Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.
“Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?”
Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.
“No,” he said at last. “I did not.”
“Why.”
“I can’t exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner.” He paused, then said: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One further question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”
“Last evening about—” he thought for a minute—“ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him.”
“On what subject?”
“Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What had been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”
“And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”
“On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”
“There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. MacQueen. Were you on good terms with your employer?”
The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.
“This is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back. In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.’ Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms.”
“Perhaps, Mr. MacQueen, you will give me your full name and your address in America.”
MacQueen gave his name—Hector Willard MacQueen—and an address in New York.
Poirot leaned back against the cushions.
“That is all for the present, Mr. MacQueen,” he said. “I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time.”
“His valet, Masterman, will have to know.”
“He probably knows already,” said Poirot drily. “If so, try to get him to hold his tongue.”
“That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher and, as he calls it, he ‘keeps to himself.’ He has a low opinion of Americans, and no opinion at all of any other nationality.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen.”
The American left the carriage.
“Well?” demanded M. Bouc. “You believe what he says, this young man?”
“He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer, as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true, Mr. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy Mr. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion.”
“So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc jovially.
Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.
“Me, I suspect everybody till the last minute,” he said. “All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all.”
“No,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. “That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate—it suggests rather the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted—a woman.”
7
THE BODY
Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and to the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.
The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion.
“How much has been disarranged in this compartment?”
“Nothing has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination.”
Poirot nodded. He looked round him.
The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as far as it would go, and the blind was drawn up.
“Brrr,” observed Poirot.
The other smiled appreciatively.
“I did not like to close it,” he said.
Poirot examined the window carefully.