“Nos. 4 and 5,” murmured Poirot.
“Exactly—the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up there. I smoke and read. The little Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells very strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning.”
“Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?”
“I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the corridor—one wakes up automatically thinking it is the customs examination at some frontier.”
“Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus against him?”
“I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish.”
“You smoke, you say—a pipe, cigarettes, cigar?”
“Cigarettes only.”
Poirot proffered one, which he accepted.
“Have you ever been to Chicago?” inquired M. Bouc.
“Oh! yes—a fine city—but I know best New York, Cleveland, Detroit. You have been to the States? No? You should go. It—”
Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.
“If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please.”
The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose, his smile as engaging as ever.
“That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could get out of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall lose the business.” He departed.
Poirot looked at his friend.
“He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians.”
“Ça se voit,” said Poirot with a smile “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.”
“And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?”
“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. it is not—how shall I express it?—a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain—”
He picked up the last two passports.
“Let us now,” he said, “see Miss Mary Debenham.”
11
THE EVIDENCE OF MISS DEBENHAM
When Mary Debenham entered the dining-car she confirmed Poirot’s previous estimate of her. She was very neatly dressed in a little black suit with a French grey shirt, and the smooth waves of her dark head were neat and unruffled. Her manner was as calm and unruffled as her hair.
She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.
“Your name is Mary Hermione Debenham and you are twenty-six years of age?” began Poirot.
“Yes.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?”
She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.
“And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?”
“I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept.”
“Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?”
The question was clearly unexpected. Her grey eyes widened a little.
“I don’t quite understand you?”
“It was a perfectly simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that a crime should have been committed on this train?”
“I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed.”
“A crime—it is all in the day’s work to you, eh?”
“It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen,” said Mary Debenham quietly.
“You are very Anglo-Saxon, Mademoiselle. Vous n’éprouvez pas d’émotion.”
She smiled a little. “I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day.”
“They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare.”
“Oh! certainly.”
“You were not acquainted with the dead man?”