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.