"Well," he said, "how are things going?"

"Ratchett, as you suspected, was merely an alias. Ratchett was Cassetti, the man who ran the celebrated kidnapping stunts -- including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong."

"No, sir," said the young American decidedly. "If I had I'd have cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!"

"I think," he said at last, "that it would be well to have a further word with M. MacQueen, in view of what we now know."

Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. "Yes?" he said.

For a minute or two Poirot remained lost in thought.

"Not too badly. Since our last conversation I have learnt something -- the identity of M. Ratchett."

An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen's face; then it darkened. "The damned skunk!" he exclaimed.

"You had no idea of this, M. MacQueen?"

"You feel strongly about the matter, M. MacQueen?"

"I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the case, M. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once -- she was a lovely woman. So gentle and heartbroken." His face darkened. "If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett or Cassetti is the man. I'm rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn't fit to live!"

The young American appeared promptly.

"I do. I --" He paused, then flushed rather guiltily. "Seems I'm kind of incriminating myself."

The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.

"You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?"

"I should be more inclined to suspect you, M. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer's decease."

"By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment."

"I don't think I could do that, even to save myself from the chair," said MacQueen grimly. Then he added: "If I'm not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti's identity, I mean."

"But surely -- I mean -- that was rather careless of the old man?"

"That depends," said Poirot, "on the point of view."

"The task before me," said Poirot, "is to make sure of the movements of everyone on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand? It is only a matter of routine."

"Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can."

"I need hardly ask you the number of your compartment," said Poirot, smiling, "since I shared it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure you had it to yourself."

"That's right."

"Now, M. MacQueen, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time of leaving the dining car."

"That's quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform at Belgrade, decided it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is in the compartment next to mine. Then I fell into conversation with that Englishman, Colonel Arbuthnot -- as a matter of fact I think you passed us as we were talking. Then I went in to Mr. Ratchett and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of letters he wanted written. I said good night to him and left him. Colonel Arbuthnot was still standing in the corridor. His compartment was already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come along to mine. I ordered a couple of drinks and we got right down to it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India and our own troubles with the financial situation and the Wall Street crisis. I don't as a rule cotton to Britishers -- they're a stiff-necked lot -- but I liked this one."

"And then I went to bed and slept till morning."

"You noticed that the train had stopped?"

"By the one nearest to our compartment."

"Do you remember if it was bolted?"

"He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor to make up my bed."

"What happened when Colonel Arbuthnot finally said good night?"

"And then?"

"Where were you whilst he was making it?"

"Pretty late. Getting on for two o'clock, I should say."

"By which door did you leave the train?"

"Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?"

"During the evening did you leave the train at all?"

"The one next to the dining car?"

"Yes."

"Arbuthnot and I thought we'd get out at -- what was the name of the place?-- Vincovci to stretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold -- a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again."

"Standing just outside the door in the corridor smoking a cigarette."

"Oh, yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying very thick, but we didn't think it was serious."

MacQueen considered.

"Do you know what time it was when he left you?"

"Why, no -- I don't think I did. I got in last. No, I don't seem to remember doing so." He added suddenly: "Is that an important point?"

"I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Vincovci until the time you parted company for the night."

Hector MacQueen nodded.

"Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?"

"I think the conductor passed along once," he said, "coming from the direction of the dining car. And a woman passed the other way, going towards it."

"Which woman?"

"It may be. Now, I presume, Monsieur, that while you and Colonel Arbuthnot were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?"

MacQueen drew his brows together.

"I couldn't say. I didn't really notice. You see, I was just arguing a point with Arbuthnot. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn't look, and anyway I wouldn't have seen the person's face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining car end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she passed."

"Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn't notice her returning, but I suppose she must have done so."

Poirot nodded. "She was going to the toilet, I presume?"

"One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, M. MacQueen?"

"I comprehend. Thank you, M. MacQueen."

"And you saw her return?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"I suppose so."

Poirot paused a moment. "I think that is all at present. I should now like to see the valet of M. Ratchett. By the way, did both you and he always travel second-class?"

"He did. But I usually went first -- if possible in the adjoining compartment to Mr. Ratchett. Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easily whenever he chose. But on this occasion all the first-class berths were booked except the one which he took."