“Do you remember reading of the Armstrong baby? This is the man who murdered little Daisy Armstrong. Cassetti.”

“I recall it now. A shocking affair – though I cannot remember the details.”

“Colonel Armstrong was an Englishman – a V. C. He was half American, his mother having been a daughter of W. K. Van der Halt, the Wall Street millionaire. He married the daughter of Linda Arden, the most famous tragic American actress of her day. They lived in America and had one child – a girl whom they idolized. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and an impossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return. I will not weary you with all the intricacies that followed. I will come to the moment when, after the parents had paid over the enormous sum of two hundred thousand dollars, the child’s dead body was discovered; it had been dead for at least a fortnight. Public indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse to follow. Mrs. Armstrong was expecting another baby. Following the shock of the discovery, she gave birth prematurely to a dead child, and herself died. Her broken-hearted husband shot himself.”

“Mon Dieu, what a tragedy. I remember now,” said M. Bouc. “There was also another death, if I remember rightly?”

“Yes, an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of despair the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved afterwards that she had been absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime.”

“It is not good to think of,” said M. Bouc.

“About six months later, this man Cassetti was arrested as the head of the gang who had kidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past. If the police seemed likely to get on their trail, they killed their prisoner, hid the body, and continued to extract as much money as possible before the crime was discovered.

“Now, I will make clear to you this, my friend. Cassetti was the man! But by means of the enormous wealth he had piled up, and owing to the secret hold he had over various persons, he was acquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip. It is now clear to me what happened. He changed his name and left America. Since then he has been a gentleman of leisure, travelling abroad and living on his rentes.”

“Ah! quel animal!” M. Bouc’s tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust. “I cannot regret that he is dead – not at all!”

“I agree with you.”

“Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Orient Express. There are other places.”

Poirot smiled a little. He realised that M. Bouc was biased in the matter.

“The question we have now to ask ourselves is this,” he said. “Is this murder the work of some rival gang whom Cassetti had double-crossed in the past, or is it an act of private vengeance?”

He explained his discovery of the few words on the charred fragment of paper.

“If I am right in my assumption, then, the letter was burnt by the murderer. Why? Because it mentioned the name ‘Armstrong,’ which is the clue to the mystery.”

“Are there any members of the Armstrong family living?”

“That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading of a younger sister of Mrs. Armstrong’s.”

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—“Après vous, Monsieur”—“Mais non, après 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.”