Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [41]
‘That passport’s a bit of bluff,’ he said. ‘That’s who I really am.’
Poirot scrutinized the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered over his shoulder.
Mr CYRUS B. HARDMAN
McNeil’s Detective Agency,
NEW YORK.
Poirot knew the name. It was one of the best known and most reputable private detective agencies in New York.
‘Now, Mr Hardman,’ he said. ‘Let us hear the meaning of this.’
‘Sure. Things came about this way. I’d come over to Europe trailing a couple of crooks—nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Stamboul. I wired the Chief and got his instructions to return, and Iwould have been making my tracks back to little old New York when I got this.’
He pushed across a letter.
The heading at the top was the Tokatlian Hotel.
Dear Sir,—You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency. Kindly report to my suite at four o’clock this afternoon.
It was signed ‘S.E. Ratchett.’
‘Eh bien?’
‘I reported at the time stated and Mr Ratchett put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he’d got.’
‘He was alarmed?’
‘Pretended not to be, but he was rattled all right. He put up a proposition to me. I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train and, in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn’t look any too good for me.’
‘Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?’
‘Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his—well, that was blown upon straight away. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a bit of a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that’s neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining-car in front of the Stamboul sleeping-car, the door on to the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear end door to the platform or along the train from the rear—in either case he’d have to pass right by my compartment.’
‘You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant.’
‘Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr Ratchett described him to me.’
‘What?’
All three men leaned forward eagerly.
Hardman went on:
‘A small man, dark, with a womanish kind of voice—that’s what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn’t think it would be the first night out. More likely the second or third.’
‘He knew something,’ said M. Bouc.
‘He certainly knew more than he told his secretary,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?’
‘No, he was kinder reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it.’
‘A small man—dark—with a womanish voice,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.
Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he said:
‘You knew who he really was, of course?’
‘Which, mister?’
‘Ratchett. You recognized him?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer.’
Mr Hardman gave way to a prolonged whistle.
‘That certainly is some surprise!’ he said. ‘Yes, sir! No, I didn’t recognize him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her. Well, I don’t doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right.’
‘Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description—small, dark, womanish voice?’
Hardman reflected a minute or two.
‘It’s hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone to do with that case is dead.’
‘There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember.’
‘Sure. That’s a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe