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There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face to face. He was at least six feet in height, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds, and might have been taken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheekbone.

"Well, Messieurs," he said, "what can I do for you?"

"You understand, Monsieur," said Poirot, "that in view of what has occurred I am obliged to put certain questions to all the passengers."

Count and Countess Andrenyi were next summoned. The Count, however, entered the dining car alone.

"Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?"

"Perfectly, perfectly," said the Count easily. "I quite understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can do much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all."

"I understand it was the big American -- a man with a decidedly unpleasant face. He sat at the table at meal times." He indicated with a nod of his head the table at which Ratchett and MacQueen had sat.

"You knew, perhaps, the Armstrong family?"

"I was in Washington for a year."

"You retired to rest -- when, Monsieur le Comte?"

"No." The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot's queries.

"You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Comte?"

"Yes, yes, Monsieur, you are perfectly correct. I meant did you know the name of the man?"

"Armstrong -- Armstrong -- it is difficult to recall -- one met so many." He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. "But to come back to the matter in hand, gentlemen," he said. "What more can I do to assist you?"

He watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed quite unaffected by the piece of news. He merely opened his eyes a little.

"The name on his passport is Ratchett," said Poirot. "But that, Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Cassetti, who was responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America."

"Ah!" he said. "That certainly should throw light upon the matter. An extraordinary country America."

"If you want to know his name," he said, "surely it is on his passport?"

"Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. It is a formality, but will you just let me have your name and address?"

"No. 13. We played picquet together. About eleven o'clock my wife retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning."

"Did you notice the stopping of the train?"

"And your wife?"

"We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in the dining car. On returning we sat in the other for a while --"

Hercule Poirot's eyes stole to his plan. Count and Countess Andrenyi occupied compartments No. 12 and 13 adjoining.

He paused. "I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way."

"I was not aware of it till this morning."

"It is just as well I should write this for you," he said pleasantly. "The spelling of my country estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language."

Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen.

The Count smiled. "My wife always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional."

"What number would that be?"

The Count wrote slowly and carefully.

Poirot blinked gently at him.

The Count gave way grudgingly. He made a short, foreign bow and left the dining car.

"It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here," he said. "She can tell you nothing more than I have."

"Doubtless, doubtless," he said. "But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Comtesse."

"I assure you it is quite unnecessary." His voice rang out authoritatively.

"It will be a mere formality," he said. "But you understand, it is necessary for my report."

He passed the paper across to Poirot and rose.

"As you please."

"A diplomatic passport," said M. Bouc. "We must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder."

A little gleam came into Poirot's eye.

Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count's name and titles. He passed on to the further information -- accompanied by wife. Christian name Elena Maria; maiden name Goldenberg; age twenty. A spot of grease had been dropped some time by a careless official on it.

"Quite correct, Monsieur."

"Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality."

"A mere formality, Madame la Comtesse." Poirot rose gallantly, bowed her into the seat opposite him. "It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter."

"I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught."

She signed quickly, a graceful slanting handwriting. Elena Andrenyi.

"You wish to see me, Messieurs?"

"Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep."

His voice dropped as the Countess Andrenyi entered the dining car. She looked timid and extremely charming.

"Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then."

"Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further." Then, as she rose swiftly, "Just one little minute -- these particulars, your maiden name, age and so on, they are correct?"

"You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the compartment next to yours? The American lady who occupies it had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor."

She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.

"Ah yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?"

She stared at him. Then she laughed. "It is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?"

"At your service, Madame."

"No. Cigarettes and cigars."

"Madame," Poirot waved an airy hand, "detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing gown?"

"Did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?"

She lingered; her eyes watched him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond shaped, with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very scarlet, in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful.

"Yes."

"No, Monsieur." She smiled, flushed a little. "We were not married then; we have only been married a year."

"Why did you ask me that?"

"Very important, Madame."

She asked curiously: "Are you really a detective, then?"

"A pipe?"

"Ah! Thank you."

"You belong to the League of Nations?"

Poirot bowed once more.

"We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible."

"I speak a leetle, yes." Her accent was charming.

"I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective."

"Shall we now see the Italian?"

"Elle est jolie femme," said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. "Well, that did not advance us much."

"I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia -- not until one got to Italy."

She smiled, inclined her head and departed.

"I belong to the world, Madame," said Poirot dramatically. He went on, "I work mainly in London. You speak English?" he added in that language.

"No," said Poirot. "Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing."

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.