Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach – was there about a quarter of an hour.
There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running.
I stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about – felt a mite nervous, you understand – but it was only the American dame.
She was raising hell about something or other, I grinned.
Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for someone.
After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody’s bed up.
I don’t think he stirred after that until about five o’clock this morning.”
“Did he doze off at all?”
“That I can’t say.
He may have.”
Poirot nodded.
Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table.
He picked up the official card once more.
“Be so good as just to initial this,” he said.
The other complied.
“There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, Mr. Hardman?”
“On this train?
Well, not exactly.
Unless it might be young MacQueen.
I know him well enough – I’ve seen him in his father’s office in New York. But that’s not to say he’ll remember me from a crowd of other operatives.
No, Mr. Poirot, you’ll have to wait and cable New York when the snow lets up.
But it’s O.K. I’m not telling the tale.
Well, so long, gentlemen.
Pleased to have met you, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot proffered his cigarette case.
“But perhaps you prefer a pipe?”
“Not me.”
He helped himself, then strode briskly off.
The three men looked at each other.
“You think he is genuine?” asked Dr. Constantine.
“Yes, yes.
I know the type.
Besides, it is a story that would be very easy to disprove.”
“He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence,” said M. Bouc.
“Yes, indeed.”
“A small man – dark – with a high-pitched voice,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully.
“A description which applies to no one on the train,” said Poirot.
10.
The Evidence of the Italian
“And now,” said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, “we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian.”
Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining-car with a swift, cat-like tread.
His face beamed.
It was a typical Italian face, sunny-looking and swarthy.
He spoke French well and fluently with only a slight accent.
“Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You are, I see, a naturalised American subject?”
The American grinned. “Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business.”
“You are an agent for Ford motor cars?”
“Yes, you see–”