AgathaChristie

MurderontheOrientExpressAHerculePoirotMystery

ToM.E.L.M.Arpachiya,1933

Contents

Cover

TitlePage

Dedication

PartOne:TheFacts

1.AnImportantPassengerontheTaurusExpress

2.TheTokatlianHotel3.PoirotRefusesaCase

4.ACryintheNight

5.TheCrime

6.AWoman?7.TheBody

8.TheArmstrongKidnappingCase

PartTwo:TheEvidence1.TheEvidenceoftheWagonLitConductor

2.TheEvidenceoftheSecretary

3.TheEvidenceoftheValet

4.TheEvidenceoftheAmericanLady5.TheEvidenceoftheSwedishLady

6.TheEvidenceoftheRussianPrincess

7.TheEvidenceofCountandCountessAndrenyi

8.TheEvidenceofColonelArbuthnot

9.TheEvidenceofMr.Hardman

10.TheEvidenceoftheItalian

11.TheEvidenceofMissDebenham12.TheEvidenceoftheGermanLady’sMaid

13.SummaryofthePassengers’Evidence

14.TheEvidenceoftheWeapon

15.TheEvidenceofthePassengers’Luggage

PartThree:HerculePoirotSitsBackandThinks

1.WhichofThem?

2.TenQuestions3.CertainSuggestivePoints

4.TheGreaseSpotonaHungarianPassport

5.TheChristianNameofPrincessDragomiroff

6.ASecondInterviewwithColonelArbuthnot7.TheIdentityofMaryDebenham

8.FurtherSurprisingRevelations

9.PoirotPropoundsTwoSolutions

AbouttheAuthor

OtherBooksbyAgathaChristie

Copyright

AboutthePublisher

PARTONE

THEFACTS

One

ANIMPORTANTPASSENGERONTHETAURUSEXPRESS

Itwasfiveo’clockonawinter’smorninginSyria.AlongsidetheplatformatAleppostoodthetraingrandlydesignatedinrailwayguidesastheTaurusExpress.Itconsistedofakitchenanddiningcar,asleepingcarandtwolocalcoaches.

BythestepleadingupintothesleepingcarstoodayoungFrenchlieutenant,resplendentinuniform,conversingwithasmallleanman,muffleduptotheears,ofwhomnothingwasvisiblebutapink-tippednoseandthetwopointsofanupwardcurledmoustache.

Itwasfreezinglycold,andthisjobofseeingoffadistinguishedstrangerwasnotonetobeenvied,butLieutenantDuboscperformedhispartmanfully.GracefulphrasesfellfromhislipsinpolishedFrench.Notthatheknewwhatitwasallabout.Therehadbeenrumours,ofcourse,astherealwayswereinsuchcases.TheGeneral—hisGeneral’s—temperhadgrownworseandworse.AndthentherehadcomethisBelgianstranger—allthewayfromEngland,itseemed.Therehadbeenaweek—aweekofcurioustensity.Andthencertainthingshadhappened.Averydistinguishedofficerhadcommittedsuicide,anotherhadresigned—anxiousfaceshadsuddenlylosttheiranxiety,certainmilitaryprecautionswererelaxed.AndtheGeneral—LieutenantDubosc’sownparticularGeneral—hadsuddenlylookedtenyearsyounger.

Duboschadoverheardpartofaconversationbetweenhimandthestranger.“Youhavesavedus,moncher,”saidtheGeneralemotionally,hisgreatwhitemoustachetremblingashespoke.“YouhavesavedthehonouroftheFrenchArmy—youhaveavertedmuchbloodshed!HowcanIthankyouforaccedingtomyrequest?Tohavecomesofar—”

Towhichthestranger(bynameM.HerculePoirot)hadmadeafittingreplyincludingthephrase,“ButindeeddoInotrememberthatonceyousavedmylife?”AndthentheGeneralhadmadeanotherfittingreplytothatdisclaiminganymeritforthatpastservice,andwithmorementionofFrance,ofBelgium,ofglory,ofhonourandofsuchkindredthingstheyhadembracedeachotherheartilyandtheconversationhadended.

Astowhatithadallbeenabout,LieutenantDuboscwasstillinthedark,buttohimhadbeendelegatedthedutyofseeingoffM.PoirotbytheTaurusExpress,andhewascarryingitoutwithallthezealandardourbefittingayoungofficerwithapromisingcareeraheadofhim.

“TodayisSunday,”saidLieutenantDubosc.“Tomorrow,Mondayevening,youwillbeinStamboul.”

Itwasnotthefirsttimehehadmadethisobservation.Conversationsontheplatform,beforethedepartureofatrain,areapttobesomewhatrepetitiveincharacter.

“Thatisso,”agreedM.Poirot.“Andyouintendtoremainthereafewdays,Ithink?”“Maisoui.Stamboul,itisacityIhavenevervisited.Itwouldbeapityto

passthrough—commeça.”Hesnappedhisfingersdescriptively.“Nothingpresses—Ishallremainthereasatouristforafewdays.”

“LaSainteSophie,itisveryfine,”saidLieutenantDubosc,whohadneverseenit.

Acoldwindcamewhistlingdowntheplatform.Bothmenshivered.LieutenantDuboscmanagedtocastasurreptitiousglanceathiswatch.Fiveminutestofive—onlyfiveminutesmore!

Fancyingthattheothermanhadnoticedhissurreptitiousglance,hehastenedoncemoreintospeech.

“Therearefewpeopletravellingthistimeofyear,”hesaid,glancingupatthewindowsofthesleepingcarabovethem.

“Thatisso,”agreedM.Poirot.“LetushopeyouwillnotbesnowedupintheTaurus!”“Thathappens?”“Ithasoccurred,yes.Notthisyear,asyet.”“Letushope,then,”saidM.Poirot.“TheweatherreportsfromEurope,they

arebad.”“Verybad.IntheBalkansthereismuchsnow.”“InGermanytoo,Ihaveheard.”“Ehbien,”saidLieutenantDuboschastilyasanotherpauseseemedtobe

abouttooccur.“Tomorroweveningatseven-fortyyouwillbeinConstantinople.”

“Yes,”saidM.Poirot,andwentondesperately,“LaSainteSophie,Ihavehearditisveryfine.”

“Magnificent,Ibelieve.”Abovetheirheadstheblindofoneofthesleepingcarcompartmentswas

pushedasideandayoungwomanlookedout.

MaryDebenhamhadhadlittlesleepsincesheleftBaghdadontheprecedingThursday.NeitherinthetraintoKirkuk,norintheRestHouseatMosul,norlastnightonthetrainhadshesleptproperly.Now,wearyoflyingwakefulinthehotstuffinessofheroverheatedcompartment,shegotupandpeeredout.

ThismustbeAleppo.Nothingtosee,ofcourse.Justalong,poor-lightedplatformwithloudfuriousaltercationsinArabicgoingonsomewhere.TwomenbelowherwindowweretalkingFrench.OnewasaFrenchofficer,theotherwasalittlemanwithenormousmoustaches.Shesmiledfaintly.Shehadneverseenanyonequitesoheavilymuffledup.Itmustbeverycoldoutside.Thatwaswhytheyheatedthetrainsoterribly.Shetriedtoforcethewindowdownlower,butitwouldnotgo.

TheWagonLitconductorhadcomeuptothetwomen.Thetrainwasabouttodepart,hesaid.Monsieurhadbettermount.Thelittlemanremovedhishat.Whatanegg-shapedheadhehad.InspiteofherpreoccupationsMaryDebenhamsmiled.Aridiculous-lookinglittleman.Thesortoflittlemanonecouldnevertakeseriously.

LieutenantDuboscwassayinghispartingspeech.Hehadthoughtitoutbeforehandandhadkeptittillthelastminute.Itwasaverybeautiful,polishedspeech.

Nottobeoutdone,M.Poirotrepliedinkind.“Envoiture,Monsieur,”saidtheWagonLitconductor.WithanairofinfinitereluctanceM.Poirotclimbedaboardthetrain.The

conductorclimbedafterhim.M.Poirotwavedhishand.LieutenantDubosccametothesalute.Thetrain,withaterrificjerk,movedslowlyforward.

“Enfin!”murmuredM.HerculePoirot.“Brrrrr,”saidLieutenantDubosc,realizingtothefullhowcoldhewas….

II

“Voilà,Monsieur.”TheconductordisplayedtoPoirotwithadramaticgesturethebeautyofhissleepingcompartmentandtheneatarrangementofhisluggage.“ThelittlevaliseofMonsieur,Ihaveplacedithere.”

Hisoutstretchedhandwassuggestive.HerculePoirotplacedinitafoldednote.

“Merci,Monsieur.”Theconductorbecamebriskandbusinesslike.“IhavetheticketsofMonsieur.Iwillalsotakethepassport,please.MonsieurbreakshisjourneyinStamboul,Iunderstand?”

M.Poirotassented.“Therearenotmanypeopletravelling,Iimagine?”hesaid.

“No,Monsieur.Ihaveonlytwootherpassengers—bothEnglish.AColonelfromIndia,andayoungEnglishladyfromBaghdad.Monsieurrequiresanything?”

MonsieurdemandedasmallbottleofPerrier.Fiveo’clockinthemorningisanawkwardtimetoboardatrain.Therewas

stilltwohoursbeforedawn.Consciousofaninadequatenight’ssleep,andofadelicatemissionsuccessfullyaccomplished,M.Poirotcurledupinacornerandfellasleep.

Whenheawokeitwashalf-pastnine,andhesalliedforthtotherestaurantcarinsearchofhotcoffee.

Therewasonlyoneoccupantatthemoment,obviouslytheyoungEnglishladyreferredtobytheconductor.Shewastall,slimanddark—perhapstwenty-eightyearsofage.Therewasakindofcoolefficiencyinthewayshewaseatingherbreakfastandinthewayshecalledtotheattendanttobringhermorecoffee,whichbespokeaknowledgeoftheworldandoftravelling.Sheworeadark-colouredtravellingdressofsomethinmaterialeminentlysuitablefortheheatedatmosphereofthetrain.

M.HerculePoirot,havingnothingbettertodo,amusedhimselfbystudyingherwithoutappearingtodoso.

Shewas,hejudged,thekindofyoungwomanwhocouldtakecareofherselfwithperfecteasewherevershewent.Shehadpoiseandefficiency.Heratherlikedthesevereregularityofherfeaturesandthedelicatepallorofherskin.Helikedtheburnishedblackheadwithitsneatwavesofhair,andhereyes,cool,impersonalandgrey.Butshewas,hedecided,justalittletooefficienttobewhathecalled“joliefemme.”

Presentlyanotherpersonenteredtherestaurantcar.Thiswasatallmanofbetweenfortyandfifty,leanoffigure,brownofskin,withhairslightlygrizzledroundthetemples.

“ThecolonelfromIndia,”saidPoirottohimself.Thenewcomergavealittlebowtothegirl.“Morning,MissDebenham.”“Goodmorning,ColonelArbuthnot.”TheColonelwasstandingwithahandonthechairoppositeher.“Anyobjection?”heasked.“Ofcoursenot.Sitdown.”“Well,youknow,breakfastisn’talwaysachattymeal.”“Ishouldhopenot.ButIdon’tbite.”TheColonelsatdown.“Boy,”hecalledinperemptoryfashion.

Hegaveanorderforeggsandcoffee.HiseyesrestedforamomentonHerculePoirot,buttheypassedon

indifferently.Poirot,readingtheEnglishmindcorrectly,knewthathehadsaidtohimself,“Onlysomedamnedforeigner.”

Truetotheirnationality,thetwoEnglishpeoplewerenotchatty.Theyexchangedafewbriefremarks,andpresentlythegirlroseandwentbacktohercompartment.

Atlunchtimetheothertwoagainsharedatableandagaintheybothcompletelyignoredthethirdpassenger.Theirconversationwasmoreanimatedthanatbreakfast.ColonelArbuthnottalkedofthePunjab,andoccasionallyaskedthegirlafewquestionsaboutBaghdadwhereitbecameclearthatshehadbeeninapostasgoverness.Inthecourseofconversationtheydiscoveredsomemutualfriendswhichhadtheimmediateeffectofmakingthemmorefriendlyandlessstiff.TheydiscussedoldTommySomebodyandJerrySomeoneElse.TheColonelinquiredwhethershewasgoingstraightthroughtoEnglandorwhethershewasstoppinginStamboul.

“No,I’mgoingstraighton.”“Isn’tthatratherapity?”“IcameoutthiswaytwoyearsagoandspentthreedaysinStamboulthen.”“Oh,Isee.Well,ImaysayI’mverygladyouaregoingrightthrough,

becauseIam.”Hemadeakindofclumsylittlebow,flushingalittleashedidso.“Heissusceptible,ourColonel,”thoughtHerculePoirottohimselfwith

someamusement.“Thetrain,itisasdangerousasaseavoyage!”MissDebenhamsaidevenlythatthatwouldbeverynice.Hermannerwas

slightlyrepressive.TheColonel,HerculePoirotnoticed,accompaniedherbacktoher

compartment.LatertheypassedthroughthemagnificentsceneryoftheTaurus.AstheylookeddowntowardstheCilicianGates,standinginthecorridorsidebyside,asighcamesuddenlyfromthegirl.Poirotwasstandingnearthemandheardhermurmur:

“It’ssobeautiful!Iwish—Iwish—”“Yes?”“Iwish,Icouldenjoyit!”Arbuthnotdidnotanswer.Thesquarelineofhisjawseemedalittlesterner

andgrimmer.“IwishtoHeavenyouwereoutofallthis,”hesaid.“Hush,please.Hush.”“Oh!it’sallright.”HeshotaslightlyannoyedglanceinPoirot’sdirection.

Thenhewenton:“ButIdon’tliketheideaofyourbeingagoverness—atthebeckandcalloftyrannicalmothersandtheirtiresomebrats.”

Shelaughedwithjustahintofuncontrolinthesound.“Oh!youmustn’tthinkthat.Thedowntroddengovernessisquitean

explodedmyth.Icanassureyouthatit’stheparentswhoareafraidofbeingbulliedbyme.”

Theysaidnomore.Arbuthnotwas,perhaps,ashamedofhisoutburst.“RatheranoddlittlecomedythatIwatchhere,”saidPoirottohimself

thoughtfully.Hewastorememberthatthoughtofhislater.TheyarrivedatKonyathatnightabouthalf-pasteleven.ThetwoEnglish

travellersgotouttostretchtheirlegs,pacingupanddownthesnowyplatform.M.Poirotwascontenttowatchtheteemingactivityofthestationthrougha

windowpane.Afterabouttenminutes,however,hedecidedthatabreathofairwouldnotperhapsbeabadthing,afterall.Hemadecarefulpreparations,wrappinghimselfinseveralcoatsandmufflersandencasinghisneatbootsingoloshes.Thusattiredhedescendedgingerlytotheplatformandbegantopaceitslength.Hewalkedoutbeyondtheengine.

Itwasthevoiceswhichgavehimthecluetothetwoindistinctfiguresstandingintheshadowofatrafficvan.Arbuthnotwasspeaking.

“Mary—”Thegirlinterruptedhim.“Notnow.Notnow.Whenit’sallover.Whenit’sbehindus—then—”DiscreetlyM.Poirotturnedaway.Hewondered.Hewouldhardlyhaverecognizedthecool,efficientvoiceofMiss

Debenham….“Curious,”hesaidtohimself.Thenextdayhewonderedwhether,perhaps,theyhadquarrelled.They

spokelittletoeachother.Thegirl,hethought,lookedanxious.Thereweredarkcirclesunderhereyes.

Itwasabouthalf-pasttwointheafternoonwhenthetraincametoahalt.Headswerepokedoutofwindows.Alittleknotofmenwereclusteredbythesideofthelinelookingandpointingatsomethingunderthediningcar.

PoirotleanedoutandspoketotheWagonLitconductorwhowashurryingpast.ThemanansweredandPoirotdrewbackhisheadand,turning,almostcollidedwithMaryDebenhamwhowasstandingjustbehindhim.

“Whatisthematter?”sheaskedratherbreathlesslyinFrench.“Whyarewestopping?”

“Itisnothing,Mademoiselle.Itissomethingthathascaughtfireunderthe

diningcar.Nothingserious.Itisputout.Theyarenowrepairingthedamage.Thereisnodanger,Iassureyou.”

Shemadealittleabruptgesture,asthoughshewerewavingtheideaofdangerasideassomethingcompletelyunimportant.

“Yes,yes,Iunderstandthat.Butthetime!”“Thetime?”“Yes,thiswilldelayus.”“Itispossible—yes,”agreedPoirot.“Butwecan’tafforddelay!Thetrainisdueinat6:55andonehastocross

theBosphorusandcatchtheSimplonOrientExpresstheothersideatnineo’clock.Ifthereisanhourortwoofdelayweshallmisstheconnection.”

“Itispossible,yes,”headmitted.Helookedathercuriously.Thehandthatheldthewindowbarwasnotquite

steady,herlipstooweretrembling.“Doesitmattertoyouverymuch,Mademoiselle?”heasked.“Yes.Yes,itdoes.I—Imustcatchthattrain.”SheturnedawayfromhimandwentdownthecorridortojoinColonel

Arbuthnot.Heranxiety,however,wasneedless.Tenminuteslaterthetrainstartedagain.

ItarrivedatHaydapassaronlyfiveminuteslate,havingmadeuptimeonthejourney.

TheBosphoruswasroughandM.Poirotdidnotenjoythecrossing.Hewasseparatedfromhistravellingcompanionsontheboat,anddidnotseethemagain.

OnarrivalattheGalataBridgehedrovestraighttotheTokatlianHotel.

Two

THETOKATLIANHOTEL

AttheTokatlian,HerculePoirotaskedforaroomwithbath.Thenhesteppedovertotheconcierge’sdeskandinquiredforletters.

Therewerethreewaitingforhimandatelegram.Hiseyebrowsrosealittleatthesightofthetelegram.Itwasunexpected.

Heopeneditinhisusualneat,unhurriedfashion.Theprintedwordsstoodoutclearly.

“DevelopmentyoupredictedinKassnerCasehascomeunexpectedlypleasereturnimmediately.”

“Voilàcequiestembêtant,”murmuredPoirotvexedly.Heglancedupattheclock.

“Ishallhavetogoontonight,”hesaidtotheconcierge.“AtwhattimedoestheSimplonOrientleave?”

“Atnineo’clock,Monsieur.”“Canyougetmeasleeper?”“Assuredly,Monsieur.Thereisnodifficultythistimeofyear.Thetrainsare

almostempty.First-classorsecond?”“First.”“Trèsbien,Monsieur.Howfarareyougoing?”“ToLondon.”“Bien,Monsieur.IwillgetyouatickettoLondonandreserveyoursleeping

caraccommodationintheStamboul-Calaiscoach.”Poirotglancedattheclockagain.Itwastenminutestoeight.“Ihavetimetodine?”“Butassuredly,Monsieur.”ThelittleBelgiannodded.Hewentoverandcancelledhisroomorderand

crossedthehalltotherestaurant.Ashewasgivinghisordertothewaiterahandwasplacedonhisshoulder.“Ah!monvieux,butthisisanunexpectedpleasure,”saidavoicebehind

him.Thespeakerwasashort,stoutelderlyman,hishaircutenbrosse.Hewas

smilingdelightedly.Poirotsprangup.“M.Bouc.”“M.Poirot.”M.BoucwasaBelgian,adirectoroftheCompagnieInternationaledes

WagonsLits,andhisacquaintancewiththeformerstaroftheBelgianPoliceForcedatedbackmanyyears.

“Youfindyourselffarfromhome,moncher,”saidM.Bouc.“AlittleaffairinSyria.”“Ah!Andyoureturnhome—when?”“Tonight.”“Splendid!I,too.Thatistosay,IgoasfarasLausanne,whereIhaveaffairs.

YoutravelontheSimplon-Orient,Ipresume?”“Yes.Ihavejustaskedthemtogetmeasleeper.Itwasmyintentionto

remainheresomedays,butIhavereceivedatelegramrecallingmetoEnglandonimportantbusiness.”

“Ah!”sighedM.Bouc.“Lesaffaires—lesaffaires!Butyou—youareatthetopofthetreenowadays,monvieux!”

“SomelittlesuccessIhavehad,perhaps.”HerculePoirottriedtolookmodestbutfailedsignally.

Bouclaughed.“Wewillmeetlater,”hesaid.HerculePoirotaddressedhimselftothetaskofkeepinghismoustachesout

ofthesoup.Thatdifficulttaskaccomplished,heglancedroundhimwhilstwaitingfor

thenextcourse.Therewereonlyabouthalfadozenpeopleintherestaurant,andofthosehalf-dozentherewereonlytwothatinterestedHerculePoirot.

Thesetwosatatatablenotfaraway.Theyoungerwasalikeable-lookingmanofthirty,clearlyanAmerican.Itwas,however,nothebuthiscompanionwhohadattractedthelittledetective’sattention.

Hewasamanofbetweensixtyandseventy.Fromalittledistancehehadtheblandaspectofaphilanthropist.Hisslightlybaldhead,hisdomedforehead,thesmilingmouththatdisplayedaverywhitesetoffalseteeth,allseemedtospeakofabenevolentpersonality.Onlytheeyesbeliedthisassumption.Theyweresmall,deepsetandcrafty.Notonlythat.Astheman,makingsomeremarktohisyoungcompanion,glancedacrosstheroom,hisgazestoppedonPoirotforamoment,andjustforthatsecondtherewasastrangemalevolence,andunnaturaltensityintheglance.

Thenherose.

“Paythebill,Hector,”hesaid.Hisvoicewasslightlyhuskyintone.Ithadaqueer,soft,dangerousquality.WhenPoirotrejoinedhisfriendinthelounge,theothertwomenwerejust

leavingthehotel.Theirluggagewasbeingbroughtdown.Theyoungerwassupervisingtheprocess.Presentlyheopenedtheglassdoorandsaid:

“Quitereadynow,Mr.Ratchett.”Theeldermangruntedanassentandpassedout.“Ehbien,”saidPoirot.“Whatdoyouthinkofthosetwo?”“TheyareAmericans,”saidM.Bouc.“AssuredlytheyareAmericans.Imeantwhatdidyouthinkoftheir

personalities?”“Theyoungmanseemedquiteagreeable.”“Andtheother?”“Totellyouthetruth,myfriend,Ididnotcareforhim.Heproducedonme

anunpleasantimpression.Andyou?”HerculePoirotwasamomentbeforereplying.“Whenhepassedmeintherestaurant,”hesaidatlast,“Ihadacurious

impression.Itwasasthoughawildanimal—ananimalsavage,butsavage!youunderstand—hadpassedmeby.”

“Andyethelookedaltogetherofthemostrespectable.”“Précisément!Thebody—thecage—iseverythingofthemostrespectable—

butthroughthebars,thewildanimallooksout.”“Youarefanciful,monvieux,”saidM.Bouc.“Itmaybeso.ButIcouldnotridmyselfoftheimpressionthatevilhad

passedmebyveryclose.”“ThatrespectableAmericangentleman?”“ThatrespectableAmericangentleman.”“Well,”saidM.Bouccheerfully.“Itmaybeso.Thereismuchevilinthe

world.”Atthatmomentthedooropenedandtheconciergecametowardsthem.He

lookedconcernedandapologetic.“Itisextraordinary,Monsieur,”hesaidtoPoirot.“Thereisnotonefirst-class

sleepingberthtobehadonthetrain.”“Comment?”criedM.Bouc.“Atthistimeofyear?Ah,withoutdoubtthere

issomepartyofjournalists—ofpoliticians—?”“Idon’tknow,sir,”saidtheconcierge,turningtohimrespectfully.“But

that’showitis.”“Well,well,”M.BoucturnedtoPoirot.“Havenofear,myfriend.Wewill

arrangesomething.Thereisalwaysonecompartment—theNo.16,whichisnot

engaged.Theconductorseestothat!”Hesmiled,thenglancedupattheclock.“Come,”hesaid,“itistimewestarted.”

AtthestationM.Boucwasgreetedwithrespectfulempressementbythebrown-uniformedWagonLitconductor.

“Goodevening,Monsieur.YourcompartmentistheNo.1.”Hecalledtotheportersandtheywheeledtheirloadhalf-wayalongthe

carriageonwhichthetinplatesproclaimeditsdestination:

ISTANBULTRIESTECALAIS

“Youarefulluptonight,Ihear?”“Itisincredible,Monsieur.Alltheworldelectstotraveltonight!”“Allthesame,youmustfindroomforthisgentlemanhere.Heisafriendof

mine.HecanhavetheNo.16.”“Itistaken,Monsieur.”“What?TheNo.16?”Aglanceofunderstandingpassedbetweenthem,andtheconductorsmiled.

Hewasatall,sallowmanofmiddleage.“Butyes,Monsieur.AsItoldyou,wearefull—full—everywhere.”“Butwhatpassesitself?”demandedM.Boucangrily.“Thereisaconference

somewhere?Itisaparty?”“No,Monsieur.Itisonlychance.Itjusthappensthatmanypeoplehave

electedtotraveltonight.”M.Boucmadeaclickingsoundofannoyance.“AtBelgrade,”hesaid,“therewillbetheslipcoachfromAthens.Therewill

alsobetheBucharest-Pariscoach—butwedonotreachBelgradeuntiltomorrowevening.Theproblemisfortonight.Thereisnosecond-classberthfree?”

“Thereisasecond-classberth,Monsieur—”“Well,then—”“Butitisalady’sberth.ThereisalreadyaGermanwomaninthe

compartment—alady’smaid.”“Là,là,thatisawkward,”saidM.Bouc.“Donotdistressyourself,myfriend,”saidPoirot.“Imusttravelinan

ordinarycarriage.”“Notatall.Notatall.”Heturnedoncemoretotheconductor.“Everyonehas

arrived?”“Itistrue,”saidtheman,“thatthereisonepassengerwhohasnotyet

arrived.”

Hespokeslowlywithhesitation.“Butspeakthen?”“No.7berth—asecond-class.Thegentlemanhasnotyetcome,anditisfour

minutestonine.”“Whoisit?”“AnEnglishman,”theconductorconsultedhislist.“AM.Harris.”“Anameofgoodomen,”saidPoirot.“IreadmyDickens.M.Harris,hewill

notarrive.”“PutMonsieur’sluggageinNo.7,”saidM.Bouc.“IfthisM.Harrisarrives

wewilltellhimthatheistoolate—thatberthscannotberetainedsolong—wewillarrangethematteronewayoranother.WhatdoIcareforaM.Harris?”

“AsMonsieurpleases,”saidtheconductor.HespoketoPoirot’sporter,directinghimwheretogo.ThenhestoodasidethestepstoletPoirotenterthetrain.“Toutàfaitau

bout,Monsieur,”hecalled.“Theendcompartmentbutone.”Poirotpassedalongthecorridor,asomewhatslowprogress,asmostofthe

peopletravellingwerestandingoutsidetheircarriages.Hispolite“Pardons”wereutteredwiththeregularityofclockwork.Atlast

hereachedthecompartmentindicated.Insideit,reachinguptoasuitcase,wasthetallyoungAmericanoftheTokatlian.

HefrownedasPoirotentered.“Excuseme,”hesaid.“Ithinkyou’vemadeamistake.”Then,laboriouslyin

French,“Jecroisquevousavezunerreur.”PoirotrepliedinEnglish.“YouareMr.Harris?”“No,mynameisMacQueen.I—”ButatthatmomentthevoiceoftheWagonLitconductorspokefromover

Poirot’sshoulder.Anapologetic,ratherbreathlessvoice.“Thereisnootherberthonthetrain,Monsieur.Thegentlemanhastocome

inhere.”Hewashaulingupthecorridorwindowashespokeandbegantoliftin

Poirot’sluggage.Poirotnoticedtheapologyinhistonewithsomeamusement.Doubtlessthe

manhadbeenpromisedagoodtipifhecouldkeepthecompartmentforthesoleuseoftheothertraveller.However,eventhemostmunificentoftipslosetheireffectwhenadirectorofthecompanyisonboardandissueshisorders.

Theconductoremergedfromthecompartment,havingswungthesuitcasesupontotheracks.

“VoilàMonsieur,”hesaid.“Allisarranged.Yoursistheupperberth,the

number7.Westartinoneminute.”Hehurriedoffdownthecorridor.Poirotreenteredthecompartment.“AphenomenonIhaveseldomseen,”hesaidcheerfully.“AWagonLit

conductorhimselfputsuptheluggage!Itisunheardof!”Hisfellowtravellersmiled.Hehadevidentlygotoverhisannoyance—had

probablydecidedthatitwasnogoodtotakethematterotherthanphilosophically.

“Thetrain’sremarkablyfull,”hesaid.Awhistleblew,therewasalong,melancholycryfromtheengine.Bothmen

steppedoutintothecorridor.Outsideavoiceshouted.“Envoiture.”“We’reoff,”saidMacQueen.Buttheywerenotquiteoff.Thewhistleblewagain.“Isay,sir,”saidtheyoungmansuddenly,“ifyou’dratherhavethelower

berth—easier,andallthat—well,that’sallrightbyme.”“No,no,”protestedPoirot.“Iwouldnotdepriveyou—”“That’sallright—”“Youaretooamiable—”Politeprotestsonbothsides.“Itisforonenightonly,”explainedPoirot.“AtBelgrade—”“Oh,Isee.You’regettingoutatBelgrade—”“Notexactly.Yousee—”Therewasasuddenjerk.Bothmenswungroundtothewindow,lookingout

atthelong,lightedplatformasitslidslowlypastthem.TheOrientExpresshadstartedonitsthree-days’journeyacrossEurope.

Three

POIROTREFUSESACASE

M.HerculePoirotwasalittlelateinenteringtheluncheon-caronthefollowingday.Hehadrisenearly,breakfastedalmostalone,andhadspentthemorninggoingoverthenotesofthecasethatwasrecallinghimtoLondon.Hehadseenlittleofhistravellingcompanion.

M.Bouc,whowasalreadyseated,gesticulatedagreetingandsummonedhisfriendtotheemptyplaceoppositehim.Poirotsatdownandsoonfoundhimselfinthefavouredpositionofthetablewhichwasservedfirstandwiththechoicestmorsels.Thefood,too,wasunusuallygood.

ItwasnottilltheywereeatingadelicatecreamcheesethatM.Boucallowedhisattentiontowandertomattersotherthannourishment.Hewasatthestageofamealwhenonebecomesphilosophic.

“Ah!”hesighed.“IfIhadbutthepenofaBalzac!Iwoulddepictthisscene.”

Hewavedhishand.“Itisanidea,that,”saidPoirot.“Ah,youagree?Ithasnotbeendone,Ithink?Andyet—itlendsitselfto

romance,myfriend.Allaroundusarepeople,ofallclasses,ofallnationalities,ofallages.Forthreedaysthesepeople,thesestrangerstooneanother,arebroughttogether.Theysleepandeatunderoneroof,theycannotgetawayfromeachother.Attheendofthreedaystheypart,theygotheirseveralways,never,perhaps,toseeeachotheragain.”

“Andyet,”saidPoirot,“supposeanaccident—”“Ahno,myfriend—”“Fromyourpointofviewitwouldberegrettable,Iagree.Butnevertheless

letusjustforonemomentsupposeit.Then,perhaps,alltheseherearelinkedtogether—bydeath.”

“Somemorewine,”saidM.Bouc,hastilypouringitout.“Youaremorbid,moncher.Itis,perhaps,thedigestion.”

“Itistrue,”agreedPoirot,“thatthefoodinSyriawasnot,perhaps,quitesuitedtomystomach.”

Hesippedhiswine.Then,leaningback,heranhiseyethoughtfullyroundthediningcar.Therewerethirteenpeopleseatedthereand,asM.Bouchadsaid,ofallclassesandnationalities.Hebegantostudythem.

Atthetableoppositethemwerethreemen.Theywere,heguessed,singletravellersgradedandplacedtherebytheunerringjudgmentoftherestaurantattendants.Abig,swarthyItalianwaspickinghisteethwithgusto.Oppositehimaspare,neatEnglishmanhadtheexpressionlessdisapprovingfaceofthewell-trainedservant.NexttotheEnglishmanwasabigAmericaninaloudsuit—possiblyacommercialtraveller.

“You’vegottoputitoverbig,”hewassayinginaloudnasalvoice.TheItalianremovedhistoothpicktogesticulatewithitfreely.“Sure,”hesaid.“ThatwhattaIsayalladetime.”TheEnglishmanlookedoutofthewindowandcoughed.Poirot’seyepassedon.Atasmalltable,sittingveryupright,wasoneoftheugliestoldladieshehad

everseen.Itwasanuglinessofdistinction—itfascinatedratherthanrepelled.Shesatveryupright.Roundherneckwasacollarofverylargepearlswhich,improbablethoughitseemed,werereal.Herhandswerecoveredwithrings.Hersablecoatwaspushedbackonhershoulders.Averysmallexpensiveblacktoquewashideouslyunbecomingtotheyellow,toad-likefacebeneathit.

Shewasspeakingnowtotherestaurantattendantinaclear,courteousbutcompletelyautocratictone.

“Youwillbesufficientlyamiabletoplaceinmycompartmentabottleofmineralwaterandalargeglassoforangejuice.YouwillarrangethatIshallhavechickencookedwithoutsaucesfordinnerthisevening—alsosomeboiledfish.”

Theattendantrepliedrespectfullythatitshouldbedone.Shegaveaslightgraciousnodoftheheadandrose.Herglancecaught

Poirot’sandsweptoverhimwiththenonchalanceoftheuninterestedaristocrat.“ThatisPrincessDragomiroff,”saidM.Boucinalowtone.“Sheisa

Russian.HerhusbandrealizedallthismoneybeforetheRevolutionandinvesteditabroad.Sheisextremelyrich.Acosmopolitan.”

Poirotnodded.HehadheardofPrincessDragomiroff.“Sheisapersonality,”saidM.Bouc.“Uglyassin,butshemakesherself

felt.Youagree?”Poirotagreed.AtanotherofthelargetablesMaryDebenhamwassittingwithtwoother

women.Oneofthemwasatallmiddle-agedwomaninaplaidblouseandtweedskirt.Shehadamassoffadedyellowhairunbecominglyarrangedinalargebun,woreglasses,andhadalong,mild,amiablefaceratherlikeasheep.Shewas

listeningtothethirdwoman,astout,pleasant-faced,elderlywomanwhowastalkinginaslowclearmonotonewhichshowednosignsofpausingforbreathorcomingtoastop.

“…Andsomydaughtersaid,‘Why,’shesaid‘youjustcan’tapplyAmurricanmethodsinthiscountry.It’sjustnaturaltothefolksheretobeindolent,’shesaid.‘Theyjusthaven’tgotanyhustleinthem.’Butallthesameyou’dbesurprisedtoknowwhatourcollegethereisdoing.They’vegottenafinestaffofteachers.Iguessthere’snothinglikeeducation.We’vegottoapplyourWesternidealsandteachtheEasttorecognizethem.Mydaughtersays—”

Thetrainplungedintoatunnel.Thecalmmonotonousvoicewasdrowned.Atthenexttable,asmallone,satColonelArbuthnot—alone.Hisgazewas

fixeduponthebackofMaryDebenham’shead.Theywerenotsittingtogether.Yetitcouldeasilyhavebeenmanaged.Why?

Perhaps,Poirotthought,MaryDebenhamhaddemurred.Agovernesslearnstobecareful.Appearancesareimportant.Agirlwithherlivingtogethastobediscreet.

Hisglanceshiftedtotheothersideofthecarriage.Atthefarend,againstthewall,wasamiddle-agedwomandressedinblackwithabroadexpressionlessface.GermanorScandinavian,hethought.ProbablyaGermanlady’smaid.

Afterhercameacoupleleaningforwardandtalkinganimatedlytogether.ThemanworeEnglishclothesofloosetweed—buthewasnotEnglish.ThoughonlythebackofhisheadwasvisibletoPoirot,theshapeofitandthesetoftheshouldersbetrayedhim.Abigman,wellmade.HeturnedhisheadsuddenlyandPoirotsawhisprofile.Averyhandsomemanofthirtyoddwithabigfairmoustache.

Thewomanoppositehimwasameregirl—twentyataguess.Atight-fittinglittleblackcoatandskirt,whitesatinblouse,smallchicblacktoqueperchedatthefashionableoutrageousangle.Shehadabeautifulforeign-lookingface,deadwhiteskin,largebrowneyes,jet-blackhair.Shewassmokingacigaretteinalongholder.Hermanicuredhandshaddeeprednails.Sheworeonelargeemeraldsetinplatinum.Therewascoquetryinherglanceandvoice.

“Elleestjolie—etchic,”murmuredPoirot.“Husbandandwife—eh?”M.Boucnodded.“HungarianEmbassy,Ibelieve,”hesaid.“Ahandsomecouple.”Therewereonlytwomorelunchers—Poirot’sfellowtravellerMacQueen

andhisemployerMr.Ratchett.ThelattersatfacingPoirot,andforthesecondtimePoirotstudiedthatunprepossessingface,notingthefalsebenevolenceofthebrowandthesmall,crueleyes.

DoubtlessM.Boucsawachangeinhisfriend’sexpression.

“Itisatyourwildanimalyoulook?”heasked.Poirotnodded.Ashiscoffeewasbroughttohim,M.Boucrosetohisfeet.Havingstarted

beforePoirot,hehadfinishedsometimeago.“Ireturntomycompartment,”hesaid.“Comealongpresentlyandconverse

withme.”“Withpleasure.”Poirotsippedhiscoffeeandorderedaliqueur.Theattendantwaspassing

fromtabletotablewithhisboxofmoney,acceptingpaymentforbills.TheelderlyAmericanlady’svoiceroseshrillandplaintive.

“Mydaughtersaid,‘Takeabookoffoodticketsandyou’llhavenotrouble—notroubleatall.’Now,thatisn’tso.Seemstheyhavetohaveatenpercenttip,andthenthere’sthatbottleofmineralwater—andaqueersortofwatertoo.Theyhadn’tgotanyEvianorVichy,whichseemsqueertome.”

“Itis—theymust—howyousay—servethewaterofthecountry,”explainedthesheep-facedlady.

“Well,itseemsqueertome.”Shelookeddistastefullyattheheapofsmallchangeonthetableinfrontofher.“Lookatallthispeculiarstuffhe’sgivenme.Dinarsorsomething.Justalotofrubbish,itlooks.Mydaughtersaid—”

MaryDebenhampushedbackherchairandleftwithaslightbowtotheothertwo.ColonelArbuthnotgotupandfollowedher.Gatheringupherdespisedmoney,theAmericanladyfollowedsuit,followedbytheladylikeasheep.TheHungarianshadalreadydeparted.TherestaurantcarwasemptysaveforPoirotandRatchettandMacQueen.

Ratchettspoketohiscompanion,whogotupandleftthecar.Thenherosehimself,butinsteadoffollowingMacQueenhedroppedunexpectedlyintotheseatoppositePoirot.

“Canyouobligemewithalight?”hesaid.Hisvoicewassoft—faintlynasal.“MynameisRatchett.”

Poirotbowedslightly.Heslippedhishandintohispocketandproducedamatchboxwhichhehandedtotheotherman,whotookitbutdidnotstrikealight.

“Ithink,”hewenton,“thatIhavethepleasureofspeakingtoM.HerculePoirot.Isthatso?”

Poirotbowedagain.“Youhavebeencorrectlyinformed,Monsieur.”Thedetectivewasconsciousofthosestrangeshrewdeyessumminghimup

beforetheotherspokeagain.“Inmycountry,”hesaid,“wecometothepointquickly.Mr.Poirot,Iwant

youtotakeonajobforme.”HerculePoirot’seyebrowswentupatrifle.“Myclientèle,Monsieur,islimitednowadays.Iundertakeveryfewcases.”“Why,naturally,Iunderstandthat.Butthis,Mr.Poirot,meansbigmoney.”

Herepeatedagaininhissoft,persuasivevoice,“Bigmoney.”HerculePoirotwassilentaminuteortwo,thenhesaid:“Whatisityouwishmetodoforyou,M.—er—Ratchett?”“Mr.Poirot,Iamarichman—averyrichman.Meninthatpositionhave

enemies.Ihaveanenemy.”“Onlyoneenemy?”“Justwhatdoyoumeanbythatquestion?”askedRatchettsharply.“Monsieur,inmyexperiencewhenamanisinapositiontohave,asyousay,

enemies,thenitdoesnotusuallyresolveitselfintooneenemyonly.”RatchettseemedrelievedbyPoirot’sanswer.Hesaidquickly:“Why,yes,Iappreciatethatpoint.Enemyorenemies—itdoesn’tmatter.

Whatdoesmatterismysafety.”“Safety?”“Mylifehasbeenthreatened,Mr.Poirot.Now,I’mamanwhocantake

prettygoodcareofhimself.”Fromthepocketofhiscoathishandbroughtasmallautomaticintosightforamoment.Hecontinuedgrimly.“Idon’tthinkI’mthekindofmantobecaughtnapping.ButasIlookatitImightaswellmakeassurancedoublysure.Ifancyyou’rethemanformymoney,Mr.Poirot.Andremember—bigmoney.”

Poirotlookedathimthoughtfullyforsomeminutes.Hisfacewascompletelyexpressionless.Theothercouldhavehadnoclueastowhatthoughtswerepassinginthatmind.

“Iregret,Monsieur,”hesaidatlength.“Icannotobligeyou.”Theotherlookedathimshrewdly.“Nameyourfigure,then,”hesaid.Poirotshookhishead.“Youdonotunderstand,Monsieur.Ihavebeenveryfortunateinmy

profession.Ihavemadeenoughmoneytosatisfybothmyneedsandmycaprices.Itakenowonlysuchcasesas—interestme.”

“You’vegotaprettygoodnerve,”saidRatchett.“Willtwentythousanddollarstemptyou?”

“Itwillnot.”“Ifyou’reholdingoutformore,youwon’tgetit.Iknowwhatathing’s

worthtome.”“Ialso—M.Ratchett.”

“What’swrongwithmyproposition?”Poirotrose.“Ifyouwillforgivemeforbeingpersonal—Idonotlikeyourface,M.

Ratchett,”hesaid.Andwiththathelefttherestaurantcar.

Four

ACRYINTHENIGHT

TheSimplonOrientExpressarrivedatBelgradeataquartertoninethatevening.Itwasnotduetodepartagainuntil9:15,soPoirotdescendedtotheplatform.Hedidnot,however,remaintherelong.Thecoldwasbitterandthoughtheplatformitselfwasprotected,heavysnowwasfallingoutside.Hereturnedtohiscompartment.Theconductor,whowasontheplatformstampinghisfeetandwavinghisarmstokeepwarm,spoketohim.

“Yourvaliseshavebeenmoved,Monsieur,tothecompartmentNo.1,thecompartmentofM.Bouc.”

“ButwhereisM.Bouc,then?”“HehasmovedintothecoachfromAthenswhichhasjustbeenputon.”Poirotwentinsearchofhisfriend.M.Boucwavedhisprotestationsaside.“Itisnothing.Itisnothing.Itismoreconvenientlikethis.Youaregoing

throughtoEngland,soitisbetterthatyoushouldstayinthethroughcoachtoCalais.Me,Iamverywellhere.Itismostpeaceful.ThiscoachisemptysaveformyselfandonelittleGreekdoctor.Ah!myfriend,whatanight!Theysaytherehasnotbeensomuchsnowforyears.Letushopeweshallnotbeheldup.Iamnottoohappyaboutit,Icantellyou.”

At9:15punctuallythetrainpulledoutofthestation,andshortlyafterwardsPoirotgotup,saidgoodnighttohisfriendandmadehiswayalongthecorridorbackintohisowncoachwhichwasinfrontnexttothediningcar.

Onthis,theseconddayofthejourney,barrierswerebreakingdown.ColonelArbuthnotwasstandingatthedoorofhiscompartmenttalkingtoMacQueen.

MacQueenbrokeoffsomethinghewassayingwhenhesawPoirot.Helookedverysurprised.

“Why,”hecried,“Ithoughtyou’dleftus.YousaidyouweregettingoffatBelgrade.”

“Youmisunderstoodme,”saidPoirot,smiling.“Iremembernow,thetrainstartedfromStambouljustasweweretalkingaboutit.”

“But,man,yourbaggage—it’sgone.”“Ithasbeenmovedintoanothercompartment—thatisall.”

“Oh,Isee.”HeresumedhisconversationwithArbuthnotandPoirotpassedondownthe

corridor.Twodoorsfromhisowncompartment,theelderlyAmericanlady,Mrs.

Hubbard,wasstandingtalkingtothesheep-likeladywhowasaSwede.Mrs.Hubbardwaspressingamagazineontheother.

“No,dotakeit,mydear,”shesaid.“I’vegotplentyotherthingstoread.My,isn’tthecoldsomethingfrightful?”ShenoddedamicablytoPoirot.

“Youaremostkind,”saidtheSwedishlady.“Notatall.Ihopeyou’llsleepwellandthatyourheadwillbebetterinthe

morning.”“Itisthecoldonly.Imakenowmyselfacupoftea.”“Haveyougotsomeaspirin?Areyousure,now?I’vegotplenty.Well,good

night,mydear.”SheturnedtoPoirotconversationallyastheotherwomandeparted.“Poorcreature,she’saSwede.AsfarasIcanmakeout,she’sakindof

missionary—ateachingone.Anicecreature,butdoesn’ttalkmuchEnglish.ShewasmostinterestedinwhatItoldheraboutmydaughter.”

Poirot,bynow,knewallaboutMrs.Hubbard’sdaughter.EveryoneonthetrainwhocouldunderstandEnglishdid!HowsheandherhusbandwereonthestaffofabigAmericancollegeinSmyrnaandhowthiswasMrs.Hubbard’sfirstjourneytotheEast,andwhatshethoughtoftheTurksandtheirslipshodwaysandtheconditionoftheirroads.

Thedoornexttothemopenedandthethin,palemanservantsteppedout.InsidePoirotcaughtaglimpseofMr.Ratchettsittingupinbed.HesawPoirotandhisfacechanged,darkeningwithanger.Thenthedoorwasshut.

Mrs.HubbarddrewPoirotalittleaside.“Youknow,I’mdeadscaredofthatman.Oh,notthevalet—theother—his

master.Master,indeed!There’ssomethingwrongaboutthatman.MydaughteralwayssaysI’mveryintuitive.‘WhenMommagetsahunch,she’sdeadright,’that’swhatmydaughtersays.AndI’vegotahunchaboutthatman.He’snextdoortome,andIdon’tlikeit.Iputmygripsagainstthecommunicatingdoorlastnight.IthoughtIheardhimtryingthehandle.Doyouknow,Ishouldn’tbesurprisedifthatmanturnsouttobeamurderer—oneofthesetrainrobbersyoureadabout.IdaresayI’mfoolish,butthereitis.I’mdownrightscaredoftheman!MydaughtersaidI’dhaveaneasyjourney,butsomehowIdon’tfeelhappyaboutit.Itmaybefoolish,butIfeelanythingmighthappen.Anythingatall.AndhowthatniceyoungfellowcanbeartobehissecretaryIcan’tthink.”

ColonelArbuthnotandMacQueenwerecomingtowardsthemdownthe

corridor.“Comeintomycarriage,”MacQueenwassaying.“Itisn’tmadeupforthe

nightyet.NowwhatIwanttogetrightaboutyourpolicyinIndiaisthis—”ThemenpassedandwentondownthecorridortoMacQueen’scarriage.Mrs.HubbardsaidgoodnighttoPoirot.“IguessI’llgorighttobedandread,”shesaid.“Goodnight.”“Goodnight,Madame.”Poirotpassedintohisowncompartment,whichwasthenextonebeyond

Ratchett’s.Heundressedandgotintobed,readforabouthalfanhourandthenturnedoutthelight.

Heawokesomehourslater,andawokewithastart.Heknewwhatitwasthathadwakenedhim—aloudgroan,almostacry,somewherecloseathand.Atthesamemomentthetingofabellsoundedsharply.

Poirotsatupandswitchedonthelight.Henoticedthatthetrainwasatastandstill—presumablyatastation.

Thatcryhadstartledhim.HerememberedthatitwasRatchettwhohadthenextcompartment.HegotoutofbedandopenedthedoorjustastheWagonLitconductorcamehurryingalongthecorridorandknockedonRatchett’sdoor.Poirotkepthisdooropenacrackandwatched.Theconductortappedasecondtime.Abellrangandalightshowedoveranotherdoorfartherdown.Theconductorglancedoverhisshoulder.

Atthesamemomentavoicefromwithinthenext-doorcompartmentcalledout:

“Cen’estrien.Jemesuistrompé.”“Bien,Monsieur.”Theconductorscurriedoffagain,toknockatthedoor

wherethelightwasshowing.Poirotreturnedtobed,hismindrelieved,andswitchedoffthelight.He

glancedathiswatch.Itwasjusttwenty-threeminutestoone.

Five

THECRIME

Hefounditdifficulttogotosleepagainatonce.Foronething,hemissedthemotionofthetrain.Ifitwasastationoutsideitwascuriouslyquiet.Bycontrast,thenoisesonthetrainseemedunusuallyloud.HecouldhearRatchettmovingaboutnextdoor—aclickashepulleddownthewashbasin,thesoundofthetaprunning,asplashingnoise,thenanotherclickasthebasinshuttoagain.Footstepspassedupthecorridoroutside,theshufflingfootstepsofsomeoneinbedroomslippers.

HerculePoirotlayawakestaringattheceiling.Whywasthestationoutsidesosilent?Histhroatfeltdry.Hehadforgottentoaskforhisusualbottleofmineralwater.Helookedathiswatchagain.Justafteraquarterpastone.Hewouldringfortheconductorandaskhimforsomemineralwater.Hisfingerwentouttothebell,buthepausedasinthestillnessheheardating.Themancouldn’tanswereverybellatonce.

Ting…ting…ting…Itsoundedagainandagain.Wherewastheman?Somebodywasgetting

impatient.Ting…Whoeveritwaswaskeepingtheirfingersolidlyonthepush.Suddenlywitharush,hisfootstepsechoinguptheaisle,themancame.He

knockedatadoornotfarfromPoirot’sown.Thencamevoices—theconductor’s,deferential,apologetic,andawoman’s

—insistentandvoluble.Mrs.Hubbard.Poirotsmiledtohimself.Thealtercation—ifitwasone—wentonforsometime.It’sproportionswere

ninetypercentofMrs.Hubbard’stoasoothingtenpercentoftheconductor’s.Finallythematterseemedtobeadjusted.Poirothearddistinctly:

“Bonnenuit,Madame,”andaclosingdoor.Hepressedhisownfingeronthebell.Theconductorarrivedpromptly.Helookedhotandworried.

“Del’eauminerale,s’ilvousplait.”“Bien,Monsieur.”PerhapsatwinkleinPoirot’seyeledhimtounburden

himself.“LaDameAmericaine—”“Yes?”Hewipedhisforehead.“ImaginetoyourselfthetimeIhavehadwithher!Sheinsists—butinsists—

thatthereisamaninhercompartment!Figuretoyourself,Monsieur.Inaspaceofthissize.”Hesweptahandround.“Wherewouldheconcealhimself?Iarguewithher.Ipointoutthatitisimpossible.Sheinsists.Shewokeupandtherewasamanthere.Andhow,Iask,didhegetoutandleavethedoorboltedbehindhim?Butshewillnotlistentoreason.Asthough,therewerenotenoughtoworryusalready.Thissnow—”

“Snow?”“Butyes,Monsieur.Monsieurhasnotnoticed?Thetrainhasstopped.We

haverunintoasnowdrift.Heavenknowshowlongweshallbehere.Irememberoncebeingsnowedupforsevendays.”

“Wherearewe?”“BetweenVincoviandBrod.”“Làlà,”saidPoirotvexedly.Themanwithdrewandreturnedwiththewater.“Bonsoir,Monsieur.”Poirotdrankaglassofwaterandcomposedhimselftosleep.Hewasjustdroppingoffwhensomethingagainwokehim.Thistimeitwas

asthoughsomethingheavyhadfallenwithathudagainstthedoor.Hesprangup,openeditandlookedout.Nothing.Buttohisrightsomeway

downthecorridorawomanwrappedinascarletkimonowasretreatingfromhim.Attheotherend,sittingonhislittleseat,theconductorwasenteringupfiguresonlargesheetsofpaper.Everythingwasdeathlyquiet.

“DecidedlyIsufferfromthenerves,”saidPoirotandretiredtobedagain.Thistimeheslepttillmorning.

Whenheawokethetrainwasstillatastandstill.Heraisedablindandlookedout.Heavybanksofsnowsurroundedthetrain.

Heglancedathiswatchandsawthatitwaspastnineo’clock.Ataquartertoten,neat,spruce,anddandifiedasever,hemadehiswayto

therestaurantcar,whereachorusofwoewasgoingon.Anybarrierstheremighthavebeenbetweenthepassengershadnowquite

brokendown.Allwereunitedbyacommonmisfortune.Mrs.Hubbardwasloudestinherlamentations.

“Mydaughtersaiditwouldbetheeasiestwayintheworld.JustsitinthetrainuntilIgottoParrus.Andnowwemaybeherefordaysanddays,”shewailed.“Andmyboatsailsthedayaftertomorrow.HowamIgoingtocatchitnow?Why,Ican’tevenwiretocancelmypassage.Ifeeltoomadtotalkaboutit.”

TheItaliansaidthathehadurgentbusinesshimselfinMilan.ThelargeAmericansaidthatthatwas“toobad,Ma’am,”andsoothinglyexpressedahopethatthetrainmightmakeuptime.

“Mysister—herchildrenwaitme,”saidtheSwedishladyandwept.“Igetnowordtothem.Whattheythink?Theywillsaybadthingshavehappentome.”

“Howlongshallwebehere?”demandedMaryDebenham.“Doesn’tanybodyknow?”

Hervoicesoundedimpatient,butPoirotnotedthattherewerenosignsofthatalmostfeverishanxietywhichshehaddisplayedduringthechecktotheTaurusExpress.

Mrs.Hubbardwasoffagain.“Thereisn’tanybodyknowsathingonthistrain.Andnobody’stryingtodo

anything.Justapackofuselessforeigners.Why,ifthiswereathome,there’dbesomeoneatleasttryingtodosomething.”

ArbuthnotturnedtoPoirotandspokeincarefulBritishFrench.“Vousêtesundirecteurdelaligne,jecrois,Monsieur.Vouspouveznous

dire—”SmilingPoirotcorrectedhim.“No,no,”hesaidinEnglish.“ItisnotI.Youconfoundmewithmyfriend

M.Bouc.”“Oh!I’msorry.”“Notatall.Itismostnatural.Iamnowinthecompartmentthathehad

formerly.”M.Boucwasnotpresentintherestaurantcar.Poirotlookedabouttonotice

whoelsewasabsent.PrincessDragomiroffwasmissingandtheHungariancouple.AlsoRatchett,

hisvalet,andtheGermanlady’smaid.TheSwedishladywipedhereyes.“Iamfoolish,”shesaid.“Iambabytocry.Allforthebest,whatever

happen.”ThisChristianspirit,however,wasfarfrombeingshared.“That’sallverywell,”saidMacQueenrestlessly.“Wemaybeherefordays.”“Whatisthiscountryanyway?”demandedMrs.Hubbardtearfully.

OnbeingtolditwasYugo-Slaviashesaid:“Oh!oneoftheseBalkanthings.Whatcanyouexpect?”“Youaretheonlypatientone,Mademoiselle,”saidPoirottoMiss

Debenham.Sheshruggedhershouldersslightly.“Whatcanonedo?”“Youareaphilosopher,Mademoiselle.”“Thatimpliesadetachedattitude.Ithinkmyattitudeismoreselfish.Ihave

learnedtosavemyselfuselessemotion.”Shewasnotevenlookingathim.Hergazewentpasthim,outofthewindow

towherethesnowlayinheavymasses.“Youareastrongcharacter,Mademoiselle,”saidPoirotgently.“Youare,I

think,thestrongestcharacteramongstus.”“Oh,no.No,indeed.IknowonefarfarstrongerthanIam.”“Andthatis—?”Sheseemedsuddenlytocometoherself,torealizethatshewastalkingtoa

strangerandaforeignerwithwhom,untilthismorning,shehadonlyexchangedhalfadozensentences.

Shelaughedapolitebutestranginglaugh.“Well—thatoldlady,forinstance.Youhaveprobablynoticedher.Avery

uglyoldlady,butratherfascinating.Shehasonlytoliftalittlefingerandaskforsomethinginapolitevoice—andthewholetrainruns.”

“ItrunsalsoformyfriendM.Bouc,”saidPoirot.“Butthatisbecauseheisadirectoroftheline,notbecausehehasamasterfulcharacter.”

MaryDebenhamsmiled.Themorningworeaway.Severalpeople,Poirotamongstthem,remainedin

thediningcar.Thecommunallifewasfelt,atthemoment,topassthetimebetter.HeheardagooddealmoreaboutMrs.Hubbard’sdaughterandheheardthelifelonghabitsofMr.Hubbard,deceased,fromhisrisinginthemorningandcommencingbreakfastwithacerealtohisfinalrestatnightinthebedsocksthatMrs.Hubbardherselfhadbeeninthehabitofknittingforhim.

ItwaswhenhewaslisteningtoaconfusedaccountofthemissionaryaimsoftheSwedishladythatoneoftheWagonLitconductorscameintothecarandstoodathiselbow.

“Pardon,Monsieur.”“Yes?”“ThecomplimentsofM.Bouc,andhewouldbegladifyouwouldbeso

kindastocometohimforafewminutes.”Poirotrose,utteredexcusestotheSwedishladyandfollowedthemanoutof

thediningcar.Itwasnothisownconductor,butabigfairman.Hefollowedhisguidedownthecorridorofhisowncarriageandalongthe

corridorofthenextone.Themantappedatadoor,thenstoodasidetoletPoirotenter.

ThecompartmentwasnotM.Bouc’sown.Itwasasecond-classone—chosenpresumablybecauseofitsslightlylargersize.Itcertainlygavetheimpressionofbeingcrowded.

M.Bouchimselfwassittingonthesmallseatintheoppositecorner.Inthecornernextthewindowfacinghimwasasmall,darkmanlookingoutatthesnow.StandingupandquitepreventingPoirotfromadvancinganyfartherwasabigmaninblueuniform(thechefdetrain)andhisownWagonLitconductor.

“Ah,mygoodfriend,”criedM.Bouc.“Comein.Wehaveneedofyou.”Thelittlemaninthewindowshiftedalongtheseat,Poirotsqueezedpastthe

othertwomenandsatdownfacinghisfriend.TheexpressiononM.Bouc’sfacegavehim,ashewouldhaveexpressedit,

furiouslytothink.Itwasclearthatsomethingoutofthecommonhadhappened.“Whathasoccurred?”heasked.“Youmaywellaskthat.Firstthissnow—thisstoppage.Andnow—”Hepaused—andasortofstrangledgaspcamefromtheWagonLit

conductor.“Andnowwhat?”“Andnowapassengerliesdeadinhisberth—stabbed.”M.Boucspokewithakindofcalmdesperation.“Apassenger?Whichpassenger?”“AnAmerican.Amancalled—called—”heconsultedsomenotesinfrontof

him.“Ratchett—thatisright—Ratchett?”“Yes,Monsieur,”theWagonLitmangulped.Poirotlookedathim.Hewasaswhiteaschalk.“Youhadbetterletthatmansitdown,”hesaid.“Hemayfaintotherwise.”ThechefdetrainmovedslightlyandtheWagonLitmansankdowninthe

cornerandburiedhisfaceinhishands.“Brr!”saidPoirot.“Thisisserious!”“Certainlyitisserious.Tobeginwith,amurder—thatbyitselfisacalamity

ofthefirstwater.Butnotonlythat,thecircumstancesareunusual.Hereweare,broughttoastandstill.Wemaybehereforhours—andnotonlyhours—days!Anothercircumstance.Passingthroughmostcountrieswehavethepoliceofthatcountryonthetrain.ButinYugoslavia—no.Youcomprehend?”

“Itisapositionofgreatdifficulty,”saidPoirot.

“Thereisworsetocome.Dr.Constantine—Iforgot,Ihavenotintroducedyou—Dr.Constantine,M.Poirot.”

ThelittledarkmanbowedandPoirotreturnedit.“Dr.Constantineisoftheopinionthatdeathoccurredatabout1a.m.”“Itisdifficulttosayexactlyinthesematters,”saidthedoctor,“butIthinkI

cansaydefinitelythatdeathoccurredbetweenmidnightandtwointhemorning.”

“WhenwasthisM.Ratchettlastseenalive?”askedPoirot.“Heisknowntohavebeenaliveatabouttwentyminutestoone,whenhe

spoketotheconductor,”saidM.Bouc.“Thatisquitecorrect,”saidPoirot.“Imyselfheardwhatpassed.Thatisthe

lastthingknown?”“Yes.”Poirotturnedtowardthedoctor,whocontinued:“ThewindowofM.Ratchett’scompartmentwasfoundwideopen,leading

onetosupposethatthemurdererescapedthatway.Butinmyopinionthatopenwindowisablind.Anyonedepartingthatwaywouldhaveleftdistincttracesinthesnow.Therewerenone.”

“Thecrimewasdiscovered—when?”askedPoirot.“Michel!”TheWagonLitconductorsatup.Hisfacestilllookedpaleandfrightened.“Tellthisgentlemanexactlywhatoccurred,”orderedM.Bouc.Themanspokesomewhatjerkily.“ThevaletofthisM.Ratchett,hetappedseveraltimesatthedoorthis

morning.Therewasnoanswer.Then,halfanhourago,therestaurantcarattendantcame.HewantedtoknowifMonsieurwastakingdéjeuner.Itwaseleveno’clock,youcomprehend.

“Iopenthedoorforhimwithmykey.Butthereisachain,too,andthatisfastened.Thereisnoansweranditisverystillinthere,andcold—butcold.Withthewindowopenandsnowdriftingin.Ithoughtthegentlemanhadhadafit,perhaps.Igotthechefdetrain.Webrokethechainandwentin.Hewas—Ah!c’étaitterrible!”

Heburiedhisfaceinhishandsagain.“Thedoorwaslockedandchainedontheinside,”saidPoirotthoughtfully.

“Itwasnotsuicide—eh?”TheGreekdoctorgaveasardoniclaugh.“Doesamanwhocommitssuicidestabhimselfinten—twelve—fifteen

places?”heasked.Poirot’seyesopened.

“Thatisgreatferocity,”hesaid.“Itisawoman,”saidthechefdetrain,speakingforthefirsttime.“Depend

uponit,itwasawoman.Onlyawomanwouldstablikethat.”Dr.Constantinescreweduphisfacethoughtfully.“Shemusthavebeenaverystrongwoman,”hesaid.“Itisnotmydesireto

speaktechnically—thatisonlyconfusing—butIcanassureyouthatoneortwooftheblowsweredeliveredwithsuchforceastodrivethemthroughhardbeltsofboneandmuscle.”

“Itwasnot,clearly,ascientificcrime,”saidPoirot.“Itwasmostunscientific,”saidDr.Constantine.“Theblowsseemtohave

beendeliveredhaphazardandatrandom.Somehaveglancedoff,doinghardlyanydamage.Itisasthoughsomebodyhadshuttheireyesandtheninafrenzystruckblindlyagainandagain.”

“C’estunefemme,”saidthechefdetrainagain.“Womenarelikethat.Whentheyareenragedtheyhavegreatstrength.”Henoddedsosagelythateveryonesuspectedapersonalexperienceofhisown.

“Ihave,perhaps,somethingtocontributetoyourstoreofknowledge,”saidPoirot.“M.Ratchettspoketomeyesterday.Hetoldme,asfarasIwasabletounderstandhim,thathewasindangerofhislife.”

“‘Bumpedoff’—thatistheAmericanexpression,isitnot?”saidM.Bouc.“Thenitisnotawoman.Itisa‘Gangster’ora‘gunman.’”

Thechefdetrainlookedpainedathistheoryhavingcometonaught.“Ifso,”saidPoirot,“itseemstohavebeendoneveryamateurishly.”Histoneexpressedprofessionaldisapproval.“ThereisalargeAmericanonthetrain,”saidM.Bouc,pursuinghisidea

—“acommon-lookingmanwithterribleclothes.HechewsthegumwhichIbelieveisnotdoneingoodcircles.YouknowwhomImean?”

TheWagonLitconductortowhomhehadappealednodded.“Oui,Monsieur,theNo.16.Butitcannothavebeenhe.Ishouldhaveseen

himenterorleavethecompartment.”“Youmightnot.Youmightnot.Butwewillgointothatpresently.The

questionis,whattodo?”HelookedatPoirot.Poirotlookedbackathim.“Come,myfriend,”saidM.Bouc.“YoucomprehendwhatIamabouttoask

ofyou.Iknowyourpowers.Takecommandofthisinvestigation!No,no,donotrefuse.See,tousitisserious—IspeakfortheCompagnieInternationaledesWagonsLits.BythetimetheYugo-Slavianpolicearrive,howsimpleifwecanpresentthemwiththesolution!Otherwisedelays,annoyances,amillionandoneinconveniences.Perhaps,whoknows,seriousannoyancetoinnocentpersons.

Instead—yousolvethemystery!Wesay,‘Amurderhasoccurred—thisisthecriminal!’”

“AndsupposeIdonotsolveit?”“Ah!moncher.”M.Bouc’svoicebecamepositivelycaressing.“Iknowyour

reputation.Iknowsomethingofyourmethods.Thisistheidealcaseforyou.Tolookuptheantecedentsofallthesepeople,todiscovertheirbonafides—allthattakestimeandendlessinconvenience.ButhaveInotheardyousayoftenthattosolveacaseamanhasonlytoliebackinhischairandthink?Dothat.Interviewthepassengersonthetrain,viewthebody,examinewhatcluesthereareandthen—well,Ihavefaithinyou!Iamassuredthatitisnoidleboastofyours.Liebackandthink—use(asIhaveheardyousaysooften)thelittlegreycellsofthemind—andyouwillknow!”

Heleanedforward,lookingaffectionatelyathisfriend.“Yourfaithtouchesme,myfriend,”saidPoirotemotionally.“Asyousay,

thiscannotbeadifficultcase.Imyself,lastnight—butwewillnotspeakofthatnow.Intruth,thisproblemintriguesme.Iwasreflecting,nothalfanhourago,thatmanyhoursofboredomlayaheadwhilstwearestuckhere.Andnow—aproblemliesreadytomyhand.”

“Youacceptthen?”saidM.Bouceagerly.“C’estentendu.Youplacethematterinmyhands.”“Good—weareallatyourservice.”“Tobeginwith,IshouldlikeaplanoftheIstanbul-Calaiscoach,withanote

ofthepeoplewhooccupiedtheseveralcompartments,andIshouldalsoliketoseetheirpassportsandtheirtickets.”

“Michelwillgetyouthose.”TheWagonLitconductorleftthecompartment.“Whatotherpassengersarethereonthetrain?”askedPoirot.“InthiscoachDr.ConstantineandIaretheonlytravellers.Inthecoachfrom

Bucharestisanoldgentlemanwithalameleg.Heiswellknowntotheconductor.Beyondthataretheordinarycarriages,butthesedonotconcernus,sincetheywerelockedafterdinnerhadbeenservedlastnight.ForwardoftheIstanbul-Calaiscoachthereisonlythediningcar.”

“Thenitseems,”saidPoirotslowly,“asthoughwemustlookforourmurdererintheIstanbul-Calaiscoach.”Heturnedtothedoctor.“Thatiswhatyouwerehinting,Ithink?”

TheGreeknodded.“Athalfanhouraftermidnightweranintothesnowdrift.Noonecanhave

leftthetrainsincethen.”M.Boucsaidsolemnly.

“Themurdereriswithus—onthetrainnow….”

Six

AWOMAN?

Firstofall,”saidPoirot,“IshouldlikeawordortwowithyoungM.MacQueen.Hemaybeabletogiveusvaluableinformation.”

“Certainly,”saidM.Bouc.Heturnedtothechefdetrain.“GetM.MacQueentocomehere.”Thechefdetrainleftthecarriage.Theconductorreturnedwithabundleofpassportsandtickets.M.Bouctook

themfromhim.“Thankyou,Michel.Itwouldbebestnow,Ithink,ifyouweretogobackto

yourpost.Wewilltakeyourevidenceformallylater.”“Verygood,Monsieur.”Michelinhisturnleftthecarriage.“AfterwehaveseenyoungMacQueen,”saidPoirot,“perhapsM.ledocteur

willcomewithmetothedeadman’scarriage.”“Certainly.”“Afterwehavefinishedthere—”ButatthismomentthechefdetrainreturnedwithHectorMacQueen.M.Boucrose.“Wearealittlecrampedhere,”hesaidpleasantly.“Takemyseat,M.

MacQueen.M.Poirotwillsitoppositeyou—so.”Heturnedtothechefdetrain.“Clearallthepeopleoutoftherestaurantcar,”hesaid,“andletitbeleftfree

forM.Poirot.Youwillconductyourinterviewsthere,moncher?”“Itwouldbethemostconvenient,yes,”agreedPoirot.MacQueenhadstoodlookingfromonetotheother,notquitefollowingthe

rapidflowofFrench.“Qu’estcequ’ilya?”hebeganlaboriously.“Pourquoi—?”WithavigorousgesturePoirotmotionedhimtotheseatinthecorner.He

tookitandbeganoncemore.“Pourquoi—?”then,checkinghimselfandrelapsingintohisowntongue,

“What’suponthetrain?Hasanythinghappened?”Helookedfromonemantoanother.Poirotnodded.“Exactly.Somethinghashappened.Prepareyourselfforashock.Your

employer,M.Ratchett,isdead!”MacQueen’smouthpurseditselfinawhistle.Exceptthathiseyesgrewa

shadebrighter,heshowednosignsofshockordistress.“Sotheygothimafterall,”hesaid.“Whatexactlydoyoumeanbythatphrase,M.MacQueen?”MacQueen

hesitated.“Youareassuming,”saidPoirot,“thatM.Ratchettwasmurdered?”“Wasn’the?”ThistimeMacQueendidshowsurprise.“Why,yes,”hesaid

slowly.“That’sjustwhatIdidthink.Doyoumeanhejustdiedinhissleep?Why,theoldmanwasastoughas—astough—”

Hestopped,atalossforasimile.“No,no,”saidPoirot.“Yourassumptionwasquiteright.Mr.Ratchettwas

murdered.Stabbed.ButIshouldliketoknowwhyyouweresosureitwasmurder,andnotjust—death.”

MacQueenhesitated.“Imustgetthisclear,”hesaid.“Whoexactlyareyou?Andwheredoyou

comein?”“IrepresenttheCompagnieInternationaledesWagonsLits.”Hepaused,

thenadded,“Iamadetective.MynameisHerculePoirot.”Ifheexpectedaneffecthedidnotgetone.MacQueensaidmerely,“Oh,

yes?”andwaitedforhimtogoon.“Youknowthename,perhaps.”“Why,itdoesseemkindoffamiliar—onlyIalwaysthoughtitwasa

woman’sdressmaker.”HerculePoirotlookedathimwithdistaste.“Itisincredible!”hesaid.“What’sincredible?”“Nothing.Letusadvancewiththematterinhand.Iwantyoutotellme,M.

MacQueen,allthatyouknowaboutthedeadman.Youwerenotrelatedtohim?”“No.Iam—was—hissecretary.”“Forhowlonghaveyouheldthatpost?”“Justoverayear.”“Pleasegivemealltheinformationyoucan.”“Well,ImetMr.RatchettjustoverayearagowhenIwasinPersia—”Poirotinterrupted.

“Whatwereyoudoingthere?”“IhadcomeoverfromNewYorktolookintoanoilconcession.Idon’t

supposeyouwanttohearallaboutthat.MyfriendsandIhadbeenletinratherbadlyoverit.Mr.Ratchettwasinthesamehotel.Hehadjusthadarowwithhissecretary.HeofferedmethejobandItookit.Iwasatalooseend,andgladtofindawell-paidjobreadymade,asitwere.”

“Andsincethen?”“We’vetravelledabout.Mr.Ratchettwantedtoseetheworld.Hewas

hamperedbyknowingnolanguages.Iactedmoreasacourierthanasasecretary.Itwasapleasantlife.”

“Nowtellmeasmuchasyoucanaboutyouremployer.”Theyoungmanshruggedhisshoulders.Aperplexedexpressionpassedover

hisface.“That’snotsoeasy.”“Whatwashisfullname?”“SamuelEdwardRatchett.”“HewasanAmericancitizen?”“Yes.”“WhatpartofAmericadidhecomefrom?”“Idon’tknow.”“Well,tellmewhatyoudoknow.”“Theactualtruthis,Mr.Poirot,thatIknownothingatall!Mr.Ratchett

neverspokeofhimself,orofhislifeinAmerica.”“Whydoyouthinkthatwas?”“Idon’tknow.Iimaginedthathemighthavebeenashamedofhis

beginnings.Somemenare.”“Doesthatstrikeyouasasatisfactorysolution?”“Frankly,itdoesn’t.”“Hasheanyrelations?”“Henevermentionedany.”Poirotpressedthepoint.“Youmusthaveformedsometheory,M.MacQueen.”“Well,yes,Idid.Foronething,Idon’tbelieveRatchettwashisrealname.I

thinkheleftAmericadefinitelyinordertoescapesomeoneorsomething.Ithinkhewassuccessful—untilafewweeksago.”

“Andthen?”“Hebegantogetletters—threateningletters.”“Didyouseethem?”“Yes.Itwasmybusinesstoattendtohiscorrespondence.Thefirstletter

cameafortnightago.”“Weretheselettersdestroyed?”“No,IthinkI’vegotacouplestillinmyfiles—oneIknowRatchetttoreup

inarage.ShallIgetthemforyou?”“Ifyouwouldbesogood.”MacQueenleftthecompartment.Hereturnedafewminuteslaterandlaid

downtwosheetsofratherdirtynotepaperbeforePoirot.Thefirstletterranasfollows:

“Thoughtyou’ddoublecrossusandgetawaywithit,didyou?Notonyourlife.We’reouttoGETyou,Ratchett,andweWILLgetyou!”

Therewasnosignature.Withnocommentbeyondraisedeyebrows,Poirotpickedupthesecond

letter.

“We’regoingtotakeyouforaride,Ratchett.Sometimesoon.We’regoingtoGETyou,see?”

Poirotlaidtheletterdown.“Thestyleismonotonous!”hesaid.“Moresothanthehandwriting.”MacQueenstaredathim.“Youwouldnotobserve,”saidPoirotpleasantly.“Itrequirestheeyeofone

usedtosuchthings.Thisletterwasnotwrittenbyoneperson,M.MacQueen.Twoormorepersonswroteit—eachwritingaletterofawordatatime.Also,thelettersareprinted.Thatmakesthetaskofidentifyingthehandwritingmuchmoredifficult.”

Hepaused,thensaid:“DidyouknowthatM.Ratchetthadappliedforhelptome?”“Toyou?”MacQueen’sastonishedtonetoldPoirotquitecertainlythattheyoungman

hadnotknownofit.Henodded.“Yes.Hewasalarmed.Tellme,howdidheactwhenhereceivedthefirst

letter?”MacQueenhesitated.“It’sdifficulttosay.He—he—passeditoffwithalaughinthatquietwayof

his.Butsomehow”—hegaveaslightshiver—“Ifeltthattherewasagooddeal

goingonunderneaththequietness.”Poirotnodded.Thenheaskedanunexpectedquestion.“Mr.MacQueen,willyoutellme,quitehonestly,exactlyhowyouregarded

youremployer?Didyoulikehim?”HectorMacQueentookamomentortwobeforereplying.“No,”hesaidatlast.“Ididnot.”“Why?”“Ican’texactlysay.Hewasalwaysquitepleasantinhismanner.”He

paused,thensaid,“I’lltellyouthetruth,Mr.Poirot.Idislikedanddistrustedhim.Hewas,Iamsure,acruelandadangerousman.Imustadmit,though,thatIhavenoreasonstoadvanceformyopinion.”

“Thankyou,M.MacQueen.Onefurtherquestion—whendidyoulastseeM.Ratchettalive?”

“Lasteveningabout”—hethoughtforaminute—“teno’clock,Ishouldsay.Iwentintohiscompartmenttotakedownsomememorandafromhim.”

“Onwhatsubject?”“SometilesandantiquepotterythatheboughtinPersia.Whatwasdelivered

wasnotwhathehadpurchased.Therehasbeenalong,vexatiouscorrespondenceonthesubject.”

“AndthatwasthelasttimeM.Ratchettwasseenalive?”“Yes,Isupposeso.”“DoyouknowwhenM.Ratchettreceivedthelastthreateningletter?”“OnthemorningofthedayweleftConstantinople.”“ThereisonemorequestionImustaskyou,M.MacQueen:wereyouon

goodtermswithyouremployer?”Theyoungman’seyestwinkledsuddenly.“ThisiswhereI’msupposedtogoallgoosefleshydowntheback.Inthe

wordsofabestseller,‘You’venothingonme.’RatchettandIwereonperfectlygoodterms.”

“Perhaps,M.MacQueen,youwillgivemeyourfullnameandyouraddressinAmerica.”

MacQueengavehisname—HectorWillardMacQueen,andanaddressinNewYork.

Poirotleanedbackagainstthecushions.“Thatisallforthepresent,M.MacQueen,”hesaid.“Ishouldbeobligedif

youwouldkeepthematterofM.Ratchett’sdeathtoyourselfforalittletime.”“Hisvalet,Masterman,willhavetoknow.”“Heprobablyknowsalready,”saidPoirotdryly.“Ifsotrytogethimtohold

histongue.”

“Thatoughtn’ttobedifficult.He’saBritisher,anddoeswhathecalls‘Keepshimselftohimself.’He’salowopinionofAmericansandnoopinionatallofanyothernationality.”

“Thankyou,M.MacQueen.”TheAmericanleftthecarriage.“Well?”demandedM.Bouc.“Youbelievewhathesays,thisyoungman?”“Heseemshonestandstraightforward.Hedidnotpretendtoanyaffection

forhisemployerasheprobablywouldhavedonehadhebeeninvolvedinanyway.ItistrueM.Ratchettdidnottellhimthathehadtriedtoenlistmyservicesandfailed,butIdonotthinkthatisreallyasuspiciouscircumstance.IfancyM.Ratchettwasagentlemanwhokepthisowncounseloneverypossibleoccasion.”

“Soyoupronounceonepersonatleastinnocentofthecrime,”saidM.Boucjovially.

Poirotcastonhimalookofreproach.“Me,Isuspecteverybodytillthelastminute,”hesaid.“Allthesame,Imust

admitthatIcannotseethissober,long-headedMacQueenlosinghisheadandstabbinghisvictimtwelveorfourteentimes.Itisnotinaccordwithhispsychology—notatall.”

“No,”saidMr.Boucthoughtfully.“Thatistheactofamandrivenalmostcrazywithafrenziedhate—itsuggestsmoretheLatintemperament.Orelseitsuggests,asourfriendthechefdetraininsisted,awoman.”

Seven

THEBODY

FollowedbyDr.Constantine,Poirotmadehiswaytothenextcoachandthecompartmentoccupiedbythemurderedman.Theconductorcameandunlockedthedoorforthemwithhiskey.

Thetwomenpassedinside.Poirotturnedinquiringlytohiscompanion.“Howmuchhasbeendisarrangedinthiscompartment?”“Nothinghasbeentouched.Iwascarefulnottomovethebodyinmaking

myexamination.”Poirotnodded.Helookedroundhim.Thefirstthingthatstruckthesenseswastheintensecold.Thewindowwas

pusheddownasfarasitwouldgoandtheblindwasdrawnup.“Brrr,”observedPoirot.Theothersmiledappreciatively.“Ididnotliketocloseit,”hesaid.Poirotexaminedthewindowcarefully.“Youareright,”heannounced.“Nobodyleftthecarriagethisway.Possibly

theopenwindowwasintendedtosuggestthefact,but,ifso,thesnowhasdefeatedthemurderer’sobject.”

Heexaminedtheframeofthewindowcarefully.Takingasmallcasefromhispocketheblewalittlepowderoverit.

“Nofingerprintsatall,”hesaid.“Thatmeansithasbeenwiped.Well,iftherehadbeenfingerprintsitwouldhavetoldusverylittle.TheywouldhavebeenthoseofM.Ratchettorhisvaletortheconductor.Criminalsdonotmakemistakesofthatkindnowadays.

“Andthatbeingso,”headdedcheerfully,“wemightaswellshutthewindow.Positivelyitisthecoldstorageinhere!”

Hesuitedtheactiontothewordandthenturnedhisattentionforthefirsttimetothemotionlessfigurelyinginthebunk.

Ratchettlayonhisback.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—whentheywere

delivered.Butthatissurelyabsurd.”“Itwouldseemso,”saidPoirotthoughtfully.“Unlessourmurdererfigured

tohimselfthathehadnotaccomplishedhisjobproperlyandcamebacktomakequitesure;butthatismanifestlyabsurd!Anythingelse?”

“Well,justonething.”“Andthat?”“Youseethiswoundhere—undertherightarm—neartherightshoulder.

Takethispencilofmine.Couldyoudeliversuchablow?”Poirotraisedhishand.“Précisément,”hesaid.“Isee.Withtherighthanditisexceedinglydifficult

—almostimpossible.Onewouldhavetostrikebackhanded,asitwere.Butiftheblowwerestruckwiththelefthand—”

“Exactly,M.Poirot.Thatblowwasalmostcertainlystruckwiththelefthand.”

“Sothatourmurdererisleft-handed?No,itismoredifficultthanthat,isitnot?”

“Asyousay,M.Poirot.Someoftheseotherblowsarejustasobviouslyright-handed.”

“Twopeople.Wearebackattwopeopleagain,”murmuredthedetective.Heaskedabruptly:

“Wastheelectriclighton?”

“Itisdifficulttosay.Youseeitisturnedoffbytheconductoreverymorningaboutteno’clock.”

“Theswitcheswilltellus,”saidPoirot.Heexaminedtheswitchofthetoplightandalsotherollbackbed-headlight.

Theformerwasturnedoff.Thelatterwasclosed.“Ehbien,”hesaidthoughtfully.“WehavehereahypothesisoftheFirstand

SecondMurderer,asthegreatShakespearewouldputit.TheFirstMurdererstabbedhisvictimandleftthecompartment,turningoffthelight.TheSecondMurderercameininthedark,didnotseethathisorherworkhadbeendoneandstabbedatleasttwiceatadeadbody.Quepensezvousdeça?”

“Magnificent,”saidthelittledoctorwithenthusiasm.Theother’seyestwinkled.“Youthinkso?Iamglad.Itsoundedtomealittlelikethenonsense.”“Whatotherexplanationcantherebe?”“ThatisjustwhatIamaskingmyself.Havewehereacoincidenceorwhat?

Arethereanyotherinconsistencies,suchaswouldpointtotwopeoplebeingconcerned?”

“IthinkIcansayyes.Someoftheseblows,asIhavealreadysaid,pointtoaweakness—alackofstrengthoralackofdetermination.Theyarefeebleglancingblows.Butthisonehere—andthisone—”Againhepointed.“Greatstrengthwasneededforthoseblows.Theyhavepenetratedthemuscle.”

“Theywere,inyouropinion,deliveredbyaman?”“Mostcertainly.”“Theycouldnothavebeendeliveredbyawoman?”“Ayoung,vigorous,athleticwomanmighthavestruckthem,especiallyif

shewereinthegripofastrongemotion,butitisinmyopinionhighlyunlikely.”Poirotwassilentamomentortwo.Theothersaidanxiously.“Youunderstandmypoint?”“Perfectly,”saidPoirot.“Thematterbeginstoclearitselfupwonderfully!

Themurdererwasamanofgreatstrength,hewasfeeble,itwasawoman,itwasaright-handedperson,itwasaleft-handedperson—Ah!c’estrigolo,toutça!”

Hespokewithsuddenanger.“Andthevictim—whatdoeshedoinallthis?Doeshecryout?Doeshe

struggle?Doeshedefendhimself?”Heslippedhishandunderthepillowanddrewouttheautomaticpistol

whichRatchetthadshownhimthedaybefore.“Fullyloaded,yousee,”hesaid.Theylookedroundthem.Ratchett’sdayclothingwashangingfromthe

hooksonthewall.Onthesmalltableformedbythelidofthewashingbasinwerevariousobjects—falseteethinaglassofwater;anotherglass,empty;abottleofmineralwater,alargeflaskandanashtraycontainingthebuttofacigarandsomecharredfragmentsofpaper;alsotwoburntmatches.

Thedoctorpickeduptheemptyglassandsniffedit.“Hereistheexplanationofthevictim’sinertia,”hesaidquietly.“Drugged?”“Yes.”Poirotnodded.Hepickedupthetwomatchesandscrutinizedthemcarefully.“Youhaveacluethen?”demandedthelittledoctoreagerly.“Thosetwomatchesareofadifferentshape,”saidPoirot.“Oneisflatter

thantheother.Yousee?”“Itisthekindyougetonatrain,”saidthedoctor,“inpapercovers.”PoirotwasfeelinginthepocketsofRatchett’sclothing.Presentlyhepulled

outaboxofmatches.Hecomparedthemcarefully.“TherounderoneisamatchstruckbyMr.Ratchett,”hesaid.“Letusseeif

hehadalsotheflatterkind.”Butafurthersearchshowednoothermatches.Poirot’seyesweredartingaboutthecompartment.Theywerebrightand

sharplikeabird’s.Onefeltthatnothingcouldescapetheirscrutiny.Withalittleexclamationhebentandpickedupsomethingfromthefloor.Itwasasmallsquareofcambric,verydainty.“Ourfriendthechefdetrain

wasright.Thereisawomanconcernedinthis.”“Andmostconvenientlysheleavesherhandkerchiefbehind!”saidPoirot.

“Exactlyasithappensinthebooksandonthefilms—andtomakethingseveneasierforusitismarkedwithaninitial.”

“Whatastrokeofluckforus!”exclaimedthedoctor.“Isitnot?”saidPoirot.Somethinginhistonesurprisedthedoctor.Butbeforehecouldaskforelucidation,Poirothadmadeanotherdiveonto

thefloor.Thistimeheheldoutonthepalmofhishand—apipecleaner.“ItisperhapsthepropertyofM.Ratchett?”suggestedthedoctor.“Therewasnopipeinanyofhispockets,andnotobaccoortobaccopouch.”“Thenitisaclue.”“Oh!decidedly.Andagaindroppedmostconveniently.Amasculinecluethis

time,younote!Onecannotcomplainofhavingnocluesinthiscase.Thereareclueshereinabundance.Bytheway,whathaveyoudonewiththeweapon?”

“Therewasnosignofanyweapon.Themurderermusthavetakenitaway

withhim.”“Iwonderwhy,”musedPoirot.“Ah!”Thedoctorhadbeendelicatelyexploringthepyjamapocketsofthe

deadman.“Ioverlookedthis,”hesaid.“Iunbuttonedthejacketandthrewitstraight

back.”Fromthebreastpockethebroughtoutagoldwatch.Thecasewasdented

savagely,andthehandspointedtoaquarterpastone.“Yousee?”criedConstantineeagerly.“Thisgivesusthehourofthecrime.It

agreeswithmycalculations.BetweenmidnightandtwointhemorningiswhatIsaid,andprobablyaboutoneo’clock,thoughitisdifficulttobeexactinthesematters.Ehbien,hereisconfirmation.Aquarterpastone.Thatwasthehourofthecrime.”

“Itispossible,yes.Itiscertainlypossible.”Thedoctorlookedathimcuriously.“Youwillpardonme,M.Poirot,butIdonotquiteunderstandyou.”“Idonotunderstandmyself,”saidPoirot.“Iunderstandnothingatall,and,

asyouperceive,itworriesme.”Hesighedandbentoverthelittletable,examiningthecharredfragmentof

paper.Hemurmuredtohimself.“WhatIneedatthismomentisanold-fashionedwoman’shatbox.”Dr.Constantinewasatalosstoknowwhattomakeofthissingularremark.

Inanycase,Poirotgavehimnotimeforquestions.Openingthedoorintothecorridor,hecalledfortheconductor.

Themanarrivedatarun.“Howmanywomenarethereinthiscoach?”Theconductorcountedonhisfingers.“One,two,three—six,Monsieur.TheoldAmericanlady,aSwedishlady,

theyoungEnglishlady,theCountessAndrenyiandMadamelaPrincessDragomiroffandhermaid.”

Poirotconsidered.“Theyallhavehatboxes,yes?”“Yes,Monsieur.”“Thenbringme—letmesee—yes,theSwedishlady’sandthatofthelady’s

maid.Thosetwoaretheonlyhope.Youwilltellthemitisacustomsregulation—something—anythingthatoccurstoyou.”

“ThatwillbeallrightMonsieur.Neitherladyisinhercompartmentatthemoment.”

“Thenbequick.”

Theconductordeparted.Hereturnedwiththetwohatboxes.Poirotopenedthatofthelady’smaidandtosseditaside.ThenheopenedtheSwedishlady’sandutteredanexclamationofsatisfaction.Removingthehatscarefully,hedisclosedroundhumpsofwirenetting.

“Ah,hereiswhatweneed.Aboutfifteenyearsagohatboxesweremadelikethis.Youskeweredthroughthehatwithahatpinontothishumpofwirenetting.”

Ashespokehewasskilfullyremovingtwooftheattachments.Thenherepackedthehatboxandtoldtheconductortoreturnthembothwheretheybelonged.

Whenthedoorwasshutoncemoreheturnedtohiscompanion.“Seeyou,mydeardoctor,me,Iamnotonetorelyupontheexpert

procedure.ItisthepsychologyIseek,notthefingerprintorthecigaretteash.ButinthiscaseIwouldwelcomealittlescientificassistance.Thiscompartmentisfullofclues,butcanIbesurethatthosecluesarereallywhattheyseemtobe?”

“Idonotquiteunderstandyou,M.Poirot.”“Well,togiveyouanexample—wefindawoman’shandkerchief.Dida

womandropit?Ordidaman,committingthecrime,saytohimself‘Iwillmakethislooklikeawoman’scrime.Iwillstabmyenemyanunnecessarynumberoftimes,makingsomeoftheblowsfeebleandineffective,andIwilldropthishandkerchiefwherenoonecanmissit.’Thatisonepossibility.Thenthereisanother.Didawomankillhimanddidshedeliberatelydropapipecleanertomakeitlooklikeaman’swork?Orareweseriouslytosupposethattwopeople—amanandawoman—wereseparatelyconcerned,andthateachwassocarelessastodropacluetotheiridentity?Itisalittletoomuchofacoincidence,that!”

“Butwheredoesthehatboxcomein?”askedthedoctor,stillpuzzled.“Ah!I’mcomingtothat.AsIsay,theseclues,thewatchstoppedataquarter

pastone,thehandkerchief,thepipecleaner,theymaybegenuine,ortheymaybefake.AstothatIcannotyettell.ButthereisoneclueherewhichIbelieve—thoughagainImaybewrong—hasnotbeenfaked.Imeanthisflatmatch,M.ledocteur.Ibelievethatthatmatchwasusedbythemurderer,notbyM.Ratchett.Itwasusedtoburnanincriminatingpaperofsomekind.Possiblyanote.Ifso,therewassomethinginthatnote,somemistake,someerror,thatleftapossiblecluetotheassailant.Iamgoingtoendeavourtoresurrectwhatthatsomethingwas.”

Hewentoutofthecompartmentandreturnedafewmomentslaterwithasmallspiritstoveandapairofcurlingtongs.

“Iusethemforthemoustaches,”hesaid,referringtothelatter.Thedoctorwatchedhimwithgreatinterest.Heflattenedoutthetwohumps

ofwire,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.Iknowwhyhehadto

leaveAmerica.”“Whatwashisname?”“Cassetti.”“Cassetti.”Constantineknittedhisbrows.“Itbringsbacktomesomething.

Someyearsago.Icannotremember…ItwasacaseinAmerica,wasitnot?”“Yes,”saidPoirot.“AcaseinAmerica.”FurtherthanthatPoirotwasnotdisposedtobecommunicative.Helooked

roundhimashewenton:“Wewillgointoallthatpresently.Letusfirstmakesurethatwehaveseen

allthereistobeseenhere.”Quicklyanddeftlyhewentoncemorethroughthepocketsofthedeadman’s

clothesbutfoundnothingthereofinterest.Hetriedthecommunicatingdoorwhichledthroughtothenextcompartment,butitwasboltedontheotherside.

“ThereisonethingthatIdonotunderstand,”saidDr.Constantine.“Ifthemurdererdidnotescapethroughthewindow,andifthiscommunicatingdoorwasboltedontheotherside,andifthedoorintothecorridorwasnotonlylockedontheinsidebutchained,howthendidthemurdererleavethecompartment?”

“Thatiswhattheaudiencesayswhenapersonboundhandandfootisshutintoacabinet—anddisappears.”

“Youmean—”“Imean,”explainedPoirot,“thatifthemurdererintendedustobelievethat

hehadescapedbywayofthewindowhewouldnaturallymakeitappearthattheothertwoexitswereimpossible.Likethe‘disappearingperson’inthecabinet—itisatrick.Itisourbusinesstofindouthowthetrickisdone.”

Helockedthecommunicatingdoorontheirside.“Incase,”hesaid,“theexcellentMrs.Hubbardshouldtakeitintoherhead

toacquirefirst-handdetailsofthecrimetowritetoherdaughter.”Helookedroundoncemore.“Thereisnothingmoretodohere,Ithink.LetusrejoinM.Bouc.”

Eight

THEARMSTRONGKIDNAPPINGCASE

TheyfoundM.Boucfinishinganomelet.“Ithoughtitbesttohavelunchservedimmediatelyintherestaurantcar,”he

said.“AfterwardsitwillbeclearedandM.Poirotcanconducthisexaminationofthepassengersthere.InthemeantimeIhaveorderedthemtobringusthreesomefoodhere.”

“Anexcellentidea,”saidPoirot.Neitheroftheothertwomenwashungry,andthemealwassooneaten,but

nottilltheyweresippingtheircoffeedidM.Boucmentionthesubjectthatwasoccupyingalltheirminds.

“Ehbien?”heasked.“Ehbien,Ihavediscoveredtheidentityofthevictim.Iknowwhyitwas

imperativeheshouldleaveAmerica.”“Whowashe?”“DoyourememberreadingoftheArmstrongbaby?Thisisthemanwho

murderedlittleDaisyArmstrong—Cassetti.”“Irecallitnow.Ashockingaffair—thoughIcannotrememberthedetails.”“ColonelArmstrongwasanEnglishman—aV.C.HewashalfAmerican,as

hismotherwasadaughterofW.K.VanderHalt,theWallStreetmillionaire.HemarriedthedaughterofLindaArden,themostfamoustragicAmericanactressofherday.TheylivedinAmericaandhadonechild—agirl—whomtheyidolized.Whenshewasthreeyearsoldshewaskidnapped,andanimpossiblyhighsumdemandedasthepriceofherreturn.Iwillnotwearyyouwithalltheintricaciesthatfollowed.Iwillcometothemoment,when,afterhavingpaidovertheenormoussumoftwohundredthousanddollars,thechild’sdeadbodywasdiscovered,ithavingbeendeadatleastafortnight.Publicindignationrosetofeverpoint.Andtherewasworsetofollow.Mrs.Armstrongwasexpectinganotherchild.Followingtheshockofthediscovery,shegavebirthtoadeadchildbornprematurely,andherselfdied.Herbroken-heartedhusbandshothimself.”

“MonDieu,whatatragedy.Iremembernow,”saidM.Bouc.“Therewas

alsoanotherdeath,ifIrememberrightly?”“Yes—anunfortunateFrenchorSwissnursemaid.Thepolicewere

convincedthatshehadsomeknowledgeofthecrime.Theyrefusedtobelieveherhystericaldenials.Finally,inafitofdespair,thepoorgirlthrewherselffromawindowandwaskilled.Itwasprovedafterwardsthatshewasabsolutelyinnocentofanycomplicityinthecrime.”

“Itisnotgoodtothinkof,”saidM.Bouc.“Aboutsixmonthslater,thismanCassettiwasarrestedastheheadofthe

gangwhohadkidnappedthechild.Theyhadusedthesamemethodsinthepast.Ifthepoliceseemedlikelytogetontheirtrail,theyhadkilledtheirprisoner,hiddenthebody,andcontinuedtoextractasmuchmoneyaspossiblebeforethecrimewasdiscovered.

“Now,Iwillmakecleartoyouthis,myfriend.Cassettiwastheman!Butbymeansoftheenormouswealthhehadpiledupandbythesecretholdhehadovervariouspersons,hewasacquittedonsometechnicalinaccuracy.Notwithstandingthat,hewouldhavebeenlynchedbythepopulacehadhenotbeencleverenoughtogivethemtheslip.Itisnowcleartomewhathappened.HechangedhisnameandleftAmerica.Sincethenhehasbeenagentlemanofleisure,travellingabroadandlivingonhisrentes.”

“Ah!quelanimal!”M.Bouc’stonewasredolentofheartfeltdisgust.“Icannotregretthatheisdead—notatall!”

“Iagreewithyou.”“Toutdemême,itisnotnecessarythatheshouldbekilledontheOrient

Express.Thereareotherplaces.”Poirotsmiledalittle.HerealizedthatM.Boucwasbiasedinthematter.“Thequestionwehavenowtoaskourselvesisthis,”hesaid.“Isthismurder

theworkofsomerivalgangwhomCassettihaddouble-crossedinthepast,orisitanactofprivatevengeance?”

Heexplainedhisdiscoveryofthefewwordsonthecharredfragmentofpaper.

“IfIamrightinmyassumption,thentheletterwasburntbythemurderer.Why?Becauseitmentionedtheword‘Armstrong,’whichisthecluetothemystery.”

“ArethereanymembersoftheArmstrongfamilyliving?”“That,unfortunately,Idonotknow.IthinkIrememberreadingofayounger

sisterofMrs.Armstrong’s.”PoirotwentontorelatethejointconclusionsofhimselfandDr.Constantine.

M.Boucbrightenedatthementionofthebrokenwatch.“Thatseemstogiveusthetimeofthecrimeveryexactly.”

“Yes,”saidPoirot.“Itisveryconvenient.”Therewasanindescribablesomethinginhistonethatmadeboththeother

twolookathimcuriously.“YousaythatyouyourselfheardRatchettspeaktotheconductorattwenty

minutestoone?”Poirotrelatedjustwhathadoccurred.“Well,”saidM.Bouc,“thatprovesatleastthatCassetti—orRatchett,asI

shallcontinuetocallhim—wascertainlyaliveattwentyminutestoone.”“Twenty-threeminutestoone,tobeprecise.”“Thenattwelvethirty-seven,toputitformally,M.Ratchettwasalive.That

isonefact,atleast.”Poirotdidnotreply.Hesatlookingthoughtfullyinfrontofhim.Therewasataponthedoor,andtherestaurantattendantentered.“Therestaurantcarisfreenow,Monsieur,”hesaid.“Wewillgothere,”saidM.Bouc,rising.“Imayaccompanyyou?”askedConstantine.“Certainly,mydeardoctor.UnlessM.Poirothasanyobjection?”“Notatall.Notatall,”saidPoirot.Afteralittlepolitenessinthematterofprocedure,“Aprèsvous,Monsieur.”

“Maisnon,aprèsvous,”theyleftthecompartment.

PARTTWO

THEEVIDENCE

One

THEEVIDENCEOFTHEWAGONLITCONDUCTOR

Intherestaurantcarallwasinreadiness.PoirotandM.Boucsattogetherononesideofatable.Thedoctorsatacross

theaisle.OnthetableinfrontofPoirotwasaplanoftheIstanbul-Calaiscoachwith

thenamesofthepassengersmarkedininredink.Thepassportsandticketswereinapileatoneside.Therewaswritingpaper,

ink,penandpencils.“Excellent,”saidPoirot.“WecanopenourCourtofInquirywithoutmore

ado.First,Ithink,weshouldtaketheevidenceoftheWagonLitconductor.Youprobablyknowsomethingabouttheman.Whatcharacterhashe?Isheamaninwhosewordyouwouldplacereliance?”

“Ishouldsaysomostassuredly.PierreMichelhasbeenemployedbythecompanyforoverfifteenyears.HeisaFrenchman—livesnearCalais.Thoroughlyrespectableandhonest.Not,perhaps,remarkableforbrains.”

Poirotnoddedcomprehendingly.“Good,”hesaid.“Letusseehim.”PierreMichelhadrecoveredsomeofhisassurance,buthewasstill

extremelynervous.“IhopeMonsieurwillnotthinkthattherehasbeenanynegligenceonmy

part,”hesaidanxiously,hiseyesgoingfromPoirottoM.Bouc.“Itisaterriblethingthathashappened.IhopeMonsieurdoesnotthinkthatitreflectsonmeinanyway?”

Havingsoothedtheman’sfears,Poirotbeganhisquestions.HefirstelicitedMichel’snameandaddress,hislengthofservice,andthelengthoftimehehadbeenonthisparticularroute.Theseparticularshealreadyknew,buttheroutinequestionsservedtoputthemanathisease.

“Andnow,”wentonPoirot,“letuscometotheeventsoflastnight.M.Ratchettretiredtobed—when?”

“Almostimmediatelyafterdinner,Monsieur.ActuallybeforeweleftBelgrade.Sohedidonthepreviousnight.Hehaddirectedmetomakeupthe

bedwhilehewasatdinner,andIdidso.”“Didanybodygointohiscompartmentafterwards?”“Hisvalet,Monsieur,andtheyoungAmericangentlemanhissecretary.”“Anyoneelse?”“No,Monsieur,notthatIknowof.”“Good.Andthatisthelastyousaworheardofhim?”“No,Monsieur.Youforget,heranghisbellabouttwentytoone—soonafter

wehadstopped.”“Whathappenedexactly?”

“Iknockedatthedoor,buthecalledoutandsaidhehadmadeamistake.”“InEnglishorinFrench?”“InFrench.”“Whatwerehiswordsexactly?”“Cen’estrien.Jemesuistrompé.”“Quiteright,”saidPoirot.“ThatiswhatIheard.Andthenyouwentaway?”“Yes,Monsieur.”“Didyougobacktoyourseat?”“No,Monsieur,Iwentfirsttoansweranotherbellthathadjustrung.”“Now,Michel,Iamgoingtoaskyouanimportantquestion.Wherewere

youataquarterpastone?”“I,Monsieur?Iwasatmylittleseatattheend—facingupthecorridor.”“Youaresure?”“Maisoui—atleast—”“Yes?”“Iwentintothenextcoach,theAthenscoach,tospeaktomycolleague

there.Wespokeaboutthesnow.Thatwasatsometimesoonafteroneo’clock.Icannotsayexactly.”

“Andyoureturned—when?”“Oneofmybellsrang,Monsieur—Iremember—Itoldyou.Itwasthe

Americanlady.Shehadrungseveraltimes.”“Irecollect,”saidPoirot.“Andafterthat?”“Afterthat,Monsieur?Iansweredyourbellandbroughtyousomemineral

water.Then,abouthalfanhourlater,Imadeupthebedinoneoftheothercompartments—thatoftheyoungAmericangentleman,M.Ratchett’ssecretary.”

“WasM.MacQueenaloneinhiscompartmentwhenyouwenttomakeuphisbed?”

“TheEnglishColonelfromNo.15waswithhim.Theyhadbeensittingtalking.”

“WhatdidtheColoneldowhenheleftM.MacQueen?”“Hewentbacktohisowncompartment.”“No.15—thatisquiteclosetoyourseat,isitnot?”“Yes,Monsieur,itisthesecondcompartmentfromthatendofthecorridor.”“Hisbedwasalreadymadeup?”“Yes,Monsieur.Ihadmadeitupwhilehewasatdinner.”“Whattimewasallthis?”“Icouldnotsayexactly,Monsieur.Notlaterthantwoo’clock,certainly.”“Andafterthat?”

“Afterthat,Monsieur,Isatinmyseattillmorning.”“YoudidnotgoagainintotheAthenscoach?”“No,Monsieur.”“Perhapsyouslept?”“Idonotthinkso,Monsieur.Thetrainbeingatastandstillpreventedme

fromdozingoffasIusuallydo.”“Didyouseeanyofthepassengersmovingupordownthecorridor?”Themanreflected.“Oneoftheladieswenttothetoiletatthefarend,Ithink.”“Whichlady?”“Idonotknow,Monsieur.Itwasfardownthecorridor,andshehadherback

tome.Shehadonakimonoofscarletwithdragonsonit.”Poirotnodded.“Andafterthat?”“Nothing,Monsieur,untilthemorning.”“Youaresure?”“Ah,pardon,youyourself,Monsieur,openedyourdoorandlookedoutfora

second.”“Good,myfriend,”saidPoirot.“Iwonderedwhetheryouwouldremember

that.Bytheway,Iwasawakenedbywhatsoundedlikesomethingheavyfallingagainstmydoor.Haveyouanyideawhatthatcouldhavebeen?”

Themanstaredathim.“Therewasnothing,Monsieur.Nothing,Iampositiveofit.”“ThenImusthavehadthecauchemar,”saidPoirotphilosophically.“Unless,”saidM.Bouc,“itwassomethinginthecompartmentnextdoor

thatyouheard.”Poirottooknonoticeofthesuggestion.Perhapshedidnotwishtobeforethe

WagonLitconductor.“Letuspasstoanotherpoint,”hesaid.“Supposingthatlastnightanassassin

joinedthetrain.Itisquitecertainthathecouldnothaveleftitaftercommittingthecrime?”

PierreMichaelshookhishead.“Northathecanbeconcealedonitsomewhere?”“Ithasbeenwellsearched,”saidM.Bouc.“Abandonthatidea,myfriend.”“Besides,”saidMichel,“noonecouldgetontothesleepingcarwithoutmy

seeingthem.”“Whenwasthelaststop?”“Vincovci.”“Whattimewasthat?”

“Weshouldhaveleftthereat11:58.Butowingtotheweatherweweretwentyminuteslate.”

“Someonemighthavecomealongfromtheordinarypartofthetrain?”“No,Monsieur.Aftertheserviceofdinnerthedoorbetweentheordinary

carriagesandthesleepingcarsi