Murder On The Orient Express Page #4

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to Mr. McQueen outside

number three and four.

I saw him walk back into his

compartment, number 15,

which he did not leave.

And after that,

did no one reemerge?

No, but there was one lady

who opened a door,

I don't know which, and walked

in the direction of the toilet

at the far end of the corridor,

next to the dining car.

- Did you see her return?

- No, monsieur.

It is possible

I was answering a bell.

That reminds me of a final point.

Much earlier, soon after 12:30,

you and I both heard Mr. Ratchett

ring his bell several times and then

apologize for having had a nightmare.

Ce n'est rien.

C'?ait un cauchemar.

Who rang the second bell while

you were answering Mr. Ratchett's?

The Princess Dragomiroff, monsieur.

She asked me to summon her maid.

Thank you, Pierre.

That is all for the moment.

He had the means to do it.

The passkey to Ratchett's room.

- And a knife borrowed from the chef.

- With whom he was in league.

Which he plunged repeatedly

and without motive into the body

of his suitably astonished victim.

Anyway, we know the door

was not only locked, but chained.

Mr. McQueen.

Since our last conversation,

I have learned the true identity

of your late employer.

You don't say.

Ratchett was, as you yourself

suspected, merely an alias.

He was, in fact, Cassetti.

The gangster who masterminded

the kidnapping and killing

of little Daisy Armstrong.

You had no idea of this?

Oh, no, sir.

If I had, I'd have cut off my right hand

so I couldn't type his lousy letters.

And I'd have killed him with my left.

You feel you could've done

the good deed yourself?

It seems like I'm kind of

incriminating myself.

I should be more inclined

to suspect you, Mr. McQueen,

if you displayed an inordinate sorrow

at your employer's decease.

Sorrow?

My dad, my father,

was the district attorney, yeah,

who handled the Armstrong case.

Mrs. Armstrong and her husband

came to our house twice

for advice about the ransom money.

She was gentle and frightened.

But not too frightened to take

an interest in a young man

who wanted to go on the stage.

She even said she'd write to...

She died before

she got around to that.

She was as helpful

to me as a...

Well, a mother.

Forgive a Freudian question.

- Do you love your mother?

- I did.

She died when I was 8.

An impressionable age.

- Why do you ask?

- We shared a compartment

on the first night of our journey.

You cried out to your mother

twice in your sleep.

Did I?

I still dream about her.

Go on. Tell me.

I'm emotionally retarded.

Tell me that's why

I never married.

I am not here to tell you anything,

Mr. McQueen. You are here to tell me.

Yeah, I'm sorry.

Yeah, there's just one thing.

How did you...

...figure out Ratchett's identity?

By a message found

in his compartment.

He'd have burnt that, though,

as I told you.

He did.

Yeah, he did.

- Then how did you decipher?

- With the help of a hatbox.

Thank you, Mr. McQueen.

He did it.

He murdered Cassetti.

He practically confessed as much.

No, the psychology is wrong.

A sensitive, motherless boy

conceives a passion for a lady

whom he admires above all

for her gentleness.

Now, could McQueen,

admiring the gentleness,

commit so foul a murder

without betraying the gentleness

of what we might call

his fairy godmother?

Godmother.

Now you have accidentally

said something valuable.

Come.

Mr. Beddoes, this is not

an inquisition, only an inquiry.

When you took Mr. Ratchett

his valerian drops

about 9:
40 yesterday evening,

was he already in bed?

That is so, sir. Mr. Ratchett

always retired early on trains.

What were your duties before

leaving him for the night?

To place the valerian drops

within reach, sir.

- Beddoes.

- Sir?

Did you put this on my table

during dinner?

- No, sir.

- Then who the hell did?

I have no idea, sir.

May I ask what it is?

What it is, is none

of your damn business.

I wanna know how it got here.

- Will there be anything more, sir?

- There will.

Tell Mr. McQueen

I wanna see him, now.

Very well, sir.

At what time would you like

to be called in the morning, sir?

Not before 10.

Very good, sir.

- Was that usual?

- Oh, quite, sir, yes.

His breakfast was his amber moon.

He never rose

until it had had its full effect.

So you instructed Mr. McQueen

and then returned

to your own compartment,

the number one and two,

whose upper berth was occupied

by Signor Foscarelli.

Oh, yes, sir, the Italian person.

- Does he speak English?

- A kind of English, sir.

I think he learned it

in a place called Chicago.

Did you talk together much?

Oh, no, sir. I prefer to read.

Hey, what are you reading,

Mr. Beddoes?

Love's Captive,

by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.

Is it about sex?

No, it's about 10:30, Mr. Foscarelli.

I like that.

"It's about 10:
30."

- And after that you went to sleep.

- Oh, no, sir.

Not until 4 in the morning.

Unfortunately, I had the toothache.

- And your companion?

- He snored incessantly.

- And your companion?

- He snored incessantly.

One final point. How did you come

to be employed by Mr. Ratchett?

Through Maibaums, sir,

the big agency in New York.

You'll find me on their books.

And before then?

I was in the army, sir,

as a private soldier.

- Where?

- Troon, sir.

- In the Far East?

- Oh, no, sir, in Scotland.

Oh, Scotland.

Oh, forgive me.

I am only an ignorant Belgian.

Oh, a Belgian, sir?

I always thought you were French.

Belgian.

Did you know that Mr. Ratchett

was of Italian extraction?

So that accounts for his hot temper.

His real name was Cassetti.

The name means nothing to you?

Do you remember

the Armstrong case?

No, sir. Oh, yes, yes.

The little girl.

Cassetti was responsible

for her murder.

- How does that strike you?

- I have often thought, sir,

that instead of our employers

requiring references from us,

we should require

references from them.

Thank you, Mr. Beddoes.

Oh, please don't get up, sir.

Will there be anything else?

No, that is all.

He did it. The butler did it.

He had constant access

to Ratchett.

He himself could have

poisoned the valerian

before bringing it to his master.

As for the psychological,

well, who knows what boils

and bubbles beneath that stiff shirt

to which his profession

has called him.

Did he not read Love's Captive?

At a time when you suggest he should

have been stabbing Mr. Ratchett?

I fear that help is at hand.

Even if it is only a working party

with picks and shovels,

we must make haste to complete

this inquiry before we reach Brod.

If it is an engine with a snowplow,

our troubles will really begin.

- Who's next?

- Mrs. Hubbard.

Oh, my God.

The whistle means

that help is near, Madame.

- And high time too.

- Time is what counts, Mrs. Hubbard,

if we are to complete this inquiry

before reaching Brod.

I will therefore make my questions

as brief as I hope you will make

your answers,

and the more often

you can confine yourself

to a simple yes or no, the better.

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