Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

know.”
    â€œHe probably knows already,” said Poirot dryly. “If so try to get him to hold his tongue.”
    â€œThat oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher, and does what he calls ‘Keeps himself to himself.’ He’s a low opinion of Americans and no opinion at all of any other nationality.”
    â€œThank you, M. MacQueen.”
    The American left the carriage.
    â€œWell?” demanded M. Bouc. “You believe what he says, this young man?”
    â€œHe 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 M. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy M. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion.”
    â€œSo you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc jovially.
    Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.
    â€œMe, 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.”
    â€œNo,” said Mr. Bouc thoughtfully. “That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate—it suggests more the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted, a woman.”

Seven
T HE B ODY
    F ollowed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and 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.
    â€œHow much has been disarranged in this compartment?”
    â€œNothing 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.
    â€œBrrr,” observed Poirot.
    The other smiled appreciatively.
    â€œI did not like to close it,” he said.
    Poirot examined the window carefully.
    â€œYou are right,” he announced. “Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest the fact, but, if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s object.”
    He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over it.
    â€œNo fingerprints at all,” he said. “That means it has been wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints it would have told us very little. They would have been those of M. Ratchett or his valet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œI had to see the nature of the wounds, you see,” explained the doctor.
    Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.
    â€œIt is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?”
    â€œI 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