“When was that done, I wonder?” he demanded. “Before death or after?”
“The doctor says after,” said M. Caux.
“Strange,” said Poirot, drawing his brows together. He turned to Katherine. “Be brave, Mademoiselle; look at her well. Are you sure that this is the woman you talked to in the train yesterday?”
Katherine had good nerves. She steeled herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent figure. Then she leaned forward and took up the dead woman’s hand.
“I am quite sure,” she replied at length. “The face is too disfigured to recognise, but the build and carriage and hair are exact, and besides I noticed this”—she pointed to a tiny mole on the dead woman’s wrist—“while I was talking to her.”
“Bon,” approved Poirot. “You are an excellent witness, Mademoiselle. There is, then, no question as to the identity, but it is strange, all the same.” He frowned down on the dead woman in perplexity.
M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.
“The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless,” he suggested.
“If she had been struck down, it would have been comprehensible,” mused Poirot, “but the man who strangled her slipped up behind and caught her unawares. A little choke—a little gurgle—that is all that would be heard, and then afterwards—that smashing blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope that if the face were unrecognisable she might not be identified? Or did he hate her so much that he could not resist striking that blow even after she was dead?”
Katherine shuddered, and he turned at once to her kindly.
“You must not let me distress you, Mademoiselle,” he said. “To you this is all very new and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old story. One moment, I pray of you both.”
They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. He noted the dead woman’s clothes neatly folded on the end of the berth, the big fur coat that hung from a hook, and the little red lacquer hat tossed on the rack. Then he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been made up. Three or four rugs were piled loosely on the seat; there was a hatbox and a couple of suitcases. He turned suddenly to Katherine.
“You were in here yesterday,” he said. “Do you see anything changed, anything missing?”
Katherine looked carefully round both compartments.
“Yes,” she said, “there is something missing—a scarlet morocco case. It had the initials ‘R. V. K.’ on it. It might have been a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case. When I saw it, the maid was holding it.”
“Ah!” said Poirot.
“But, surely,” said Katherine, “I—of course, I don’t know anything about such things, but surely it is plain enough, if the maid and the jewel-case are missing?”
“You mean that it was the maid who was the thief? No, Mademoiselle, there is a very good reason against that.”
“What?”
“The maid was left behind in Paris.”
He turned to Poirot. “I should like you to hear the conductor’s story yourself,” he murmured confidentially. “It is very suggestive.”
“Mademoiselle would doubtless like to hear it also,” said Poirot. “You do not object, Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“No,” said the Commissary, who clearly did object very much. “No, certainly, M. Poirot, if you say so. You have finished here?”
“I think so. One little minute.”
He had been turning over the rugs, and now he took one to the window and looked at it, picking something off it with his fingers.
“What is it?” demanded M. Caux sharply.
“Four auburn hairs.” He bent over the dead woman. “Yes, they are from the head of Madame.”
“And what of it? Do you attach importance to them?”
Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.
“What is important? What is not? One cannot say at this stage. But we must note each little fact carefully.”
They went back again into the first compartment, and in a minute or two the conductor of the carriage arrived to be questioned.
“Your name is Pierre Michel?” said the Commissary.
“Yes, Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“I should like you to repeat to this gentleman”—he indicated Poirot—“the story that you told me as to what happened in Paris.”
“Very good, Monsieur le Commissaire. It was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I came along to make the beds, thinking that Madame would be at dinner, but she had a dinner-basket in her compartment. She said to me that she had been obliged to leave her maid behind in Paris, so that I only need make up one berth. She took her dinner basket into the adjoining compartment, and sat there while I made up the bed; then she told me that she did not wish to be wakened early in the morning, that she liked to sleep on. I told her I quite understood, and she wished me ‘good night.’ ”
“You yourself did not go into the adjoining compartment?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the luggage there?”
“No, Monsieur, I did not.”
“Would it have been possible for a man to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?”
The conductor reflected.
“The door was half open,” he said. “If a man had stood behind that door I should not have been able to see him, but he would, of course, have been perfectly visible to Madame when she went in there.”
“Quite so,” said Poirot. “Is there anything more you have to tell us?”
“I think that is all, Monsieur. I can remember nothing else.”
“And now this morning?” prompted Poirot.
“As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb her. It was not until just before Cannes that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder to rouse her, and then—”
“And then you saw what had happened,” volunteered Poirot. “
