Poirot went on to relate the joint conclusions of himself and Dr. Constantine. M. Bouc brightened at the mention of the broken watch.

“That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is very convenient.”

There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at him curiously.

“You say that you yourself heard Ratchett speak to the conductor at twenty minutes to one?” asked M. Bouc.

Poirot related just what had occurred.

“Well,” said M. Bouc, “that proves at least that Cassetti – or Ratchett, as I shall continue to call him – was certainly alive at twenty minutes to one.”

“Twenty-three minutes to one, to be precise.”

‘Then at twelve thirty-seven, to put it formally, Mr. Ratchett was alive. That is one fact, at least.”

Poirot did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front of him.

There was a tap on the door and the restaurant attendant entered.

“The restaurant car is free now, Monsieur,” he said.

“We will go there,” said M. Bouc, rising.

“I may accompany you?” asked Constantine.

“Certainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?”

“Not at all. Not at all,” said Poirot.

After a little politeness in the matter of precedence – “Apres vous, Monsieur” – “Mais non, apres vous” – they left the compartment.

In the restaurant car all was in readiness.

Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle.

On the table in front of Poirot was a plan of the Istanbul-Calais coach with the names of the passengers marked in red ink. The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. There was writing paper, ink, pen, and pencils.

“Excellent,” said Poirot. “We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. You probably know something about the man. What character has he? Is he a man on whose word you would place reliance?”

“I should say so, most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for over fifteen years. He is a Frenchman – lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains.”

Poirot nodded comprehendingly. “Good,” he said. “Let us see him.”

Pierre Michel had recovered some of his assurance, but he was still extremely nervous.

“I hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part,” he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. “It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?”

Having soothed the man’s fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel’s name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease.

“And now,” went on Poirot, “let us come to the events of last night. M. Ratchett retired to bed – when?”

“Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we left Belgrade. So he did on the previous night. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so.”

“Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?”

“His valet, Monsieur, and the young American gentleman, his secretary.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, Monsieur, not that I know of.”

“Good. And that is the last you saw or heard of him?”

“No, Monsieur. You forget he rang his bell about twenty to one – soon after we had stopped.”

“What happened exactly?”

“I knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made a mistake.”

“In English or in French?”

“In French.”

“What were his words exactly?”

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompe.”

“Quite right,” said Poirot. “That is what I heard. And then you went away?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Did you go back to your seat?”

“No, Monsieur, I went first to answer another bell that had just rung.”

“Now, Michel, I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?’

“I, Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end – facing up the corridor.”

“You are sure?”

“Mais oui – at least–”

“I went into the next coach, the Athens coach, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some time soon after one o’clock. I cannot say exactly.”

“And you returned – when?”

“One of my bells rang, Monsieur – I remember – I told you. It was the American lady. She had rung several times.”

“I recollect,” said Poirot. “And after that?”

“After that, Monsieur? I answered your bell and brought you some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the bed in one of the other compartments – that of the young American gentleman, Mr. Ratchett’s secretary.”

“Was Mr. MacQueen alone in his compartment when you went to make up his bed?”

“The English Colonel from No. 15 was with him. They had been sitting talking.”

“What did the Colonel do when he left Mr. MacQueen?”

“He went back to his own compartment.”

“No. 15 – that is quite close to your seat, is it not?”

“Yes, Monsieur, it is the second compartment from that end of the corridor.”

“His bed was already made up?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I had made it up while he was at dinner.”

“What time was all this?”

“I could not say exactly, Monsieur. Not later than two o’clock certainly.”

“And after that?”

“After that, Monsieur, I sat in my seat till morning.”

“You did not go again into the Athens coach?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Perhaps you slept?”

“I do not think so, Monsieur. The train being at a standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do.”

“Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?”

The man reflected. “One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end, I think.”

“Which lady?”

“I do not know, Monsieur. It was far down the corridor and she had her back to me. She had on a kimono of scarlet with dragons on it.”

Poirot nodded. “And after that?”

“Nothing, Monsieur, until the morning.”

“You are sure?”

“Ah, pardon – you yourself, Monsieur, opened your door and looked out for a second.”

“Good, my friend,” said Poirot. “I wondered whether you would remember that. By the way, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea what that could have been?”

The man stared at him. “There was nothing, Monsieur. Nothing, I am positive of it.”

“Then I must have had the cauchemar,” said Poirot philosophically.

“Unless,” put in M. Bouc, “it was something in the compartment next door that you heard.”

Poirot took no notice of the suggestion. Perhaps he did not wish to before the Wagon Lit conductor.

“Let us pass to another point,” he said. “Supposing that last night an assassin joined the train. Is it quite certain that he could not have left it after committing the crime?”

Pierre Michel shook his head.

“Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?”

“It has been well searched,” said M. Bouc. “Abandon that idea, my friend.”

“Besides,” said Michel, “no one could get on to the sleeping-car without my seeing them.”

“When was the last stop?”

“Vincovci.”

“What time was that?”

“We should have left there at 11:58, but owing to the weather we were twenty minutes late.”

“Someone might have come along from the ordinary part of the train?”

“No, Monsieur. After the service of dinner, the door between the ordinary carriages and the sleeping-cars is locked.”