“You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, 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, as you perceive, it worries me.”
He sighed and bent over the little table examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmured to himself, “What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman’s hat-box.”
Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case Poirot gave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor.
The man arrived at a run.
“How many women are there in this coach?”
The conductor counted on his fingers.
“One, two, three—six, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Swedish lady, the young English lady, the Countess Andrenyi, and Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff and her maid.”
Poirot considered.
“They all have hat-boxes, yes?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s-maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that occurs to you.”
“That will be all right, Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment.”
“Then be quick.”
The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the maid, and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady’s and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire-netting.
“Ah, here is what we need! About fifteen years ago hat-boxes were made like this. You skewered through the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire-netting.”
As he spoke he was skillfully removing two of the attached humps. Then he repacked the hat-box and told the conductor to return both boxes where they belonged.
When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.
“See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are really what they seem to be?”
“I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot.”
“Well, to give you an example—we find a woman’s handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Or did a man, committing the crime, say to himself: ‘I will make this look like a woman’s crime. I will stab my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows feeble and ineffective, and I will drop this handkerchief where no one can miss it’? That is one possibility. Then there is another. Did a woman kill him, and did she deliberately drop a pipe-cleaner to make it look like a man’s work? Or are we seriously to suppose that two people, a man and a woman, were separately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to his or her identity? It is a little too much of a coincidence, that!”
“But where does the hat-box come in?” asked the doctor, still puzzled.
“Ah! I am coming to that. As I say, these clues—the watch stopped at a quarter past one, the handkerchief, the pipe-cleaner—they may be genuine, or they may be faked. As to that I cannot yet tell. But there is one clue here which—though again I may be wrong—I believe has not been faked. I mean this flat match, M. le docteur. I believe that that match was used by the murderer, not by Mr. Ratchett. It was used to burn an incriminating paper of some kind. Possibly a note. If so, there was something in that note, some mistake, some error, that left a possible clue to the assailant. I am going to try to discover what that something was.”