M. Bouc rose. “We are a little cramped here,” he said pleasantly. “Take my seat, Mr. MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you-so.”

He turned to thechef de train. “Clear all the people out of the restaurant car,” he said, “and let it be left free for M. Poirot. You will conduct your interviews there,mon cher?”

“It would be the most convenient, yes,” agreed Poirot.

MacQueen had stood looking from one to the other, not quite following the rapid flow of French.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” he began laboriously. “Pourquoi-?”

With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in the corner. He took it and began once more.

“Pourquoi-?” Then checking himself and relapsing into his own tongue: “What’s up on the train? Has anything happened?”

He looked from one man to another.

Poirot nodded. “Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock.Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!”

MacQueen’s mouth pursed itself into a whistle. Except that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.

“So they got him after all,” he said.

“What exactly do you mean by that phrase, Mr. MacQueen?”

MacQueen hesitated.

“You are assuming,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?”

“Wasn’t he?” This time MacQueen did show surprise. “Why, yes,” he said slowly. “That’s just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as-as tough-”

He stopped, at a loss for a simile.

“No, no,” said Poirot. “Your assumption was quite right. M. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so sure itwas murder, and not just-death.”

MacQueen hesitated. “I must get this clear,” he said. “Who exactly are you? And where do you come in?”

“I represent the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits.” Poirot paused, then added, “I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot.”