10 THE EVIDENCE OF THE ITALIAN
“And now,” said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, “we will delight the heart of M. Bouc and see the Italian.”
Antonio Foscarelli came into the dining-car with a swift, cat-like tread. His face beamed. It was a typical Italian face, sunny-looking and swarthy.
He spoke¹ French well and fluently with only a slight accent.
“Your name is Antonio Foscarelli?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You are, I see, a naturalised American subject?”
The American grinned. “Yes, Monsieur. It is better for my business.”
“You are an agent for Ford² motor cars?”
“Yes, you see—”
A voluble exposition followed. At the end of it anything that the three men did not know about Foscarelli’s business methods, his journeys, his income, and his opinion of the United States and most European countries seemed a negligible factor. This was not a man who had to have information dragged from him. It gushed³ out.
His good-natured, childish face beamed with satisfaction as, with a last eloquent⁴ gesture, he paused and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“So you see,” he said. “I do big business. I am up to date. I understand salesmanship!”
“You have been in the United States, then, for the last ten years on and off.”
Yes, Monsieur. Ah! well do I remember the day I first took the boat—to go to America, so far away! My mother, my little sister—”
Poirot cut short the flood of reminiscence.
“During your sojourn⁵ in the United States, did you ever come across the deceased?”
“Never. But I know the type. Oh! yes.” He snapped his fingers expressively⁶. “It is very respectable, very well-dressed, but underneath⁷ it is all wrong. Out of my experience I should say he was the big

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