He stopped.

Poirot looked steadily at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

“That is all, sir.”

He paused; then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic little bow and after a momentary hesitation left the dining-car in the same quiet unobtrusive fashion as he had come.

“This,” said Dr. Constantine, “is more wildly improbable than any roman policier I have ever read.”

“I agree,” said M. Bouc. “Of the twelve passengers in that coach, nine have been proved to have had a connection with the Armstrong case. What next, I ask you? Or should I say, who next?”

“I can almost give you the answer to your question,” said Poirot. “Here comes our American sleuth, Mr. Hardman.”

“Is he, too, coming to confess?”

Before Poirot could reply the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at them and sitting down he drawled out: “Just exactly what’s up on this train? It seems bughouse to me.”

Poirot twinkled at him.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Hardman, that you yourself were not the gardener at the Armstrong home?”

“They didn’t have a garden,” replied Mr. Hardman literally.

“Or the butler?”

“Haven’t got the fancy manners for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with the Armstrong house – but I’m beginning to believe I’m about the only one on this train who hadn’t! Can you beat it? That’s what I say – can you beat it?”

“It is certainly a little surprising,” said Poirot mildly.

“C’est rigolo,” burst from M. Bouc.

“Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, Mr. Hardman?” inquired Poirot.

“No, sir. It’s got me beat. I don’t know how to figure it out. They can’t all be in it – but which one is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this? That’s what I want to know.”

“I just guessed.”

“Then, believe me, you’re a pretty slick guesser. Yes, I’ll tell the world you’re a slick guesser.”

Mr. Hardman leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly.

“You’ll excuse me,” he said, “but no one would believe it to look at you. I take off my hat to you. I do indeed.”

“You are too kind, M. Hardman.”

“Not at all. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“All the same,” said Poirot, “the problem is not yet quite solved. Can we say with authority that we know who killed M. Ratchett?”

“Count me out,” said Mr. Hardman. “I’m not saying anything at all. I’m just full of natural admiration. What about the other two you haven’t had a guess at yet? The old American dame, and the lady’s-maid? I suppose we can take it that they’re the only innocent parties on the train?”

“Unless,” said Poirot, smiling, “we can fit them into our little collection as – shall we say – housekeeper and cook in the Armstrong household?”

“Well, nothing in the world would surprise me now,” said Mr. Hardman with quiet resignation. “Bughouse – that’s what this business is – bughouse!”

“Ah!mon cher, that would be indeed stretching coincidence a little too far,” said M. Bouc. “They cannot all be in it.”

Poirot looked at him. “You do not understand,” he said. “You do not understand at all. Tell me, do you know who killed Ratchett?”

“Do you?” countered M. Bouc.

Poirot nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I have known for some time. It is so clear that I wonder you have not seen it also.” He looked at Hardman and asked: “And you?”

The detective shook his head. He stared at Poirot curiously. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know at all. Which of them was it?”

Poirot was silent a minute. Then he said:

“If you will be so good, M. Hardman, assemble everyone here. There are two possible solutions of this case. I want to lay them both before you all.”

The passengers came crowding into the restaurant car and took their seats round the tables. They all bore more or less the same expression, one of expectancy mingled with apprehension. The Swedish lady was still weeping, and Mrs. Hubbard was comforting her.

“Now you must just take a hold on yourself, my dear. Everything’s going to be perfectly all right. You mustn’t lose your grip on yourself. If one of us is a nasty murderer, we know quite well it isn’t you. Why, anyone would be crazy even to think of such a thing. You sit here, and I’ll stay right by you – and don’t you worry any.” Her voice died away as Poirot stood up.

The Wagon Lit conductor was hovering in the doorway. “You permit that I stay, Monsieur?”

“Certainly, Michel.”

Poirot cleared his throat.

“Messieurs et mesdames, I will speak in English since I think all of you know a little of that language. We are here to investigate the death of Samuel Edward Ratchett – alias Cassetti. There are two possible solutions of the crime. I shall put them both before you, and I shall ask M. Bouc, and Dr. Constantine here to judge which solution is the right one.

“Now you all know the facts of the case. Mr. Ratchett was found stabbed this morning. He was last known to be alive at 12.37 last night when he spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor through the door. A watch in his pyjama pocket was found to be badly dented, and it had stopped at a quarter past one. Dr. Constantine, who examined the body when found, puts the time of death as having been between midnight and two in the morning. At half an hour after midnight, as you all know, the train ran into a snowdrift. After that time it was impossible for anyone to leave the train.

“The evidence of Mr. Hardman, who is a member of a New York detective agency–” (Several heads turned, to look at Mr. Hardman.) – “shows that no one could have passed his compartment (No. 16 at the extreme end) without being seen by him. We are therefore forced to the conclusion that the murderer is to be found among the occupants of one particular coach – the Stamboul-Calais coach.

“That, I will say, was our theory.”

“Comment?” ejaculated M. Bouc, startled.

“But I will put before you an alternative theory. It is very simple. Mr. Ratchett had a certain enemy whom he feared. He gave Mr. Hardman a description of this enemy and told him that the attempt, if made at all, would most probably be made on the second night out from Stamboul.

“Now I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Ratchett knew a good deal more than he told. The enemy, as Mr. Ratchett expected, joined the train at Belgrade or else at Vincovci by the door left open by Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. MacQueen, who had just descended to the platform. He was provided with a suit of Wagon Lit uniform, which he wore over his ordinary clothes, and a pass-key which enabled him to gain access to Mr. Ratchett’s compartment in spite of the door’s being locked. Mr. Ratchett was under the influence of a sleeping draught. This man stabbed him with great ferocity and left the compartment through the communicating door leading to Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment–”

“That’s so,” said Mrs. Hubbard, nodding her head.

“He thrust the dagger he had used into Mrs. Hubbard’s sponge-bag in passing. Without knowing it, he lost a button of his uniform. Then he slipped out of the compartment and along the corridor. He hastily thrust the uniform into a suitcase in an empty compartment, and a few minutes later, dressed in ordinary clothes, he left the train just before it started off, using the same means for egress – the door near the dining-car.”

Everybody gasped.

“What about that watch?” demanded Mr. Hardman.

“There you have the explanation of the whole thing. Mr. Ratchett had omitted to put his watch back an hour as he should have done at Tzaribrod. His watch still registered Eastern European time, which is one hour ahead of Central European time. It was a quarter past twelve when Mr. Ratchett was stabbed – not a quarter past one.”