Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page A

letters.”
    “Did you see them?”
    “Yes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came a fortnight ago.”
    “Were these letters destroyed?”
    “No, I think I’ve got a couple still in my files-one I know Ratchett tore up in a rage. Shall I get them for you?”
    “If you would be so good.”
    MacQueen left the compartment. He returned a few minutes later and laid down two sheets of rather dirty notepaper before Poirot.
    The first letter ran as follows:
    Thought you’d double-cross us and get away with it, did you? Not on your life. We’re out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!
    There was no signature.
    With no comment beyond raised eyebrows, Poirot picked up the second letter.
    We’re going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We’re going to GET you-see?
    Poirot laid the letter down.
    “The style is monotonous!” he said. “More so than the handwriting.”
    MacQueen stared at him.
    “You would not observe,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It requires the eye of one used to such things. This letter was not written by one person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons wrote it-each writing one letter of a word at a time. Also, the letters are printed. That makes the task of identifying the handwriting much more difficult.” He paused, then said: “Did you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?”
    “Toyou ?”
    MacQueen’s astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it.
    The detective nodded. “Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?”
    MacQueen hesitated.
    “It’s difficult to say. He-he-passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow-” he gave a slight shiver-“I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness.”
    Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.
    “Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?”
    Hector MacQueen took a moment or two before replying.
    “No,” he said at last. “I did not.”
    “Why.”
    “I can’t exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner.” He paused, then said: “I’ll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”
    “Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One further question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”
    “Last evening about-” he thought for a minute-“ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him.”
    “On what subject?”
    “Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought inPersia . What had been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”
    “And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”
    “Yes, I suppose so.”
    “Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”
    “On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”
    “There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. MacQueen. Were you on good terms with your employer?”
    The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.
    “This is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back. In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.’ Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms.”
    “Perhaps, Mr. MacQueen, you will give me your full name and your address in America.”
    MacQueen gave his name-Hector Willard MacQueen-and an address in New York.
    Poirot leaned back against the cushions.
    “That is all for the present, Mr. MacQueen,” he said. “I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time.”
    “His valet, Masterman, will have to know.”
    “He probably knows already,” said Poirot drily. “If so, try to get him to hold his tongue.”
    “That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher and, as