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

ago.”
    â€œWere these letters destroyed?”
    â€œNo, 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?”
    â€œIf 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:
    â€œThought you’d doublecross 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.
    â€œWe’re going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We’re going to GET you, see?”
    Poirot laid the letter down.
    â€œThe style is monotonous!” he said. “More so than the handwriting.”
    MacQueen stared at him.
    â€œYou 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 a 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:
    â€œDid you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?”
    â€œTo you? ”
    MacQueen’s astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had not known of it. He nodded.
    â€œYes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?”
    MacQueen hesitated.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œMr. 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.
    â€œNo,” he said at last. “I did not.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI 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 a dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion.”
    â€œThank you, M. MacQueen. One further question—when did you last see M. Ratchett alive?”
    â€œLast 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.”
    â€œOn what subject?”
    â€œSome tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What was delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”
    â€œAnd that was the last time M. Ratchett was seen alive?”
    â€œYes, I suppose so.”
    â€œDo you know when M. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”
    â€œOn the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”
    â€œThere is one more question I must ask you, M. MacQueen: were you on good terms with your employer?”
    The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly.
    â€œThis is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down theback. In the words of a best seller, ‘You’ve nothing on me.’ Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms.”
    â€œPerhaps, M. 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.
    â€œThat is all for the present, M. MacQueen,” he said. “I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of M. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time.”
    â€œHis valet, Masterman, will have to