Убийство в Восточном экспрессе
7. The Body
Hispyjamajacket,stainedwithrustypatches,hadbeenunbuttonedandthrownback.
“Ihadtoseethenatureofthewounds,yousee,”explainedthedoctor.
Poirotnodded.Hebentoverthebody.Finallyhestraightenedhimselfwithaslightgrimace.
“Itisnotpretty,”hesaid.“Someonemusthavestoodthereandstabbedhimagainandagain.Howmanywoundsarethereexactly?”
“Imakeittwelve.Oneortwoaresoslightastobepracticallyscratches.Ontheotherhand,atleastthreewouldbecapableofcausingdeath.”
Somethinginthedoctor’stonecaughtPoirot’sattention.Helookedathimsharply.ThelittleGreekwasstandingstaringdownatthebodywithapuzzledfrown.
“Somethingstrikesyouasodd,doesitnot?”heaskedgently.“Speak,myfriend.Thereissomethingherethatpuzzlesyou?”
“Youareright,”acknowledgedtheother.
“Whatisit?”
“Yousee,thesetwowounds—hereandhere,”—hepointed.“Theyaredeep,eachcutmusthaveseveredbloodvessels—andyet—theedgesdonotgape.Theyhavenotbledasonewouldhaveexpected.”
“Whichsuggests?”
“Thatthemanwasalreadydead—somelittletimedead—whentheyweredelivered.Butthatissurelyabsurd.”
“Itwouldseemso,”saidPoirotthoughtfully.“Unlessourmurdererfiguredtohimselfthathehadnotaccomplishedhisjobproperlyandcamebacktomakequitesure;butthatismanifestlyabsurd!Anythingelse?”
“Well,justonething.”
“Andthat?”
“Youseethiswoundhere—undertherightarm—neartherightshoulder.Takethispencilofmine.
