Hanging on the handle of the door that gave access to the next compartment was a large-checked rubber sponge-bag.
Below it on the floor, just where it had fallen from Mrs. Hubbard’s hand, was a straight-bladed dagger – a cheap affair, sham Oriental with an embossed hilt and a tapering blade.
The blade was stained with patches of what looked like rust.
Poirot picked it up delicately.
“Yes,” he murmured. “There is no mistake.
Here is our missing weapon all right – eh, doctor?”
The doctor examined it.
“You need not be so careful,” said Poirot. “There will be no fingerprints on it save those of Mrs. Hubbard.”
Constantine’s examination did not take long.
“It is the weapon all right,” he said. “It would account for any of the wounds.”
“I implore you, my friend, do not say that!”
The doctor looked astonished.
“Already we are heavily overburdened by coincidence.
Two people decided to stab M. Ratchett last night.
It is too much of a good thing that both of them should select the same weapon.”
“As, to that, the coincidence is not perhaps so great as it seems,” said the doctor. “Thousands of these sham Eastern daggers are made and shipped to the bazaars of Constantinople.”
“You console me a little, but only a little,” said Poirot.
He looked thoughtfully at the door in front of him, then, lifting off the sponge-bag, he tried the handle.
The door did not budge.
About a foot above the handle was the door bolt.
Poirot drew it back and tried again, but still the door remained fast.
“We locked it from the other side, you remember,” said the doctor.
“That is true,” said Poirot absently.
He seemed to be thinking about something else.
His brow was furrowed as though in perplexity.
“It agrees, does it not?” said M. Bouc. “The man passes through this carriage.
As he shuts the communicating door behind him he feels the sponge-bag. A thought comes to him and he quickly slips the blood-stained knife inside.
Then, all unwitting that he has awakened Mrs. Hubbard, he slips out through the other door into the corridor.”
“As you say,” murmured Poirot. “That is how it must have happened.”
But the puzzled look did not leave his face.
“But what is it?” demanded M. Bouc. “There is something, is there not, that does not satisfy you?”
Poirot darted a quick took at him.
“The same point does not strike you?
No, evidently not.
Well, it is a small matter.”
The conductor looked into the carriage.
“The American lady is coming back.”
Dr. Constantine looked rather guilty. He had, he felt, treated Mrs. Hubbard rather cavalierly.
But she had no reproaches for him.
Her energies were concentrated on another matter.
“I’m going to say one thing right out,” she said breathlessly as she arrived in the doorway. “I’m not going on any longer in this compartment!
Why, I wouldn’t sleep in it to-night if you paid me a million dollars.”
“But, Madame–”
“I know what you are going to say, and I’m telling you right now that I won’t do any such thing!
Why, I’d rather sit up all night in the corridor.” She began to cry. “Oh, if my daughter could only know – if she could see me now, why–”
Poirot interrupted firmly.
“You misunderstand, Madame.
Your demand is most reasonable.
Your baggage shall be changed at once to another compartment.”
Mrs. Hubbard lowered her handkerchief. “is that so?