On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?”
“Why, no – I don’t think I did.
I got in last.
No, I don’t seem to remember doing so.”
He added suddenly, “Is that an important point?”
“It may be.
Now, I presume, Monsieur, that while you and Colonel Arbuthnot were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?”
Hector MacQueen nodded.
“I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Vincovci up to the time you parted company for the night.”
MacQueen drew his brows together.
“I think the conductor passed along once,” he said, “coming from the direction of the dining-car.
And a woman passed the other way, going towards it.”
“Which woman?”
“I couldn’t say.
I didn’t really notice.
You see I was arguing a point with Arbuthnot.
I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door.
I didn’t look, and anyway I wouldn’t have seen the person’s face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining-car end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she’d passed.”
Poirot nodded.
“She was going to the toilet, I presume?”
“I suppose so.”
“And you saw her return?”
“Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn’t notice her returning but I suppose she must have done so.”
“One more question.
Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. MacQueen?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
Poirot paused a moment.
“I think that is all at present.
I should now like to see the valet of Mr. Ratchett.
By the way, did both you and he always travel second-class?”
“He did.
But I usually went first – if possible in the compartment adjoining Mr. Ratchett’s. Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easily whenever he chose.
But on this occasion all the first-class berths were booked except the one that he took.”
“I comprehend.
Thank you, Mr. MacQueen.”
3.
The Evidence of the Valet
The American was succeeded by the pale Englishman with the inexpressive face whom Poirot had already noticed on the day before.
He stood waiting very correctly.
Poirot motioned to him to sit down.
“You are, I understand, the valet of M. Ratchett.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your name?”
“Edward Henry Masterman.”
“Your age?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“And your home address?”
“21 Friar Street, Clerkenwell.”
“You have heard that your master has been murdered?”
“Yes, sir. A very shocking occurrence.”