Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

be taken at bedtime.’ “
    “Did he take it last night?”
    “Yes, sir. I poured it into a glass and put it on top of the toilet table ready for him.”
    “You didn’t actually see him drink it?”
    “No, sir.”
    “What happened next?”
    “I asked if there was anything further, and also asked what time he would like to be called in the morning. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed till he rang.”
    “Was that usual?”
    “Quite usual, sir. When he was ready to get up he used to ring the bell for the conductor and then send him for me.”
    “Was he usually an early or a late riser?”
    “It depended, sir, on his mood. Sometimes he’d get up for breakfast, sometimes he wouldn’t get up till just on lunch time.”
    “So that you weren’t alarmed when the morning wore on and no summons came?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Did you know that your master had enemies?”
    “Yes, sir.” The man spoke quite unemotionally.
    “How did you know?”
    “I had heard him discussing some letters, sir, with Mr. MacQueen.”
    “Had you an affection for your employer, Masterman?”
    Masterman’s face became, if possible, even more inexpressive than it was normally.
    “I should hardly like to say that, sir. He was a generous employer.”
    “But you didn’t like him?”
    “Shall we put it that I don’t care very much for Americans, sir?”
    “Have you ever been in America?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you remember reading in the paper of the Armstrong kidnapping case?”
    A little colour came into the man’s cheeks.
    “Yes, indeed, sir. A little baby girl, wasn’t it? A very shocking affair.”
    “Did you know that your employer, Mr. Ratchett, was the principal instigator in that affair?”
    “No, indeed, sir.” The valet’s tone held positive warmth and feeling for the first time. “I can hardly believe it, sir.”
    “Nevertheless, it is true. Now, to pass to your own movements last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you do after leaving your master?”
    “I told Mr. MacQueen, sir, that the master wanted him. Then I went to my own compartment and read.”
    “Your compartment was-“
    “The end second-class one, sir. Next to the dining-car.”
    Poirot was looking at his plan.
    “I see-and you had which berth?”
    “The lower one, sir.”
    “That is No. 4?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Is there anyone in with you?”
    “Yes, sir. A big Italian fellow.”
    “Does he speak English?”
    “Well, a kind of English, sir.” The valet’s tone was deprecating. “He’s been in America-Chicago, I understand.”
    “Do you and he talk together much?”
    “No, sir. I prefer to read.”
    Poirot smiled. He could visualize the scene-the large, voluble Italian, and the snub direct administered by the gentleman’s gentleman.
    “And what, may I ask, are you reading?” he inquired.
    “At present, sir, I am readingLove’s Captive , by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.”
    “A good story?”
    “I find it highly enjoyable, sir.”
    “Well, let us continue. You returned to your compartment and readLove’s Captive till-when?”
    “At about ten thirty, sir, this Italian wanted to go to bed. So the conductor came and made the beds up.”
    “And then you went to bed and to sleep?”
    “I went to bed, sir, but I didn’t sleep.”
    “Why didn’t you sleep?”
    “I had the toothache, sir.”
    “Oh, là-là-that is painful.”
    “Most painful, sir.”
    “Did you do anything for it?”
    “I applied a little oil of cloves, sir, which relieved the pain a little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the light on above my head and continued to read-to take my mind off, as it were.”
    “And did you not go to sleep at all?”
    “Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning.”
    “And your companion?”
    “The Italian fellow? Oh, he just snored.”
    “He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Did you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Did you hear anything during the