“You are right,” he announced. “Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest that somebody did; but if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s intention.”
He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over the frame.
“No fingerprints at all,” he said. “That means it: has been wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints they would have told us very little. They would have been those of Mr. Ratchett or his valet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.
“And that being so,” he added cheerfully, “we might as well shut the window. Positively it is the cold storage in here!”
He suited the action to the word and then turned his attention for the first time to the motionless figure lying in the bunk.
Ratchett lay on his back. His pyjama jacket, stained with rusty patches, had been unbuttoned and thrown back.
“I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see,” explained the doctor.
Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.
“It is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?”
“I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be capable of causing death.”
Something in the doctor’s tone caught Poirot’s attention. He looked at him sharply. The little Greek was standing staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.
“Something strikes you as odd, does it not?” he asked gently. “Speak, my friend. There is something here that puzzles you?”
“You are right,” acknowledged the other.
“What is it?”
“You see these two wounds—here and here—” He pointed. “They are deep. Each cut must have severed blood vessels—and yet the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected.”
“Which suggests?”
“That the man was already dead—some little time dead—when they were delivered. But that is surely absurd.”
“It would seem so,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Unless our murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished his job properly and came back to make quite sure—but that is manifestly absurd! Anything else?”
“Well, just one thing.”
“And that?”
“You see this wound here—under the right arm—near the right shoulder. Take this pencil of mine. Could you deliver such a blow?”
Poirot poised his hand.
“Précisément,” he said. “I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult, almost impossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with the left hand—”
“Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”
“So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”
“As you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed.”
“Two people. We are back at two people again,” murmured the detective. He asked abruptly: “Was the electric light on?”
“It is difficult to say. You see, 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 roll-back bed-head light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.
“Eh bien,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer, as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done, and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez-vous de ça?”
“Magnificent!” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.
The other’s eyes twinkled.
“You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”
“What other explanation can there be?”
“That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence, or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”