9 poirot propounds two solutions
the passengers came crowding into the restaurant car and took their seats round the tables. they all bore more or less the same expression, one of expectancy mingled with apprehension. the swedish lady was still weeping, and mrs. hubbard was comforting her.
“now you must just take a hold on yourself, my dear. everything’s going to be perfectly all right. you mustn’t lose your grip on yourself. if one of us is a nasty murderer, we know quite well it isn’t you. why, anyone would be crazy even to think of such a thing. you sit here, and i’ll stay right by you—and don’t you worry any.” her voice died away as poirot stood up.
the wagon lit conductor was hovering in the doorway. “you permit that i stay, monsieur?”
“certainly, michel.”
poirot cleared his throat.
“messieurs et mesdames, i will speak in english since i think all of you know a little of that language. we are here to investigate the death of samuel edward ratchett—alias cassetti. there are two possible solutions of the crime. i shall put them both before you, and i shall ask m. bouc, and dr. constantine here to judge which solution is the right one.
“now you all know the facts of the case. mr. ratchett was found stabbed this morning. he was last known to be alive at 12.37 last night when he spoke to the wagon lit conductor through the door. a watch in his pyjama pocket was found to be badly dented, and it had stopped at a quarter past one. dr. constantine, who examined the body when found, puts the time of death as having been between midnight and two in the morning. at half an hour after midnight, as you all know, the train ran into a snowdrift. after that time it was impossible for anyone to leave the train.
“the evidence of mr. hardman, who is a member of a new york detective agency—” (several heads turned, to look at mr. hardman.)—“shows that no one could have passed his compartment (no. 16 at the extreme end) without being seen by him. we are therefore forced to the conclusion that the murderer is to be found among the occupants of one particular coach—the stamboul-calais coach.
“that, i will say, was our theory.”
“comment?” ejaculated m. bouc, startled.
“but i will put before you an alternative theory. it is very simple. mr. ratchett had a certain enemy whom he feared. he gave mr. hardman a description of this enemy and told him that the attempt, if made at all, would most probably be made on the second night out from stamboul.
“now i put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that mr. ratchett knew a good deal more than he told. the enemy, as mr. ratchett expected, joined the train at belgrade or else at vincovci by the door left open by colonel arbuthnot and mr. macqueen, who had just descended to the platform. he was provided with a suit of wagon lit uniform, which he wore over his ordinary clothes, and a pass-key which enabled him to gain access to mr. ratchett’s compartment in spite of the door’s being locked. mr. ratchett was under the influence of a sleeping draught. this man stabbed him with great ferocity and left the compartment through the communicating door leading to mrs. hubbard’s compartment—”
“that’s so,” said mrs. hubbard, nodding her head.
“he thrust the dagger he had used into mrs. hubbard’s sponge-bag in passing. without knowing it, he lost a button of his uniform. then he slipped out of the compartment and along the corridor. he hastily thrust the uniform into a suitcase in an empty compartment, and a few minutes later, dressed in ordinary clothes, he left the train just before it started off, using the same means for egress—the door near the dining-car.”
everybody gasped.
“what about that watch?” demanded mr. hardman.
“there you have the explanation of the whole thing. mr. ratchett had omitted to put his watch back an hour as he should have done at tzaribrod. his watch still registered eastern european time, which is one hour ahead of central european time. it was a quarter past twelve when mr. ratchett was stabbed—not a quarter past one.”
“but it is absurd, that explanation!” cried m. bouc. “what of the voice that spoke from the compartment at twenty-three minutes to one? it was either the voice of ratchett—or else that of his murderer.”
“not necessarily. it might have been—well—a third person. one who had gone in to speak to ratchett and found him dead. he rang the bell to summon the conductor; then, as you express it, the wind rose in him—he was afraid of being accused of the crime, and he spoke pretending to be ratchett.”
“c’est possible,” admitted m. bouc grudgingly.
poirot looked at mrs. hubbard. “yes, madame, you were going to say—”
“well, i don’t quite know what i was going to say. do you think i forgot to put my watch back too?”
“no, madame. i think you heard the man pass through—but unconsciously. later you had a nightmare of a man being in your compartment and woke up with a start and rang for the conductor.”
“well, i suppose that’s possible,” admitted mrs. hubbard.
princess dragomiroff was looking at poirot with a very direct glance. “how do you explain the evidence of my maid, monsieur?”
“very simply, madame. your maid recognised the handkerchief i showed her as yours. she somewhat clumsily tried to shield you. she did encounter the man, but earlier—while the train was at vincovci station. she pretended to have seen him at a later hour, with a confused idea of giving you a water-tight alibi.”
the princess bowed her head. “you have thought of everything, monsieur. i—i admire you.”
there was a silence.
then everyone jumped as dr. constantine suddenly hit the table a blow with his fist.
“but no,” he said. “no, no, and again no! that is an explanation that will not hold water. it is deficient in a dozen minor points. the crime was not committed so—m. poirot must know that perfectly well.”
poirot turned a curious glance on him. “i see,” he said, “that i shall have to give you my second solution. but do not abandon this one too abruptly. you may agree with it later.”
he turned back again to face the others.
“there is another possible solution of the crime. this is how i arrived at it.
“when i had heard all the evidence, i leaned back and shut my eyes, and began to think. certain points presented themselves to me as worthy of attention. i enumerated these points to my two colleagues. some i have already elucidated—such as a grease spot on a passport, and so on. i will run over the points that remain. the first and most important is a remark made to me by m. bouc in the restaurant car at lunch on the first day after leaving stamboul—to the effect that the company assembled was interesting because it was so varied—representing as it did all classes and nationalities.
“i agreed with him, but when this particular point came into my mind, i tried to imagine whether such an assembly was ever likely to be collected under any other conditions. and the answer i made to myself was—only in america. in america there might be a household composed of just such varied nationalities—an italian chauffeur, an english governess, a swedish nurse, a german lady’s-maid, and so on. that led me to my scheme of ‘guessing’—that is, casting each person for a certain part in the armstrong drama much as a producer casts a play. well, that gave me an extremely interesting and satisfactory result.
“i had also examined in my own mind each separate person’s evidence, with some curious results. take first the evidence of mr. macqueen. my first interview with him was entirely satisfactory. but in my second he made rather a curious remark. i had described to him the finding of a note mentioning the armstrong case. he said, ‘but surely—’ and then paused and went on, ‘i mean—that was rather careless of the old man.’
“now i could feel that that was not what he had started out to say. supposing what he had meant to say was ‘but surely that was burnt!’ in which case, macqueen knew of the note and of its destruction—in other words, he was either the murderer or an accomplice of the murderer. very good.
“then the valet. he said his master was in the habit of taking a sleeping draught when travelling by train. that might be true, but would ratchett have taken one last night? the automatic under his pillow gave the lie to that statement. ratchett intended to be on the alert last night. whatever narcotic was administered to him must have been given without his knowledge. by whom? obviously by macqueen or the valet.
“now we come to the evidence of mr. hardman. i believed all that he told me about his own identity, but when it came to the actual methods he had employed to guard mr. ratchett, his story was neither more nor less than absurd. the only way to have protected ratchett effectively was to pass the night actually in his compartment or in some spot where he could watch the door. the one thing that his evidence did show plainly was that no one in any other part of the train could possibly have murdered ratchett. it drew a clear circle round the stamboul-calais carriage. that seemed to me a rather curious and inexplicable fact, and i put it aside to think over.
“you probably all know by now of the few words i overheard between miss debenham and colonel arbuthnot. the interesting thing to my mind was the fact that colonel arbuthnot called her mary and was clearly on terms of intimacy with her. but the colonel was supposed to have met her only a few days previously. and i know englishmen of the colonel’s type—even if he had fallen in love with the young lady at first sight, he would have advanced slowly and with decorum, not rushing things. therefore i concluded that colonel arbuthnot and miss debenham were in reality well acquainted and were for some reason pretending to be strangers. another small point was miss debenham’s easy familiarity with the term ‘long distance’ for a telephone call. yet miss debenham had told me that she had never been in the states.
“to pass to another witness. mrs. hubbard had told us that lying in bed she had been unable to see whether the communicating door was bolted or not, and so had asked miss ohlsson to see for her. now—though her statement would have been perfectly true if she had been occupying compartment no. 2, 4, 12 or any even number, in which the bolt is directly under the handle of the door—in the uneven numbers such as compartment no. 3 the bolt is well above the handle and could not therefore be masked by the sponge-bag in the least. i was forced to the conclusion that mrs. hubbard was inventing an incident that had never occurred.
“and here let me say just a word or two about times. to my mind the really interesting point about the dented watch, is the place where it was found—in ratchett’s pyjama pocket, a singularly uncomfortable and unlikely place to keep one’s watch, especially as there is a watch ‘hook’ provided just by the head of the bed. i felt sure, therefore, that the watch had been deliberately placed in the pocket—faked. the crime, then, was not committed at a quarter past one.
“was it then committed earlier? to be exact, at twenty-three minutes to one? my friend m. bouc advanced as an argument in favour of it the loud cry which awoke me from sleep. but if ratchett had been heavily drugged, he could not have cried out. if he had been capable of crying out, he would have been capable of making some kind of struggle to defend himself, and there were no signs of any such struggle.
“i remembered that macqueen had called attention, not once but twice (and the second time in a very blatant manner), to the fact that ratchett could speak no french. i came to the conclusion that the whole business at twenty-three minutes to one was a comedy played for my benefit! anyone might see through the watch business—it is a common enough device in detective stories. they assumed that i should see through it and that, pluming myself on my own cleverness, i would go on to assume that since ratchett spoke no french, the voice i heard at twenty-three minutes to one could not have been his, and that ratchett must have been already dead. but i am convinced that at twenty-three minutes to one ratchett was still lying in his drugged sleep.
“but the device has succeeded! i have opened my door and looked out. i have actually heard the french phrase used. if i am so unbelievably dense as not to realise the significance of that phrase, it must be brought to my attention. if necessary, macqueen can come right out in the open. he can say, ‘excuse me, m. poirot, that can’t have been mr. ratchett speaking. he couldn’t speak french.’
“now, what was the real time of the crime? and who killed him?
“in my opinion—and this is only an opinion—ratchett was killed at some time very close upon two o’clock, the latest hour the doctor gives us as possible.
“as to who killed him—”
he paused, looking at his audience. he could not complain of any lack of attention. every eye was fixed upon him. in the stillness you could have heard a pin drop.
he went on slowly:
“i was particularly struck by the extraordinary difficulty of proving a case against any one person on the train, and by the rather curious coincidence that in each case the testimony giving an alibi came from what i might describe as an ‘unlikely’ person. thus, mr. macqueen and colonel arbuthnot provided alibis for each other—two persons between whom it seemed most unlikely there should have been any prior acquaintanceship. the same thing happened with the english valet and the italian, and with the swedish lady and the english girl. i said to myself: this is extraordinary—they cannot all be in it!
“and then, messieurs, i saw light. they were all in it. for so many people connected with the armstrong case to be travelling by the same train through coincidence was not only unlikely: it was impossible. it must be not chance, but design. i remembered a remark of colonel arbuthnot’s about trial by jury. a jury is composed of twelve people—there were twelve passengers—ratchett was stabbed twelve times. and the thing that had worried me all along—the extraordinary crowd travelling in the stamboul-calais coach at a slack time of year—this was explained.
“ratchett had escaped justice in america. there was no question as to his guilt. i visualised a self-appointed jury of twelve people who had condemned him to death and who by the exigencies of the case had themselves been forced to be his executioners. and immediately, on that assumption, the whole case fell into beautiful shining order.
“i saw it as a perfect mosaic, each person playing his or her allotted part. it was so arranged that, if suspicion should fall on any one person, the evidence of one or more of the others would clear the accused person and confuse the issue. hardman’s evidence was necessary in case some outsider should be suspected of the crime and be unable to prove an alibi. the passengers in the stamboul carriage were in no danger. every minute detail of their evidence was worked out beforehand. the whole thing was a very cleverly planned jigsaw puzzle, so arranged that every fresh piece of knowledge that came to light made the solution of the whole more difficult. as my friend m. bouc remarked, the case seemed fantastically impossible! that was exactly the impression intended to be conveyed.
“did this solution explain everything? yes, it did. the nature of the wounds—each inflicted by a different person. the artificial threatening letters—artificial since they were unreal, written only to be produced as evidence. (doubtless there were real letters, warning ratchett of his fate, which macqueen destroyed, substituting for them these others.) then hardman’s story of being called in by ratchett—a lie, of course, from beginning to end. the description of the mythical ‘small dark man with a womanish voice’—a convenient description since it had the merit of not incriminating any of the actual wagon lit conductors and would apply equally well to a man or a woman.
“the idea of stabbing is at first sight a curious one, but on reflection nothing else would fit the circumstances so well. a dagger was a weapon that could be used by everyone—strong or weak—and it made no noise. i fancy, though i may be wrong, that each person in turn entered ratchett’s darkened compartment through that of mrs. hubbard—and struck! they themselves would never know which blow actually killed him.
“the final letter which ratchett had probably found on his pillow was carefully burnt. with no clue pointing to the armstrong case there would be absolutely no reason for suspecting any of the passengers on the train. it would be put down as an outside job, and the ‘small dark man with the womanish voice’ would actually have been seen by one or more of the passengers leaving the train, at brod!
“i do not know exactly what happened when the conspirators discovered that this part of their plan was impossible owing to the accident to the train. there was, i imagine, a hasty consultation, and then they decided to go through with it. it was true that now one and all of the passengers were bound to come under suspicion, but that possibility had already been foreseen and provided for. the only additional thing to be done was to confuse the issue even further. two so-called ‘clues’ were dropped in the dead man’s compartment—one incriminating colonel arbuthnot (who had the strongest alibi and whose connection with the armstrong family was probably the hardest to prove); and the second clue, the handkerchief, incriminating princess dragomiroff who, by virtue of her social position, her particularly frail physique and the alibi given her by her maid and the conductor, was practically in an unassailable position.
“further to confuse the issue, a red herring was drawn across the trail—the mythical woman in the red kimono. again i am to bear witness to this woman’s existence. there is a heavy bang at my door. i get up and look out—and see the scarlet kimono disappearing in the distance. a judicious selection of people—the conductor, miss debenham and macqueen—will also have seen her. it was, i think, someone with a sense of humour who thoughtfully placed the scarlet kimono on the top of my suitcase whilst i was interviewing people in the dining-car. where the garment came from in the first place, i do not know. i suspect it is the property of countess andrenyi, since her luggage contained only a chiffon negligee so elaborate as to be rather a tea-gown than a dressing-gown.
“when macqueen first learned that the letter which had been so carefully burnt had in part escaped destruction, and that the word armstrong was exactly the word remaining, he must at once have communicated his news, to the others. it was at this minute that the position of countess andrenyi became acute, and her husband immediately took steps to alter the passport. it was their second piece of bad luck!
“they one and all agreed to deny utterly any connection with the armstrong family. they knew i had no immediate means of finding out the truth, and they did not believe that i should go into the matter unless my suspicions were aroused against one particular person.
“now there was one further point to consider. allowing that my theory of the crime was the correct one, and i believed that it must be the correct one, then obviously the wagon lit conductor himself must be privy to the plot. but if so, that gave us thirteen persons, not twelve. instead of the usual formula ‘of so many people one is guilty,’ i was faced with the problem that of thirteen persons one and one only was innocent. which was that person?
“i came to a very odd conclusion. i came to the conclusion that the person who had taken no part in the crime was the person who would be considered the most likely to do so. i refer to countess andrenyi. i was impressed by the earnestness of her husband when he swore to me solemnly on his honour that his wife never left her compartment that night. i decided that count andrenyi took, so to speak, his wife’s place.
“if so, then pierre michel was definitely one of the twelve. but how could one explain his complicity? he was a decent man who had been many years in the employ of the company—not the kind of man who could be bribed to assist in a crime. then pierre michel must be involved in the armstrong case. but that seemed very improbable. then i remembered that the dead nursery-maid had been french. supposing that that unfortunate girl had been pierre michel’s daughter. that would explain everything—it would also explain the place chosen for the staging of the crime. were there any others whose part in the drama was not clear? colonel arbuthnot i put down as a friend of the armstrongs. they had probably been through the war together. the maid, hildegarde schmidt—i could guess her place in the armstrong household. i am, perhaps, over greedy, but i sense a good cook instinctively. i laid a trap for her—she fell into it. i said i knew she was a good cook. she answered: ‘yes, indeed, all my ladies have said so.’ but if you are employed as a lady’s-maid your employers seldom have a chance of learning whether or not you are a good cook.
“then there was hardman. he seemed quite definitely not to belong to the armstrong household. i could only imagine that he had been in love with the french girl. i spoke to him of the charm of foreign women—and again i obtained the reaction i was looking for. sudden tears came into his eyes, which he pretended were dazzled by the snow.
“there remains mrs. hubbard. now mrs. hubbard, let me say, played the most important part in the drama. by occupying the compartment communicating with that of ratchett she was more open to suspicion than anyone else. in the nature of things she could not have an alibi to fall back upon. to play the part she played—the perfectly natural, slightly ridiculous american fond mother—an artist was needed. but there was an artist connected with the armstrong family: mrs. armstrong’s mother—linda arden, the actress . ...”
he stopped.
then in a soft rich dreamy voice, quite unlike the one she had used throughout the journey, mrs. hubbard said:
“i always fancied myself in comedy parts.”
she went on, still dreamily:
“that slip about the sponge-bag was silly. it shows that you should always rehearse property. we tried it on the way out—i was in an even-number compartment then, i suppose. i never thought of the bolts being in different places.”
she shifted her position a little and looked straight at poirot.
“you know all about it, m. poirot. you’re a very wonderful man. but even you can’t quite imagine what it was like—that awful day in new york. i was just crazy with grief; so were the servants. and colonel arbuthnot was there too. he was john armstrong’s best friend.”
“he saved my life in the war,” said arbuthnot.
“we decided then and there (perhaps we were mad—i don’t know) that the sentence of death that cassetti had escaped had got to be carried out. there were twelve of us—or rather eleven; susanne’s father was over in france, of course. first we thought we’d draw lots as to who should do it, but in the end we decided on this way. it was the chauffeur, antonio, who suggested it. mary worked out all the details later with hector macqueen. he’d always adored sonia—my daughter—and it was he who explained to us exactly how cassetti’s money had managed to get him off.
“it took a long time to perfect our plan. we had first to track ratchett down. hardman managed that in the end. then we had to try and get masterman and hector into his employment—or at any rate one of them. well, we managed that. then we had a consultation with susanne’s father. colonel arbuthnot was very keen on having twelve of us. he seemed to think it made it more in order. he didn’t like the stabbing idea much, but he agreed that it did solve most of our difficulties. well, susanne’s father was willing. susanne had been his only child. we knew from hector that ratchett would be coming back from the east sooner or later by the orient express. with pierre michel actually working on that train, the chance was too good to be missed. besides, it would be a good way of not incriminating any outsiders.
“my daughter’s husband had to know, of course, and he insisted on coming on the train with her. hector wangled it so that ratchett selected the right day for travelling, when michel would be on duty. we meant to engage every carriage in the stamboul-calais coach, but unfortunately there was one carriage we couldn’t get. it had been reserved long beforehand for a director of the company. ‘mr. harris,’ of course, was a myth. but it would have been awkward to have any stranger in hector’s compartment. and then, at the last minute, you came. ...”
she stopped.
“well,” she said, “you know everything now, m. poirot. what are you going to do about it? if it must all come out, can’t you lay the blame upon me and me only? i would have stabbed that man twelve times willingly. it wasn’t only that he was responsible for my daughter’s death and her child’s and that of the other child who might have been alive and happy now. it was more than that: there had been other children kidnapped before daisy, and there might be others in the future. society had condemned him—we were only carrying out the sentence. but it’s unnecessary to bring all these others into it. all these good faithful souls—and poor michel-and mary and colonel arbuthnot—they love each other. ...”
her voice was wonderful, echoing through the crowded space—that deep, emotional, heart-stirring voice that had thrilled many a new york audience.
poirot looked at his friend.
“you are a director of the company, m. bouc,” he said. “what do you say?”
m. bouc cleared his throat.
“in my opinion, m. poirot,” he said, “the first theory you put forward was the correct one—decidedly so. i suggest that that is the solution we offer to the jugo-slavian police when they arrive. you agree, doctor?”
“certainly i agree,” said dr. constantine. “as regards the medical evidence, i think—er—that i made one or two fantastic suggestions.”
“then,” said poirot, “having placed my solution before you, i have the honour to retire from the case. ...”
