Murder on the Orient Express / Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе». Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
felt he was a cruel and dangerous man.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One more question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”
“Last evening about – ” he paused for a minute – “ten o'clock, I would say. I went into his compartment to take down some instruction from him.”
“On what subject?”
“It was about some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia.”
“And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”
“On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. That is all for the present,” Poirot said.
The American left the carriage.
“Do you believe what this young man says?” asked M. Bouc.
“He seems honest. He did not pretend to like his employer, as he probably would have done if he had been mixed up in this.”
“So one person at least is innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc cheerfully.
“I suspect everybody till the last minute,” Poirot said. “But yes, I cannot see how MacQueen could lose his head and stab his victim twelve or fourteen times.”
“No,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. “It's more like the Latin temperament. Or, as our friend the chief of the train insisted – a woman.”
Chapter VII
The Body
Poirot and Dr. Constantine went to the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The window was still open. Poirot examined the window carefully.
“You are right,” he said. “Nobody left the carriage this way.”
He examined the frame of the window carefully.
“No fingerprints at all,” he said. “Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.”
Then he turned his attention to the body of the murdered man.
“How many wounds are there exactly?”
“I make it twelve. One or two are practically scratches. Just three were fatal.”
The doctor frowned suddenly.
“What is it?” asked Poirot.
“These two wounds,” The doctor pointed. “They are deep, but they have not bled.”
“What does that mean?”
“That the man was already dead when the stabs were made.”
“Anything else?” asked Poirot.
“Well, the wound near the right shoulder. The blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”
“So, our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”
“Yes, M. Poirot. Some of the other blows are righthanded.”
“So, two people,” murmured the detective. He asked suddenly, “Was the electric light on?”
“It is difficult to say. It is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o'clock.”
“The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.
He examined the switch of the top light and also the bedhead light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The second Murderer came in in the dark and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. What do you think?”
“Excellent!” the little doctor said.
“It seems a little like nonsense to me.”
“Can there be any other explanation?”
“That is what I am asking myself. What else can show that two people have been mixed up in this?”
“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows are very weak, like scratches. But great strength was needed for two others.”
“You think they were struck by a man?”
“Most certainly.”
“It could not have been a woman?”
“It might have been a young, athletic woman, driven by a strong emotion, but, in my opinion, it is highly unlikely.”
Poirot was silent a moment or two.
“The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength – he was weak – it was a woman – it was a right-handed person – it was a left-handed person. It's just ridiculous!” He spoke with sudden anger. “And the victim – what does he do? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?”
He drew out the automatic pistol from under the pillow.
“Fully loaded, you see,” he said.
They looked round them. On the small table formed by the lid of the washbasin were various objects, an empty glass and an ash-tray among them. There was the butt of a cigar in it and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.
The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.
“That is why there was no struggle – the victim was drugged,” he said quietly.
Poirot picked up the two matches and examined them carefully. One of them was flatter than the other. He felt the pockets of Ratchett's clothing and pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones.
“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said.
“Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”
No other matches were found, but from the floor Poirot picked up a small cambric handkerchief with an initial embroidered in the corner – H.
“Our friend the chief of the train was right,” said the doctor. “There is a woman mixed up in this.”
“And she leaves her handkerchief marked with an initial to make things easier for us. Exactly as it happens in the books and films!” said Poirot.
Before the doctor could say anything, he again picked up something from the floor. This time it was a pipe-cleaner.
There was no pipe in any of Mr. Ratchett's pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.
“It is a clue,” the doctor said.
“A masculine clue, this time. One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”
“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”
“I wonder why,” Poirot thought.
At this moment the doctor pulled out a gold watch from the breast pocket of the dead man's pyjama.
The case was badly damaged, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.
“You see?” cried Dr. Constantine. “This gives us the hour of the crime. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o'clock. Here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”
“It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”
The doctor looked at him curiously. “You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”
“I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all. And it worries me.”
He sighed and started examining the charred fragment of paper in the