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.

“Précisément,” 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 ça?”

“Magnificent!” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

The other’s eyes twinkled.

“You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”

“What other explanation can there be?”

“That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence, or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”

“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness – a lack of strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble, glancing blows. But this one here— and this one—” Again he pointed. “Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle.”

“They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?”

“Most certainly.”

“They could not have been delivered by a woman?”

“A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion; but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.”

Poirot was silent a moment or two.

The other asked anxiously, “You understand my point?”

“Perfectly,” said Poirot. “The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength – he was feeble – it was a woman – it was a right-handed person – it was a left-handed person. Ah! c’est rigolo, tout ça!” He spoke with sudden anger. “And the victim— what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?”

He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.

“Fully loaded, you see,” he said.

They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the lid of the wash basin were various objects. False teeth in a glass of water. Another glass, empty. A bottle of mineral water. A large flask. An ash-tray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.

“Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.

“Drugged?”

“Yes.”

Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinised them carefully.

“You have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly.

“Those two matches are of different shapes,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. You see?”

“It is the kind you get on the train,” said the doctor. “In paper covers.”

Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones.

“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”

But a further search showed no other matches. Poirot’s eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s. One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny. With a little exclamation he bent and picked-up something from the floor. It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. In the corner was an embroidered initial – H.

“A woman’s handkerchief,” said the doctor. “Our friend the chef de train was right. There is woman concerned in this.”

“And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films – and to make things even easier for us, it is marked with an initial.”

“What a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Is it not?” said Poirot.

Something in his tone surprised the doctor, but before he could ask for elucidation Poirot had made another dive onto the floor.

This time he held out on the palm of his hand – a pipe-cleaner.

“It is perhaps the property of Mr. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor.

“There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.”

“Then it is a clue.”

“Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue, this time, you note! One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”

“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

“I wonder why,” mused Poirot.

“Ah!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man. “I overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.”

From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

“You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”