Murder on the Orient Express - Christie Agatha - Страница 17

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Dr. Constantine sniggered, and Mrs. Hubbard immediately froze him with a glance.

“He wasn’t a nice kind of man,” she said, “to say a thing like that to a lady. It’s not right to laugh at such things.” Dr. Constantine hastily apologised.

“Did you hear any noise from Mr. Ratchett’s compartment after that?” asked Poirot.

“Well – not exactly.”

“What do you mean by that, Madame?”

“Well–” She paused. “He snored.”

“Ah! – he snored, did he?”

“Terribly. The night before, it kept me awake.”

“You didn’t hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in your compartment?”

“Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead.”

“Ah, Yes, truly,” said Poirot. He appeared confused.

“Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnap ping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot-free! My, I’d have liked to get my hands on him.”

“He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.”

“You don’t mean–?” Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.

“But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.”

“Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When Mamma’s got a hunch you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’ ”

“Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?”

“No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I’ve always heard that Mrs. Armstrong was a perfectly lovely woman and that her husband worshipped her.”

“Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much – very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?”

“Why, certainly. Caroline Martha Hubbard.”

“Will you write your address down here?”

Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak. “I just can’t get over it. Cassetti – on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn’t I, Mr. Poirot?”

“Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressing-gown?”

“Mercy, what a funny question! Why, no. I’ve got two dressing-gowns with me – a pink flannel one that’s kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present – a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing-gowns for?”

“Well, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”

“Well, no one in a scarlet dressing-gown came into my compartment.”

“Then she must have gone into Mr. Ratchett’s.”

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly: “That wouldn’t surprise me any.”

Poirot leaned forward. “So you heard a woman’s voice next door?”

“I don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But – well – as a matter of fact, I did.”

“But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”

“Well, that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other–” Mrs. Hubbard got rather embarrassed. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”

“What time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”

“I can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well, that’s the kind of man he is! I’m not surprised’ – and then I went to sleep again. And I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”

“Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”

“Why, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”

“Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”

“I guess even you get kinda muddled now and then. I just can’t get over its being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say–”

Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to replace the contents of her handbag, and he then shepherded her towards the door.

At the last moment, he said:

“You have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.

“That’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”

“Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it–”

“Well, now, that’s funny, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things – not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?”

None of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.

M. Bouc was handling the button that Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.

“This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he asked. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?”

“That button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence that we have heard.”

He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him. “Ah! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.”

M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish grey bun of hair and the long, mild, sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered short-sightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.

It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers – her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.

She was, she told him, matron in a missionary school near Stamboul. She was a trained nurse.

“You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?”

“Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment.”

“I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?”

“I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake.”

“You actually saw him?”

“Yes. He was reading a book. I apologised quickly and withdrew.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

A slight flush showed on the worthy lady’s cheek.

“He laughed and said a few words. I – I did not quite catch them.”

“And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully.

“I went in to the American lady, Mrs. Hubbard. I asked her for some aspirin and she gave it to me.”

“Did she ask you whether the communicating door between her compartment and that of Mr. Ratchett was bolted?”

“Yes.”

“And was it?”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

“After that I went back to my compartment, took the aspirin, and lay down.”

“What time was all this?”

“When I got into bed it was five minutes to eleven. I know because I looked at my watch before I wound it up.”

“Did you go to sleep quickly?”

“Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time.”

“Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?”

“I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station just as I was getting drowsy.”

“That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?” He indicated it on the plan.

“That is so, yes.”

“You had the upper or the lower berth?”

“The lower berth, No. 10.”

“And you had a companion?’

“Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from Baghdad.”

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