Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.

“No,” he said at last. “I did not.”

“Why.”

“I can’t exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner.” He paused, then said: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One further question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”

“Last evening about–” he thought for a minute – “ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him.”

“On what subject?”

“Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What had been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”

“And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”

“On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”

“There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. MacQueen. Were you on good terms with your employer?”

The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.

“This is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back. In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.’ Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms.”

“Perhaps, Mr. MacQueen, you will give me your full name and your address in America.”

MacQueen gave his name – Hector Willard MacQueen – and an address in New York.

Poirot leaned back against the cushions.

“That is all for the present, Mr. MacQueen,” he said. “I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time.”

“His valet, Masterman, will have to know.”

“He probably knows already,” said Poirot drily. “If so, try to get him to hold his tongue.”

“That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher and, as he calls it, he ‘keeps to himself.’ He has a low opinion of Americans, and no opinion at all of any other nationality.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen.”

The American left the carriage.

“Well?” demanded M. Bouc. “You believe what he says, this young man?”

“He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer, as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true, Mr. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy Mr. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion.”

“So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc jovially.

Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.

“Me, I suspect everybody till the last minute,” he said. “All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology – not at all.”

“No,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. “That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate – it suggests rather the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted – a woman.”

Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and to the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.

The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion.

“How much has been disarranged in this compartment?”

“Nothing has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination.”

Poirot nodded. He looked round him.

The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as far as it would go, and the blind was drawn up.

“Brrr,” observed Poirot.

The other smiled appreciatively.

“I did not like to close it,” he said.

Poirot examined the window carefully.

“You are right,” he announced. “Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest that somebody did; but if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s intention.”

He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over the frame.

“No fingerprints at all,” he said. “That means it: has been wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints they would have told us very little. They would have been those of Mr. Ratchett or his valet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.

“And that being so,” he added cheerfully, “we might as well shut the window. Positively it is the cold storage in here!”

He suited the action to the word and then turned his attention for the first time to the motionless figure lying in the bunk.

Ratchett lay on his back. His pyjama jacket, stained with rusty patches, had been unbuttoned and thrown back.

“I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see,” explained the doctor.

Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.

“It is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?”

“I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be capable of causing death.”

Something in the doctor’s tone caught Poirot’s attention. He looked at him sharply. The little Greek was standing staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.

“Something strikes you as odd, does it not?” he asked gently. “Speak, my friend. There is something here that puzzles you?”

“You are right,” acknowledged the other.

“What is it?”

“You see these two wounds – here and here–” He pointed. “They are deep. Each cut must have severed blood vessels – and yet the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected.”

“Which suggests?”

“That the man was already dead – some little time dead – when they were delivered. But that is surely absurd.”

“It would seem so,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Unless our murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished his job properly and came back to make quite sure – but that is manifestly absurd! Anything else?”

“Well, just one thing.”

“And that?”

“You see this wound here – under the right arm – near the right shoulder. Take this pencil of mine. Could you deliver such a blow?”

Poirot poised his hand.

“Precisement,” he said. “I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult, almost impossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with the left hand–”

“Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”

“So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”

“As you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed.”

“Two people. We are back at two people again,” murmured the detective. He asked abruptly: “Was the electric light on?”

“It is difficult to say. You see, it is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o’clock.”

“The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.

He examined the switch of the top light and also the roll-back bed-head light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.

“Eh bien,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer, as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done, and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez – vous de ca?”