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

that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.
    â€œSo they got him after all,” he said.
    â€œWhat exactly do you mean by that phrase, M. MacQueen?” MacQueen hesitated.
    â€œYou are assuming,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?”
    â€œWasn’t he?” This time MacQueen did show surprise. “Why, yes,” he said slowly. “That’s just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as—as tough—”
    He stopped, at a loss for a simile.
    â€œNo, no,” said Poirot. “Your assumption was quite right. Mr. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so sure it was murder, and not just—death.”
    MacQueen hesitated.
    â€œI must get this clear,” he said. “Who exactly are you? And where do you come in?”
    â€œI represent the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.” He paused, then added, “I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot.”
    If he expected an effect he did not get one. MacQueen said merely, “Oh, yes?” and waited for him to go on.
    â€œYou know the name, perhaps.”
    â€œWhy, it does seem kind of familiar—only I always thought it was a woman’s dressmaker.”
    Hercule Poirot looked at him with distaste.
    â€œIt is incredible!” he said.
    â€œWhat’s incredible?”
    â€œNothing. Let us advance with the matter in hand. I want you to tell me, M. MacQueen, all that you know about the dead man. You were not related to him?”
    â€œNo. I am—was—his secretary.”
    â€œFor how long have you held that post?”
    â€œJust over a year.”
    â€œPlease give me all the information you can.”
    â€œWell, I met Mr. Ratchett just over a year ago when I was in Persia—”
    Poirot interrupted.
    â€œWhat were you doing there?”
    â€œI had come over from New York to look into an oil concession. I don’t suppose you want to hear all about that. My friends and I had been let in rather badly over it. Mr. Ratchett was in the same hotel. He had just had a row with his secretary. He offered me the job and I took it. I was at a loose end, and glad to find a well-paid job ready made, as it were.”
    â€œAnd since then?”
    â€œWe’ve travelled about. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life.”
    â€œNow tell me as much as you can about your employer.”
    The young man shrugged his shoulders. A perplexed expression passed over his face.
    â€œThat’s not so easy.”
    â€œWhat was his full name?”
    â€œSamuel Edward Ratchett.”
    â€œHe was an American citizen?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat part of America did he come from?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, tell me what you do know.”
    â€œThe actual truth is, Mr. Poirot, that I know nothing at all! Mr. Ratchett never spoke of himself, or of his life in America.”
    â€œWhy do you think that was?”
    â€œI don’t know. I imagined that he might have been ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are.”
    â€œDoes that strike you as a satisfactory solution?”
    â€œFrankly, it doesn’t.”
    â€œHas he any relations?”
    â€œHe never mentioned any.”
    Poirot pressed the point.
    â€œYou must have formed some theory, M. MacQueen.”
    â€œWell, yes, I did. For one thing, I don’t believe Ratchett was his real name. I think he left America definitely in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful—until a few weeks ago.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œHe began to get letters—threatening letters.”
    â€œDid you see them?”
    â€œYes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came a fortnight