Murder on the Orient Express - Agatha Christie [75]
She wept with more vehemence than ever.
Poirot continued to pat her gently on the shoulder.
‘There—there—I comprehend—I comprehend everything—everything, I tell you. I will ask you no more questions. It is enough that you have admitted what I know to be the truth. I understand, I tell you.’
By now inarticulate with sobs, Greta Ohlsson rose and groped her way blindly towards the door. As she reached it she collided with a man coming in.
It was the valet—Masterman.
He came straight up to Poirot and spoke in his usual, quiet, unemotional voice.
‘I hope I’m not intruding, sir. I thought it best to come along at once, sir, and tell you the truth. I was Colonel Armstrong’s batman in the war, sir, and afterwards I was his valet in New York. I’m afraid I concealed that fact this morning. It was very wrong of me, sir, and I thought I’d better come and make a clean breast of it. But I hope, sir, that you’re not suspecting Tonio in any way. Old Tonio, sir, wouldn’t hurt a fly. And I can swear positively that he never left the carriage all last night. So, you see, sir, he couldn’t have done it. Tonio may be a foreigner, sir, but he’s a very gentle creature—not like those nasty murdering Italians one reads about.’
He stopped.
Poirot looked steadily at him.
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘That is all, sir.’
He paused, then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic little bow, and after a momentary hesitation left the dining-car in the same quiet, unobtrusive fashion as he had come.
‘This,’ said Dr Constantine, ‘is more wildly improbable than any roman policier I have ever read.’
‘I agree,’ said M. Bouc. ‘Of the twelve passengers in that coach, nine have been proved to have had a connection with the Armstrong case. What next, I ask you? Or, should I say, who next?’
‘I can almost give you the answer to your question,’ said Poirot. ‘Here comes our American sleuth, M. Hardman.’
‘Is he, too, coming to confess?’
Before Poirot could reply, the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at them and, sitting down, he drawled out:
‘Just exactly what’s up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.’
Poirot twinkled at him:
‘Are you quite sure, Mr Hardman, that you yourself were not the gardener at the Armstrong home?’
‘They didn’t have a garden,’ replied Mr Hardman literally.
‘Or the butler?’
‘Haven’t got the fancy manner for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with the Armstrong house—but I’m beginning to believe I’m about the only one on this train who hadn’t! Can you beat it—that’s what I say? Can you beat it?’
‘It is certainly a little surprising,’ said Poirot mildly.
‘C’est rigolo,’ burst from M. Bouc.
‘Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, M. Hardman?’ inquired Poirot.
‘No, sir. It’s got me beat. I don’t know how to figure it out. They can’t all be in it; but which one is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this, that’s what I want to know?’
‘I just guessed.’
‘Then, believe me, you’re a pretty slick guesser. Yes, I’ll tell the world you’re a slick guesser.’
Mr Hardman leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly.
‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘but no one would believe it to look at you. I take off my hat to you. I do, indeed.’
‘You are too kind, M. Hardman.’
‘Not at all. I’ve got to hand it to you.’
‘All the same,’ said Poirot, ‘the problem is not yet quite solved. Can we say with authority that we know who killed M. Ratchett?’
‘Count me out,’ said Mr Hardman. ‘I’m not saying anything at all. I’m just full of natural admiration. What about the other two you’ve not had a guess at yet? The old American dame and the lady’s-maid? I suppose we can take it that they’re the only innocent parties on the train?’
‘Unless,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘we can fit them