“No, sir.”
“Did you know that your master had enemies?”
“Yes, sir.” The man spoke quite unemotionally.
“How did you know?”
“I had heard him discussing some letters, sir, with Mr. MacQueen.”
“Had you an affection for your employer, Masterman?”
Masterman’s face became, if possible, even more inexpressive than it was normally.
“I should hardly like to say that, sir. He was a generous employer.”
“But you didn’t like him?”
“Shall we put it that I don’t care very much for Americans, sir?”
“Have you ever been in America?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember reading in the paper of the Armstrong kidnapping case?”
A little colour came into the man’s cheeks.
“Yes, indeed, sir. A little baby girl, wasn’t it? A very shocking affair.”
“Did you know that your employer, Mr. Ratchett, was the principal instigator in that affair?”
“No, indeed, sir.” The valet’s tone held positive warmth and feeling for the first time. “I can hardly believe it, sir.”
“Nevertheless, it is true. Now, to pass to your own movements last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you do after leaving your master?”
“I told Mr. MacQueen, sir, that the master wanted him. Then I went to my own compartment and read.”
“Your compartment was—”
“The end second-class one, sir. Next to the dining-car.”
Poirot was looking at his plan.
“I see—and you had which berth?”
“The lower one, sir.”
“That is No. 4?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anyone in with you?”
“Yes, sir. A big Italian fellow.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Well, a kind of English, sir.” The valet’s tone was deprecating. “He’s been in America—Chicago, I understand.”
“Do you and he talk together much?”
“No, sir. I prefer to read.”
Poirot smiled. He could visualize the scene—the large, voluble Italian, and the snub direct administered by the gentleman’s gentleman.
“And what, may I ask, are you reading?” he inquired.
“At present, sir, I am reading Love’s Captive, by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.”
“A good story?”
“I find it highly enjoyable, sir.”
“Well, let us continue. You returned to your compartment and read Love’s Captive till—when?”
“At about ten thirty, sir, this Italian wanted to go to bed. So the conductor came and made the beds up.”
“And then you went to bed and to sleep?”
“I went to bed, sir, but I didn’t sleep.”
“Why didn’t you sleep?”
“I had the toothache, sir.”
“Oh, là-là—that is painful.”
“Most painful, sir.”
“Did you do anything for it?”
“I applied a little oil of cloves, sir, which relieved the pain a little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the light on above my head and continued to read—to take my mind off, as it were.”
“And did you not go to sleep at all?”
“Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning.”
“And your companion?”
“The Italian fellow? Oh, he just snored.”
“He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you hear anything during the night?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Nothing unusual, I mean. The train being at a standstill made it all very quiet.”
Poirot was silent a moment or two. Then he spoke.
“Well, I think there is very little more to be said. You cannot throw any light upon the tragedy?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, sir.”
“As far as you know, was there any quarrel or bad blood between your master and Mr. MacQueen?”
“Oh! no, sir. Mr. MacQueen was a very pleasant gentleman.”
“Where were you in service before you came to Mr. Ratchett?”
“With Sir Henry Tomlinson, sir, in Grosvenor Square.”
“Why did you leave him?”
“He was going to East Africa, sir, and did not require my services any longer. But I am sure he will speak for me, sir. I was with him some years.”
“And you have been with Mr. Ratchett—how long?”
“Just over nine months, sir.”
“Thank you, Masterman. By the way, are you a pipe-smoker?”
“No, sir. I only smoke cigarettes—gaspers, sir.”
“Thank you, that will do.”
Poirot gave him a nod of dismissal.
The valet hesitated a moment.
“You’ll excuse me, sir, but the elderly American lady is in what I might describe as a state, sir. She’s saying she knows all about the murderer. She’s in a very excitable condition, sir.”