Убийство в Восточном экспрессе
7. The Body
ButthereisoneclueherewhichIbelieve—thoughagainImaybewrong—hasnotbeenfaked.Imeanthisflatmatch,M.ledocteur.Ibelievethatthatmatchwasusedbythemurderer,notbyM.Ratchett.Itwasusedtoburnanincriminatingpaperofsomekind.Possiblyanote.Ifso,therewassomethinginthatnote,somemistake,someerror,thatleftapossiblecluetotheassailant.Iamgoingtoendeavourtoresurrectwhatthatsomethingwas.”
Hewentoutofthecompartmentandreturnedafewmomentslaterwithasmallspiritstoveandapairofcurlingtongs.
“Iusethemforthemoustaches,”hesaid,referringtothelatter.
Thedoctorwatchedhimwithgreatinterest.Heflattenedoutthetwohumpsofwire,andwithgreatcarewriggledthecharredscrapofpaperontooneofthem.Heclappedtheotherontopofitandthen,holdingbothpiecestogetherwiththetongs,heldthewholethingovertheflameofthespiritlamp.
“Itisaverymakeshiftaffair,this,”hesaidoverhisshoulder.“Letushopethatitwillansweritspurpose.”
Thedoctorwatchedtheproceedingsattentively.Themetalbegantoglow.Suddenlyhesawfaintindicationsofletters.Wordsformedthemselvesslowly—wordsoffire.
Itwasaverytinyscrap.Onlythreewordsandapartofanothershowed.
“—memberlittleDaisyArmstrong.”
“Ah!”Poirotgaveasharpexclamation.
“Ittellsyousomething?”askedthedoctor.
Poirot’seyeswereshining.Helaiddownthetongscarefully.
“Yes,”hesaid.“Iknowthedeadman’srealname.IknowwhyhehadtoleaveAmerica.”
“Whatwashisname?”
“Cassetti.
