"Yes, Monsieur."

He spoke French well and fluently, with only a slight accent.

"And now," said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, "we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian."

A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it, anything that the three men did not know about Foscarelli's business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States and most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed out.

"Yes, you see --"

The American grinned. "Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business."

"You are an agent for Ford motor cars?"

His good-natured childish face beamed with satisfaction as with a last eloquent gesture, he paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"You are, I see, a naturalized American subject?"

Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining car with a swift, catlike tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny looking and swarthy.

"Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?"

"Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took the boat -- to go to America, so far away! My mother, my little sister --"

Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.

"You have been in the United States, then, for the last ten years on and off?"

"During your sojourn in the United States did you ever come across the deceased?"

"Your opinion is quite right," said Poirot dryly. "Ratchett was Cassetti, the kidnapper."

"Never. But I know the type. Oh, yes." He snapped his fingers expressively. "It is very respectable, very well dressed, but underneath it is all wrong. Out of my experience, I should say he was the big crook. I give you my opinion for what it is worth."

"So you see," he said, "I do big business. I am up to date. I understand salesmanship!"

"What did I tell you? I have learned to be very acute -- to read the face. It is necessary. Only in America do they teach you the proper way to sell."

"I do not quite remember. The name, yes? It was a little girl -- a baby -- was it not?"

"You remember the Armstrong case?

"Ah, well, these things they happen," he said philosophically, "in a great civilization such as America --"

Poirot cut him short. "Did you ever come across any members of the Armstrong family?"

The Italian seemed the first person to demur to this view.

"Yes, a very tragic affair."

"Monsieur, pray confine yourself to the point."

The Italian's hands flung themselves out in a gesture of apology. "A thousand pardons."

"With pleasure. I stay here as long as I can. It is more amusing. I talk to the American gentleman at my table. He sells typewriter ribbons. Then I go back to my compartment. It is empty. The miserable John Bull who shares it with me is away attending to his master. At last he comes back -- very long face as usual. He will not talk -- says yes and no. A miserable race, the English -- not sympathetic. He sits in the corner, very stiff, reading a book. Then the conductor comes and makes our beds."

"No, I do not think so. It is difficult to say. I will give you some figures. Last year alone I sold --"

"Tell me, if you please, your exact movements last night from dinner onwards."

"You smoke, you say -- a pipe, cigarettes, cigars?"

"Have you ever been in Chicago?" inquired M. Bouc.

"Cigarettes only."

"Exactly -- the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up there. I smoke and read. The little Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells very strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning."

"Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus against him?"

"Nos. 4 and 5," murmured Poirot.

"I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the corridor -- one wakes up automatically thinking it is the Customs examination at some frontier."

"I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish."

Poirot proffered him one which he accepted.

"Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?"

"Oh, yes -- a fine city -- but I know best New York, Washington, Detroit. You have been to the States? No? You should go, it --"

Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him.

"If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please."

"That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could get out of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan --" He shook his head sadly. "I shall lose the business." He departed.

The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose -- his smile was as engaging as ever.

"He has been a long time in America," said M. Bouc, "and he is an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians."

Poirot looked at his friend.

"And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?"

"Ça se voit," said Poirot with a smile. "Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man."

"Assuredly," said Poirot. "Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this -- this is a different kind of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not -- how shall I express it?-- a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain -- I think an Anglo-Saxon brain."

"Let us now," he said, "see Miss Mary Debenham."

He picked up the last two passports.