Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [40]
He rose.
‘Well, if you don’t want me any more—’
‘Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.’
The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by ‘foreigners’ had evaporated.
‘About Miss Debenham,’ he said rather awkwardly. ‘You can take it from me that she’s all right. She’s a pukka sahib.’
Flushing a little, he withdrew.
‘What,’ asked Dr Constantine with interest, ‘does a pukka sahib mean?’
‘It means,’ said Poirot, ‘that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot.’
‘Oh!’ said Dr Constantine, disappointed. ‘Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.’
‘Exactly,’ said Poirot.
He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up.
‘Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,’ he said. ‘In the compartment of M. Ratchett I found a pipe-cleaner. M. Ratchett smoked only cigars.’
‘You think—?’
‘He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Armstrong—perhaps actually did know him though he won’t admit it.’
‘So you think it possible—’
Poirot shook his head violently.
‘That is just it—it is im possible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?’
‘That is the psychology,’ said M. Bouc.
‘And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Arbuthnot. But now to our next interview.’
This time M. Bouc did not mention the Italian. But he thought of him.
Chapter 9
The Evidence of Mr Hardman
The last of the first-class passengers to be interviewed—Mr Hardman—was the big flamboyant American who had shared a table with the Italian and the valet.
He wore a somewhat loud check suit, a pink shirt, a flashy tiepin, and was rolling something round his tongue as he entered the dining-car. He had a big, fleshy, coarse-featured face, with a good-humoured expression.
‘Morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You have heard of this murder, Mr—er—Hardman?’
‘Sure.’
He shifted the chewing gum deftly.
‘We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train.’
‘That’s all right by me. Guess that’s the only way to tackle the job.’
Poirot consulted the passport lying in front of him.
‘You are Cyrus Bethman Hardman, United States subject, forty-one years of age, travelling salesman for typewriting ribbons?’
‘O.K., that’s me.’
‘You are travelling from Stamboul to Paris?’
‘That’s so.’
‘Reason?’
‘Business.’
‘Do you always travel first-class, Mr Hardman?’
‘Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.’
He winked.
‘Now, Mr Hardman, we come to the events of last night.’
The American nodded.
‘What can you tell us about the matter?’
‘Exactly nothing at all.’
‘Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr Hardman, you will tell us exactly what you did last night, from dinner onwards?’
For the first time the American did not seem ready with his reply. At last he said:
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but just who are you? Put me wise.’
‘This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body.’
‘And you yourself?’
‘I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter.’
‘I’ve heard of you,’ said Mr Hardman. He reflected a minute or two longer. ‘Guess I’d better come clean.’
‘It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know,’ said Poirot dryly.
‘You’d have said a mouthful if there was anything I did know. But I don’t. I know nothing at all—just as I said. But I ought to know something. That’s what makes me sore. I ought to.’
‘Please explain, Mr Hardman.’
Mr Hardman sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person. The resonant nasal tones of