Free Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

him.
    There was a tap on the door, and the restaurant attendant entered.
    â€œThe restaurant car is free now, Monsieur,” he said.
    â€œWe will go there,” said M. Bouc, rising.
    â€œI may accompany you?” asked Constantine.
    â€œCertainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?”
    â€œNot at all. Not at all,” said Poirot.
    After a little politeness in the matter of procedure, “Après vous, Monsieur.” “Mais non, après vous,” they left the compartment.

One
T HE E VIDENCE OF THE W AGON L IT C ONDUCTOR
    I n the restaurant car all was in readiness.
    Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle.
    On the table in front of Poirot was a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in in red ink.
    The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There was writing paper, ink, pen and pencils.
    â€œExcellent,” said Poirot. “We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. You probably know something about the man. What character has he? Is he a man in whose word you would place reliance?”
    â€œI should say so most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for over fifteen years. He is a Frenchman—lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains.”
    Poirot nodded comprehendingly.
    â€œGood,” he said. “Let us see him.”
    Pierre Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still extremely nervous.
    â€œI hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part,” he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. “It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?”
    Having soothed the man’s fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel’s name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease.
    â€œAnd now,” went on Poirot, “let us come to the events of last night. M. Ratchett retired to bed—when?”
    â€œAlmost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we left Belgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.”
    â€œDid anybody go into his compartment afterwards?”
    â€œHis valet, Monsieur, and the young American gentleman his secretary.”
    â€œAnyone else?”
    â€œNo, Monsieur, not that I know of.”
    â€œGood. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?”
    â€œNo, Monsieur. You forget, he rang his bell about twenty to one—soon after we had stopped.”
    â€œWhat happened exactly?”

    â€œI knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made a mistake.”
    â€œIn English or in French?”
    â€œIn French.”
    â€œWhat were his words exactly?”
    â€œCe n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.”
    â€œQuite right,” said Poirot. “That is what I heard. And then you went away?”
    â€œYes, Monsieur.”
    â€œDid you go back to your seat?”
    â€œNo, Monsieur, I went first to answer another bell that had just rung.”
    â€œNow, Michel, I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?”
    â€œI, Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end—facing up the corridor.”
    â€œYou are sure?”
    â€œ Mais oui —at least—”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI went into the next coach, the Athens coach, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some time soon after one o’clock. I cannot say exactly.”
    â€œAnd you returned—when?”
    â€œOne of my bells rang,