“Well, Yes, I did. For one thing, I don’t believe Ratchett was his real name. I think he left America definitely in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful – until a few weeks ago.”

“And then?”

“He began to get letters – threatening letters.”

“Did you see them?”

“Yes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came a fortnight ago.”

“Were these letters destroyed?”

“No, I think I’ve got a couple still in my files – one I know Ratchett tore up in a rage. Shall I get them for you?”

“If you would be so good.”

MacQueen left the compartment. He returned a few minutes later and laid down two sheets of rather dirty notepaper before Poirot.

The first letter ran as follows:

Thought you’d double-cross us and get away with it, did you? Not on your life. We’re out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!

There was no signature.

With no comment beyond raised eyebrows, Poirot picked up the second letter.

We’re going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We’re going to GET you— see?

Poirot laid the letter down.

“The style is monotonous!” he said. “More so than the handwriting.”

MacQueen stared at him.

“You would not observe,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It requires the eye of one used to such things. This letter was not written by one person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons wrote it— each writing one letter of a word at a time. Also, the letters are printed. That makes the task of identifying the handwriting much more difficult.”

He paused, then said:

“Did you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?”

“To you?”

MacQueen’s astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it. The detective nodded.

“Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?”

MacQueen hesitated. “It’s difficult to say. He – he – passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow—” he gave a slight shiver—“I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness.”

Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.

“Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?”

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.