the handwriting.”
MacQueen looked surprised.
“This letter,” explained Poirot, “was not written by one person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons wrote it – one letter of a word was written by one person, another letter was written by another persion. Also, the letters are printed. It is much more difficult to identify the handwriting that way.”
Poirot asked then what Ratchett's reaction to the first letter was. MacQueen said that he had laughed quietly, but he had shivered slightly.
Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.
“Mr.