“I know the type well enough.”
He said very gently: “You still refuse to tell me the meaning of those words: ‘When it’s behind us’?”
She replied coldly, “I have nothing more to say.”
“It does not matter,” said Hercule Poirot. “I shall find out.”
He bowed and left the compartment, closing the door after him.
“Was that wise, my friend?” asked M. Bouc. “You have put her on her guard – and through her, you have put the Colonel on his guard also.”
“Mon ami, if you wish to catch a rabbit you put a ferret into the hole, and if the rabbit is there – he runs.
That is all I have done.”
They entered the compartment of Hildegarde Schmidt.
The woman was standing in readiness, her face respectful but unemotional.
Poirot took a quick glance through the contents of the small case on the seat.
Then he motioned to the attendant to get down the bigger suitcase from the rack.
“The keys?” he said.
“It is not locked, Monsieur.”
Poirot undid the hasps and lifted the lid.
“Aha!” he said, and turning to M. Bouc, “You remember what I said?
Look here a little moment!”
On the top of the suitcase was a hastily rolled-up brown Wagon Lit uniform.
The stolidity of the German woman underwent a sudden change.
“Ach!” she cried. “That is not mine.
I did not put it there.
I have never looked in that case since we left Stamboul.
Indeed, indeed, it is true!” She looked from one to another of the men pleadingly.
Poirot took her gently by the arm and soothed her.
“No, no, all is well.
We believe you.
Do not be agitated.
I am sure you did not hide the uniform there as I am sure that you are a good cook.
See. You are a good cook, are you not?”
Bewildered, the woman smiled in spite of herself,
“Yes, indeed, all my ladies have said so.
I–” She stopped, her mouth open, looking frightened again.
“No, no,” said Poirot. “I assure you all is well.
See, I will tell you how this happened.
This man, the man you saw in Wagon Lit uniform, comes out of the dead man’s compartment.
He collides with you.
That is bad luck for him.
He has hoped that no one will see him.
What to do next?
He must get rid of his uniform. It is now not a safeguard, but a danger.”
His glance went to M. Bow and Dr. Constantine, who were listening attentively.
“There is the snow, you see.
The snow which confuses all his plans.
Where can he hide these clothes?
All the compartments are full.
No, he passes one whose door is open, showing it to be unoccupied.
It must be the one belonging to the woman with whom he has just collided.
He slips in, removes the uniform and jams it hurriedly into a suitcase on the rack. It may be some time before it is discovered.”
“And then?” said M. Bouc.
“That we must discuss,” Poirot said with a warning glance.