Mr. 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 impossible – 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.
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, and a flashy tie-pin, 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 toParis?”
“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.”