Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie (best free ereader .TXT) 📕

the Italian and the valet.

 

 

He wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, and a flashy tie-pin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered the dining-car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with a good-humoured expression.

 

 

"Morning, gentlemen," he said. "What can I do for you?"

 

 

 

"You have heard of this murder, Mr - er - Hardman?"

 

 

 

"Sure." He shifted the chewing gum deftly.

 

 

 

"We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train."

 

 

 

"That's all right by me. Guess that's the only way to tackle the job."

 

 

 

Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him.

 

 

 

"You are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject, forty-one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?"

 

 

"O.K. That's me."

 

 

 

you are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?"

 

 

 

"That's so."

"Reason?"

 

 

 

"Business."

 

 

 

"Do you always travel first-class, Mr Hardman?"

 

 

 

"Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses." He winked.

 

 

 

"Now, Mr Hardman, we come to the events of last night."

 

 

 

The American nodded.

 

 

 

"What can you tell us about the matter?"

 

 

 

"Exactly nothing at all."

 

 

 

"Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr Hardman, you will tell us exactly what you did last night from dinner onwards?"

 

 

For the first time the American did not seem ready with his reply. At last he said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who are you? Put me wise."

 

 

"This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body."

 

 

"And you yourself?"

 

 

 

"I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter."

"I've heard of you," said Mr Hardman. He reflected a minute or two longer. "Guess I'd better come clean."

 

 

"It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know," said Poirot drily.

 

 

"You'd have said a mouthful if there was anything I did know. But I don't. I know nothing at all - just as I said. But I ought to know something. That's what makes me sore. I ought to."

 

 

"Please explain, Mr Hardman."

 

 

 

Mr Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person. The resonant nasal tones of his voice became modified.

 

 

"That passport's a bit of bluff," he said. "That's who I really am."

 

 

 

Poirot scrutinised the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered over his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Cyrus B. Hardman

 

 

 

 

 

McNeil's Detective Agency

 

 

 

NewYork City

 

Poirot knew the name as that of one of the best-known and most reputable private detective agencies in New York.

 

 

"Now, Mr Hardman," he said, "let us hear the meaning of this."

 

 

 

"Sure. Things came about this way. I'd come over to Europe trailing a couple of crooks - nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Stamboul. I wired the Chief and got his instructions to return, and I would have been making my tracks back to little old New York when I got this."

 

 

He pushed across a letter.

 

 

 

 

 

The Tokatlian Hotel

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Sir:

 

 

 

 

 

You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency. Kindly report at my suite at four o'clock this afternoon.

 

 

 

 

S.E. Ratchett

"Eh bien?"

 

 

 

"I reported at the time stated, and Mr Ratchett put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he'd got."

 

 

"He was alarmed?"

 

 

 

"Pretended not to be, but he was rattled, all right. He put up a proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train, and in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn't look any too good for me."

 

 

"Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?"

 

 

 

"Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his. Well, that blew up right at the start. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that's neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining-car in front of the Stamboul sleeping-car, and the door onto the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear-end door to the platform, or along the train from the rear, and in either case he'd have to pass right by my compartment."

 

 

"You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant?"

"Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr Ratchett described him to me."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

 

All three men leaned forward eagerly.

 

 

 

Hardman went on.

 

 

 

"A small man - dark - with a womanish kind of voice. That's what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn't think it would be the first night out, More likely the second or third."

 

 

"He knew something," said M. Bouc.

 

 

 

"He certainly knew more than he told his secretary," commented Poirot thoughtfully. "Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?"

 

 

"No, he was kinda reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it."

 

 

"A small man - dark - with a womanish voice," repeated Poirot thoughtfully. Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he asked: "You knew who he really was, of course?"

 

 

"Which, Mister?"

 

 

 

"Ratchett. You recognised him?"

"I don't get you."

 

 

 

"Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer."

 

 

 

Mr Hardman gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

 

 

 

"That certainly is some surprise!" he said. "Yes, sir! No, I didn't recognise him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn't recognise my own mother when a newspaper photographer got through with her. Well, I don't doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right."

 

 

Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description: small - dark - womanish voice?"

 

 

Hardman reflected a minute or two. "It's hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone connected with that case is dead."

 

 

"There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember."

 

 

"Sure. That's a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe she had some Wop relations. But you've got to remember that there were other cases besides the Armstrong one. Cassetti had been running this kidnapping stunt for some time. You can't concentrate on that only."

"Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Armstrong case."

 

 

Mr Hardman cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The American shook his head.

 

 

"I can't call to mind anybody answering that description in the Armstrong case," he said slowly. "But of course I wasn't in it and didn't know much about it."

 

 

"Well, continue your narrative, Mr Hardman."

 

 

 

"There's very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and stayed awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious happened the first night. Last night was the same, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar and watched. No stranger passed."

 

 

"You are sure of that, Mr Hardman?"

 

 

 

"I'm plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside, and nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I'll take my oath on that."

 

 

"Could you see the conductor from your position?"

 

 

 

"Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door."

 

 

 

"Did he leave that seat at all after the train stopped at Vincovci?"

"That was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple of bells

 

that would be just after the train came to a halt for good. Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach - was there about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about - felt a mite nervous, you understand - but it was only the American dame. She was raising hell about something or other, I grinned. Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone. After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody's bed up. I don't think he stirred after that until about five o'clock this morning."

 

 

"Did he doze off at all?"

 

 

 

"That I can't say. He may have."

 

 

 

Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the official card once more.

 

 

"Be so good as just to initial this," he said.

 

 

 

The other complied.

 

 

 

"There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, Mr Hardman?"

 

 

"On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young MacQueen. I know him well enough - I've seen him in his father's office in New York. But that's not to say he'll remember me from a

crowd of other operatives. No, Mr Poirot, you'll have to wait and cable New York when the snow lets up. But it's O.K. I'm not telling the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have met you, Mr Poirot."

 

 

Poirot proffered his cigarette case. "But perhaps you prefer a pipe?"

 

 

"Not me." He helped himself, then strode briskly off.

 

 

 

The three men looked at each other.

 

 

 

"You think he is genuine?" asked Dr Constantine.

 

 

 

"Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easy to disprove."

 

 

"He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence," said M.

 

Bouc.

 

 

 

"Yes, indeed."

 

 

 

"A small man - dark - with a high-pitched voice," said M. Bouc thoughtfully.

 

 

"A description which applies to no one on the train," said Poirot.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10

THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining-car with a swift, cat-like tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny-looking and swarthy.

 

 

He spoke French well and fluently with only a slight accent.

 

 

 

"Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?"

 

 

 

"Yes, Monsieur."

 

 

 

"You are, I see, a naturalised American subject?"

 

 

 

The American grinned. "Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business."

 

 

"You are an agent for Ford motor cars?"

 

 

 

"Yes, you see -"

 

 

 

A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it anything that the three men did not know about Foscarelli's business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States and most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed out.

His good-natured, childish face beamed with satisfaction as, with a last eloquent gesture, he paused 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