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cold. With the window open and snow drifting in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit, perhaps. I got the chef de train . We broke the chain and went in. He was— Ah! c’était terrible! ”
    He buried his face in his hands again.
    â€œThe door was locked and chained on the inside,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “It was not suicide—eh?”
    The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh.
    â€œDoes a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?” he asked.
    Poirot’s eyes opened.
    â€œThat is great ferocity,” he said.
    â€œIt is a woman,” said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. “Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.”
    Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully.
    â€œShe must have been a very strong woman,” he said. “It is not my desire to speak technically—that is only confusing—but I can assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.”
    â€œIt was not, clearly, a scientific crime,” said Poirot.
    â€œIt was most unscientific,” said Dr. Constantine. “The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut their eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.”
    â€œC’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.” He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.
    â€œI have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchett spoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was in danger of his life.”
    â€œâ€˜Bumped off’—that is the American expression, is it not?” said M. Bouc. “Then it is not a woman. It is a ‘Gangster’ or a ‘gunman.’”
    The chef de train looked pained at his theory having come to naught.
    â€œIf so,” said Poirot, “it seems to have been done very amateurishly.”
    His tone expressed professional disapproval.
    â€œThere is a large American on the train,” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea—“a common-looking man with terrible clothes. Hechews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?”
    The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded.
    â€œ Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been he. I should have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”
    â€œYou might not. You might not. But we will go into that presently. The question is, what to do?” He looked at Poirot.
    Poirot looked back at him.
    â€œCome, my friend,” said M. Bouc. “You comprehend what I am about to ask of you. I know your powers. Take command of this investigation! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is serious—I speak for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits. By the time the Yugo-Slavian police arrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance to innocent persons. Instead— you solve the mystery! We say, ‘A murder has occurred— this is the criminal!’”
    â€œAnd suppose I do not solve it?”
    â€œAh! mon cher. ” M. Bouc’s voice became positively caressing. “I know your reputation. I know something of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all these people, to discover their bona fides —all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are and