"It was not the same conductor who woke me, Monsieur. It was another one."
"Ah! another one! Had you seen him before?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Ah! - do you think you would recognise him if you saw him?"
"I think so, Monsieur."
Poirot murmured something in M. Bouc's ear. The latter got up and went to the door to give an order.
Poirot was continuing his questions in an easy, friendly manner.
"Have you ever been to America, Frдulein Schmidt?"
"Never, Monsieur. It must be a fine country."
"You have heard, perhaps, who this man who was killed really was - that he was responsible for the death of a little child?"
"Yes, I have heard, Monsieur. It was abominable - wicked. The good God should not allow such things. We are not so wicked as that in Germany."
Tears had come into the woman's eyes. Her strong, motherly soul was moved.
"It was an abominable crime," said Poirot gravely.
He drew a scrap of cambric from his pocket and handed it to her.
"Is this your handkerchief, Frдulein Schmidt?"
There was a moment's silence as the woman examined it. She looked up after a minute. The colour had mounted a little in her face.
"Ah! no, indeed. It is not mine, Monsieur."
"It has the initial H, you see. That is why I thought it was yours."
"Ah! Monsieur, it is a lady's handkerchief, that. A very expensive handkerchief. Embroidered by hand. It comes from Paris, I should say."
"It is not yours and you do not know whose it is?"
"I? Oh! no, Monsieur."
Of the three listening, only Poirot caught the nuance of hesitation in the reply.
M. Bouc whispered in his ear. Poirot nodded and said to the woman:
"The three sleeping-car attendants are coming in. Will you be so kind as to tell me which is the one you met last night as you were going with the rug to the Princess?"
The three men entered. Pierre Michel, the big blond conductor of the Athens-Paris coach, and the stout burly conductor of the Bucharest one.
Hildegarde Schmidt looked at them and immediately shook her head.
"No, Monsieur," she said. "None of these is the man I saw last night."
"But these are the only conductors on the train. You must be mistaken."
"I am quite sure, Monsieur. These are all tall, big men. The one I saw was small and dark. He had a little moustache. His voice when he said 'Pardon' was weak, like a woman's. Indeed, I remember him very well, Monsieur."
Chapter 13
SUMMARY OF THE PASSENGERS' EVIDENCE
"A small dark man with a womanish voice," said M. Bouc.
The three conductors and Hildegarde Schmidt had been dismissed.
M. Bouc made a despairing gesture. "But I understand nothing - but nothing, of all of this! The enemy that this Ratchett spoke of, he was then on the train after all? But where is he now? How can he have vanished into thin air? My head, it whirls. Say something, then, my friend, I implore you. Show me how the impossible can be possible!"
"It is a good phrase that," said Poirot. "The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances."
"Explain to me, then, quickly, what actually happened on the train last night."
"I am not a magician, mon cher. I am, like you, a very puzzled man. This affair advances in a very strange manner."
"It does not advance at all. It stays where it was."
Poirot shook his head. "No, that is not true. We are more advanced. We know certain things. We have heard the evidence of the passengers."
"And what has that told us? Nothing at all."
"I would not say that, my friend."
"I exaggerate, perhaps. The American Hardman, and the German maid - yes, they have added something to our knowledge. That is to say, they have made the whole business more unintelligible than it was."
"No, no, no," said Poirot soothingly.
M. Bouc turned upon him. "Speak, then, let us hear the wisdom of Hercule Poirot."
"Did I not tell you that I was, like you, a very puzzled man? But at least we can face our problem. We can arrange such facts as we have with order and method."
"Pray continue, Monsieur," said Dr Constantine.
Poirot cleared his throat and straightened a piece of blotting-paper.
"Let us review the case as it stands at this moment. First, there are certain indisputable facts. This man, Ratchett or Cassetti, was stabbed in twelve places and died last night. That is fact one."
"I grant it you - I grant it, mon vieux," said M. Bouc with a gesture of irony.
Hercule Poirot was not at all put out. He continued calmly.
