“So you both eliminate the maid?” asked Poirot.

“Yes. As she herself said, it is the handkerchief of a member of the upper classes.”

And the second question – the pipe-cleaner. Did Colonel Arbuthnot drop it, or somebody else?”

“That is more difficult. The English, they do not stab. You are right there. I incline to the view that someone else dropped the pipe-cleaner – and did so to incriminate the long-legged Englishman.”

“As you said, M. Poirot,” put in the doctor, “two clues is too much carelessness. I agree with M. Bouc. The handkerchief was a genuine oversight – hence none of the women will admit that it is hers. The pipe-cleaner is a faked clue. In support of that theory, you notice that Colonel Arbuthnot shows no embarrassment and admits freely to smoking a pipe and using that type of cleaner.”

“You reason well,” said Poirot.

“Question No. 3 – Who wore the scarlet kimono!” went on M. Bouc. “As to that, I will confess I have not the slightest idea. Have you any views on the subject, Dr. Constantine?”

“None.”

“Then we confess ourselves beaten there. The next question has, at any rate, possibilities. Who was the man or the woman masquerading in Wagon Lit uniform? Well, one can list with certainty a number of people that it could not have been. Hardman, Colonel Arbuthnot, Foscarelli, Count Andrenyi and Hector MacQueen are all too tall. Mrs. Hubbard, Hildegarde Schmidt and Greta Ohlsson are too broad. That leaves the valet, Miss Debenham, Princess Dragomiroff and Countess Andrenyi – and none of them sounds likely! Greta Ohlsson in one case, and Antonio Foscarelli in the other, both swear that Miss Debenham and the valet never left their compartments. Hildegarde Schmidt swears that the Princess was in hers, and Count Andrenyi has told us that his wife took a sleeping draught. Therefore it seems impossible that it can be anybody – which is absurd!”

“As our old friend Euclid says,” murmured Poirot.

“It must be one of those four,” said Dr. Constantine. “Unless it is someone from outside who has found a hiding-place – and that we agreed was impossible.”

M. Bouc had passed on to the next question on the list.

“No. 5 – Why do the hands of the broken watch point to 1.15? I can see two explanations of that. Either it was done by the murderer to establish an alibi, and afterwards, when he meant to leave the compartment, he was prevented by hearing people moving about; or else – wait – I have an idea coming-”

The other two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled in mental agony.

“I have it,” he said at last. “It was not the Wagon Lit murderer who tampered with the watch! It was the person we have called the Second Murderer – the left-handed person – in other words the woman in the scarlet kimono. She arrives later and moves back the hands of the watch in order to make an alibi for herself.”

“Bravo said Dr. Constantine. “It is well imagined, that.”

“In fact,” said Poirot, “she stabbed him in the dark, not realizing that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly, and gave it the requisite dent.”

M. Bouc looked at him coldly. “Have you anything better to suggest, yourself?” he asked. “At the moment – no,” admitted Poirot. “All the same,” he went on, “I do not think you have either of you appreciated the most interesting point about that watch.”

“Does question No. 6 deal with it?” asked the doctor. “To that question – Was the murder committed at that time, 1.15? – I answer No.”

“I agree,” said M. Bouc. “’Was it earlier?’ is the next question. I say – Yes! You, too, doctor?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, but the question ‘Was it later?’ can also be answered in the affirmative. I agree with your theory, M. Bouc, and so, I think, does M. Poirot, although he does not wish to commit himself. The First Murderer came earlier than 1. 15, but the Second Murderer came after 1.15. And as regards the question of left-handedness, ought we not to take steps to ascertain which of the passengers is left-handed?”

“I have not completely neglected that point,” said Poirot. “You may have noticed that I made each passenger write either a signature or an address. That is not conclusive, because some people do certain actions with the right hand and others with the left. Some write right-handed, but play golf left-handed. Still, it is something. Every person questioned took the pen in his or her right hand – with the exception of Princess Dragomiroff, who refused to write.”

“Princess Dragomiroff – impossible,” said M. Bouc.

“I doubt if she would have had the strength to inflict that left-handed blow,” said Dr. Constantine dubiously. ‘That particular wound had been inflicted with considerable force.”

“More force than a woman could use?”

“No, I would not say that. But I think more force than an elderly woman could display, and Princess Dragomiroff’s physique is particularly frail.”

“It might be a question of the influence of mind over body,” said Poirot. “Princess Dragomiroff has great personality and immense will-power. But let us pass from that for the moment.”

“To questions Nos. 9 and 10? Can we be sure that Ratchett was stabbed by more than one person, and what other explanation of the wounds can there be? In my opinion, medically speaking, there can be no other explanation of those wounds. To suggest that one man struck first feebly and then with violence, first with the right hand and then with the left, and after an interval of perhaps half an hour inflicted fresh wounds on a dead body – well, it does not make sense.”

“No,” said Poirot. “It does not make sense. And you think that two murderers do make sense?”

“As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?”

Poirot stared straight ahead of him. “That is what I ask myself,” he said. “That is what I never cease to ask myself.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“From now on, it is all here.” He tapped himself on the forehead. “We have thrashed it all out. The facts are all in front of us – neatly arranged with order and method. The passengers have sat here, one by one, giving their evidence. We know all that can be known – from outside…

He gave M. Bouc an affectionate smile.

“It has been a little joke between us, has it not – this business of sitting back and thinking out the truth? Well, I am about to put my theory into practice – here before your eyes. You two must do the same. Let us all three close our eyes and think…

“One or more of those passengers killed Ratchett. Which of them?”

It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke.

M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot’s instructions. They had endeavoured to see through a maze of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.

M. Bouc’s thoughts had run something as follows:

“Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought… Poirot obviously thinks that this English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most unlikely… The English are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures… But that is not the point. It seems that the Italian could not have done it – a pity. I suppose the English valet is not lying when he said the other never left the compartment? But why should he! It is not easy to bribe the English; they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this. There must be some rescue work in progress. They are so slow in these countries… it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the police of these countries, they will be most trying to deal with – puffed up with importance, touchy, on their dignity. They will make a grand affair of all this. It is not often that such a chance comes their way. It will be in all the newspapers…”