“She 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.”

“It was clearly not a scientific crime,” said Poirot.

“It was most unscientific,” returned 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 his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.”

“C’est une femme,” said thechef 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.

“I 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.”

“ ‘Bumped off’-that is the American expression, is it not?” asked M. Bouc. “Then it is not a woman. It is a ‘gangster’ or a ‘gunman.’ ”

Thechef de train looked pained at seeing his theory come to nought.

“If so,” said Poirot, “it seems to have been done very amateurishly.” His tone expressed professional disapproval.

“There is a large American on the train,.” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea. “A common-looking man with terrible clothes. He chews 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.

“Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been he. I should have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”

“You 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.

“Come, my friend,” said M.