Free Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie Page B

look out on the snow.”
    â€œProbably,” said Poirot.
    He tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.
    â€œMonsieur does not blame me?” said the man timidly.
    Poirot smiled on him kindly.
    â€œYou have had the evil chance, my friend,” he said. “Ah! One other point while I remember it. You said that another bell rangjust as you were knocking at M. Ratchett’s door. In fact, I heard it myself. Whose was it?”
    â€œIt was the bell of Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff. She desired me to summon her maid.”
    â€œAnd you did so?”
    â€œYes, Monsieur.”
    Poirot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head.
    â€œThat is all,” he said, “for the moment.”
    â€œThank you, Monsieur.”
    The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc.
    â€œDo not distress yourself,” said the latter kindly. “I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part.”
    Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.

Two
T HE E VIDENCE OF THE S ECRETARY
    F or a minute or two Poirot remained lost in thought.
    â€œI think,” he said at last, “that it would be well to have a further word with M. MacQueen, in view of what we now know.”
    The young American appeared promptly.
    â€œWell,” he said, “how are things going?”
    â€œNot too badly. Since our last conversation I have learnt something—the identity of M. Ratchett.”
    Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly.
    â€œYes?” he said.
    â€œRatchett, as you suspected, was merely an alias. Ratchett was Cassetti, the man who ran the celebrated kidnapping stunts—including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.”
    An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen’s face; then it darkened.
    â€œThe damned skunk!” he exclaimed.
    â€œYou had no idea of this, M. MacQueen?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said the young American decidedly. “If I had I’dhave cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!”
    â€œYou feel strongly about the matter, M. MacQueen?”
    â€œI have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, M. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once—she was a lovely woman. So gentle and heartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett or Cassetti is the man. I’m rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn’t fit to live!”
    â€œYou almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?”
    â€œI do. I—” He paused, then flushed rather guiltily. “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.”
    â€œI should be more inclined to suspect you, M. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer’s decease.”
    â€œI don’t think I could do that, even to save myself from the chair,” said MacQueen grimly.
    Then he added:
    â€œIf I’m not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s identity, I mean.”
    â€œBy a fragment of a letter found in his compartment.”
    â€œBut surely—I mean—that was rather careless of the old man?”
    â€œThat depends,” said Poirot, “on the point of view.”
    The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.
    â€œThe task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of everyone on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand? It is only a matter of routine.”
    â€œSure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can.”
    â€œI need hardly ask you the number of your compartment,” said Poirot, smiling, “since I shared it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure you had it to yourself.”
    â€œThat’s