Then he sat back on his heels and stared.
Neatly folded on the top of the case was a thin scarlet silk kimono embroidered with dragons.
“So,” he murmured. “It is like that.
A defiance.
Very well, I take it up.”
Part III.
Hercule Poirot Sits Back and Thinks
1.
Which of Them?
M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine were talking together when Poirot entered the dining-car.
M. Bouc was looking depressed.
“Le voila,” said the latter when he saw Poirot. Then he added, as his friend sat down, “If you solve this case, mon cher, I shall indeed believe in miracles!”
“It worries you, this case?”
“Naturally it worries me.
I cannot make head or tail of it.”
“I agree,” said the doctor. He looked at Poirot with interest. “To be frank,” he said, “I cannot see what you are going to do next.”
“No!” said Poirot thoughtfully.
He took out his cigarette case and lit one of his tiny cigarettes.
His eyes were dreamy. “That, to me, is the interest of this case,” he said. “We are cut off from all the normal routes of procedure.
Are these people whose evidence we have taken speaking the truth, or lying?
We have no means of finding out – except such means as we can devise ourselves.
It is an exercise, this, of the brain.”
“That is all very fine,” said M. Bouc. “But what have you to go upon?”
“I told you just now. We have the evidence of the passengers and the evidence of our own eyes.”
“Pretty evidence – that of the passengers!
It told us just nothing at all.”
Poirot shook his head.
“I do not agree, my friend.
The evidence of the passengers gave us several points of interest.”
“Indeed,” said M. Bouc sceptically. “I did not observe it.”
“That is because you did not listen.”
“Well, tell me, what did I miss?”
“I will just take one instance – the first evidence we heard, that of the young MacQueen.
He uttered, to my mind, one very significant phrase.”
“About the letters?”
“No, not about the letters.
As far as I can remember, his words were:
‘We travelled about.
Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world.
He was hampered by knowing no languages.
I acted more as a courier than a secretary.’ ” He looked from the doctor’s face to that of M. Bouc. “What?
You still do not see?
That is inexcusable – for you had a second chance again just now when he said,
‘You’re likely to be out of luck if you don’t speak anything but good American.’ ”
“You mean–?” M. Bouc still looked puzzled.
“Ah, it is that you want it given to you in words of one syllable.
Well, here it is! M. Ratchett spoke no French.
Yet, when the conductor came in answer to his bell last night, it was a voice speaking in French that told him that it was a mistake and that he was not wanted.
It was, moreover, a perfectly idiomatic phrase that was used, not one that a man knowing only a few words of French would have selected.
‘Ce n’est rien.