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MacQueen
's
mouth
pursed
itself
in
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
,
M.
MacQueen
?
"
MacQueen
hesitated
.
"
You
are
assuming
,
"
said
Poirot
,
"
that
M.
Ratchett
was
murdered
?
"
"
Was
n'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
.
Mr.
Ratchett
was
murdered
.
Stabbed
.
But
I
should
like
to
know
why
you
were
so
sure
it
was
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
.
"
He
paused
,
then
added
,
"
I
am
a
detective
.
My
name
is
Hercule
Poirot
.
"
