Murder on the Orient Express

  “Ah! And of those three?”

  “It is difficult to say. But I think I should vote for Miss Debenham. For all one knows, she may be called by her second name and not her first. Also there is already some suspicion attaching to her. That conversation you overheard, mon cher, was certainly a little curious, and so is her refusal to explain it.”

  “As for me, I plump for the American,” said Dr. Constantine. “It is a very expensive handkerchief that, and Americans, as all the world knows, do not care what they pay.”

  “So you both eliminate the maid?” asked Poirot.

  “Yes. As she herself said, it is the handkerchief of a member of the upper classes.”

  “And the second question—the pipe cleaner. Did Colonel Arbuthnot drop it, or somebody else?”

  “That is more difficult. The English, they do not stab. You are right there. I incline to the view that someone else dropped the pipe cleaner—and did so to incriminate the long-legged Englishman.”

  “As you said, M. Poirot,” put in the doctor, “two clues is too much carelessness. I agree with M. Bouc. The handkerchief was a genuine oversight—hence no one will admit that it is theirs. The pipe cleaner is a faked clue. In support of that theory, you notice that Colonel Arbuthnot shows no embarrassment and admits freely to smoking a pipe and using that type of cleaner.”

  “You reason well,” said Poirot.

  “Question No. 3—who wore the scarlet kimono?” went on M. Bouc. “As to that I will confess I have not the slightest idea. Have you any views on the subject, Dr. Constantine?”

  “None.”

  “Then we confess ourselves beaten there. The next question has, at any rate, possibilities. Who was the man or woman masquerading in Wagon Lit uniform? Well, one can say with certainty a number of people whom it could not be. Hardman, Colonel Arbuthnot, Foscarelli, Count Andrenyi and Hector MacQueen are all too tall. Mrs. Hubbard, Hildegarde Schmidt and Greta Ohlsson are too broad. That leaves the valet, Miss Debenham, Princess Dragomiroff and Countess Andrenyi—and none of them sounds likely! Greta Ohlsson in one case and Antonio Foscarelli in the other both swear that Miss Debenham and the valet never left their compartments, Hildegarde Schmidt swears to the Princess being in hers, and Count Andrenyi has told us that his wife took a sleeping draught. Therefore it seems impossible that it can be anybody—which is absurd!”

  “As our old friend Euclid says,” murmured Poirot.

  “It must be one of those four,” said Dr. Constantine. “Unless it is someone from outside who has found a hiding place—and that, we agreed, was impossible.”

  M. Bouc had passed on to the next question on the list.

  “No. 5—why do the hands of the broken watch point to 1:15? I can see two explanations of that. Either it was done by the murderer to establish an alibi and afterwards he was prevented from leaving the compartment when he meant to do so by hearing people moving about, or else—wait—I have an idea coming—”

  The other two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled in mental agony.

  “I have it,” he said at last. “It was not the Wagon Lit murderer who tampered with the watch! It was the person we have called the Second Murderer—the left-handed person—in other words the woman in the scarlet kimono. She arrives later and moves back the hands of the watch in order to make an alibi for herself.”

  “Bravo,” said Dr. Constantine. “It is well imagined, that.”

  “In fact,” said Poirot, “she stabbed him in the dark, not realizing that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly and gave it the requisite dent.”

  M. Bouc looked at him coldly.

  “Have you anything better to suggest yourself?” he asked.

  “At the moment—no,” admitted Poirot.

  “All the same,” he went on, “I do not think you have either of you appreciated the most interesting point about that watch.”

  “Does question No. 6 deal with it?” asked the doctor. “To that question—was the murder committed at that time—1:15—I answer, ‘No.’”

  “I agree,” said M. Bouc. “‘Was it earlier?’ is the next question. I say yes. You, too, doctor?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Yes, but the question ‘Was it later?’ can also be answered in the affirmative. I agree with your theory, M. Bouc, and so, I think, does M. Poirot, although he does not wish to commit himself. The First Murderer came earlier than 1:15, the Second Murderer came after 1:15. And as regards the question of left-handedness, ought we not to take steps to ascertain which of the passengers is left-handed?”

  “I have not completely neglected that point,” said Poirot. “You may have noticed that I made each passenger write either a signature or an address. That is not conclusive, because some people do certain actions with the right hand and others with the left. Some write right-handed, but play golf left-handed. Still it is something. Every person questioned took the pen in their right hand—with the exception of Princess Dragomiroff, who refused to write.”

  “Princess Dragomiroff, impossible,” said M. Bouc.

  “I doubt if she would have had the strength to inflict that particular left-handed blow,” said Dr. Constantine dubiously. “That particular wound had been inflicted with considerable force.”

  “More force than a woman could use?”

  “No, I would not say that. But I think more force than an elderly woman could display, and Princess Dragomiroff’s physique is particularly frail.”

  “It might be a question of the influence of mind over body,” said Poirot. “Princess Dragomiroff has great personality and immense will power. But let us pass from that for the moment.”

  “To questions Nos. 9 and 10. Can we be sure that Ratchett was stabbed by more than one person, and what other explanation of the wounds can there be? In my opinion, medically speaking, there can be no other explanation of those wounds. To suggest that one man struck first feebly and then with violence, first with the right hand and then with the left, and after an interval of perhaps half an hour inflicted fresh wounds on a dead body—well, it does not make sense.”

  “No,” said Poirot. “It does not make sense. And you think that two murderers do make sense?”

  “As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?”

  Poirot stared straight ahead of him.

  “That is what I ask myself,” he said. “That is what I never cease to ask myself.”

  He leaned back in his seat.

  “From now on, it is all here,” he tapped himself on the forehead. “We have thrashed it all out. The facts are all in front of us—neatly arranged with order and method. The passengers have sat here, one by one, giving their evidence. We know all that can be known—from outside.…”

  He gave an affectionate smile at M. Bouc.

  “It has been a little joke between us, has it not—this business of sitting back and thinking out the truth? Well, I am about to put my theory into practice—here before your eyes. You two must do the same. Let us all three close our eyes and think.…”

  “One or more of those passengers killed Ratchett. Which of them?”

  Three

  CERTAIN SUGGESTIVE POINTS

  It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke.

  M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot’s instructions. They had endeavoured to see through the maze of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.

  M. Bouc’s thoughts had run something as follows:

  “Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought…Poirot obviously thinks this English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most unlikely…The English are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures…But that is not the point. It seems that the Italian could not have done it—a pity. I suppose the English valet is not lying when he said the other never left the compartment? But why should
he? It is not easy to bribe the English, they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this. There must be some rescue work in progress. They are so slow in these countries…it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the police of these countries, they will be most trying to deal with—puffed up with importance, touchy, on their dignity. They will make a grand affair of all this. It is not often that such a chance comes their way. It will be in all the newspapers….”

  And from there on M. Bouc’s thoughts went along a well-worn course which they had already traversed some hundred times.

  Dr. Constantine’s thoughts ran thus:

  “He is queer, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will he solve this mystery? Impossible. I can see no way out of it. It is all too confusing…Everyone is lying, perhaps…But even then that does not help one. If they are all lying it is just as confusing as if they were speaking the truth. Odd about those wounds. I cannot understand it…It would be easier to understand if he had been shot—after all, the term gunman must mean that they shoot with a gun. A curious country, America. I should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home I must get hold of Demetrius Zagone—he has been to America, he has all the modern ideas…I wonder what Zia is doing at this moment. If my wife ever finds out—”

  His thoughts went on to entirely private matters.

  Hercule Poirot sat very still.

  One might have thought he was asleep.

  And then, suddenly, after a quarter of an hour’s complete immobility, his eyebrows began to move slowly up his forehead. A little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath:

  “But, after all, why not? And if so—why, if so, that would explain everything.”

  His eyes opened. They were green like a cat’s. He said softly:

  “Eh bien. I have thought. And you?”

  Lost in their reflections, both men started violently.

  “I have thought also,” said M. Bouc just a shade guilty. “But I have arrived at no conclusion. The elucidation of crime is your métier, not mine, my friend.”

  “I, too, have reflected with great earnestness,” said the doctor unblushingly, recalling his thoughts from certain pornographic details. “I have thought of many possible theories, but not one that really satisfies me.”

  Poirot nodded amiably. His nod seemed to say:

  “Quite right. That is the proper thing to say. You have given me the cue I expected.”

  He sat very upright, threw out his chest, caressed his moustache and spoke in the manner of a practised speaker addressing a public meeting.

  “My friends, I have reviewed the facts in my mind, and have also gone over to myself the evidence of the passengers—with this result. I see, nebulously as yet, a certain explanation that would cover the facts as we know them. It is a very curious explanation, and I cannot be sure as yet that it is the true one. To find out definitely, I shall have to make certain experiments.

  “I would like first to mention certain points which appear to me suggestive. Let us start with a remark made to me by M. Bouc in this very place on the occasion of our first lunch together on the train. He commented on the fact that we were surrounded by people of all classes, of all ages, of all nationalities. That is a fact somewhat rare at this time of year. The Athens-Paris and the Bucharest-Paris coaches, for instance, are almost empty. Remember also one passenger who failed to turn up. It is, I think, significant. Then there are some minor points that strike me as suggestive—for instance, the position of Mrs. Hubbard’s sponge bag, the name of Mrs. Armstrong’s mother, the detective methods of M. Hardman, the suggestion of M. MacQueen that Ratchett himself destroyed the charred note we found, Princess Dragomiroff’s Christian name, and a grease spot on a Hungarian passport.”

  The two men stared at him.

  “Do they suggest anything to you, those points?” asked Poirot.

  “Not a thing,” said M. Bouc frankly.

  “And M. le docteur?”

  “I do not understand in the least of what you are talking.” M. Bouc, meanwhile, seizing upon the one tangible thing his friend had mentioned, was sorting through the passports. With a grunt he picked up that of Count and Countess Andrenyi and opened it.

  “Is this what you mean? This dirty mark?”

  “Yes. It is a fairly fresh grease spot. You notice where it occurs?”

  “At the beginning of the description of the Count’s wife—her Christian name, to be exact. But I confess that I still do not see the point.”

  “I am going to approach it from another angle. Let us go back to the handkerchief found at the scene of the crime. As we have stated not long ago—three people are associated with the letter H. Mrs. Hubbard, Miss Debenham and the maid, Hildegarde Schmidt. Now let us regard that handkerchief from another point of view. It is, my friends, an extremely expensive handkerchief—an objet de luxe, hand made, embroidered in Paris. Which of the passengers, apart from the initial, was likely to own such a handkerchief? Not Mrs. Hubbard, a worthy woman with no pretensions to reckless extravagance in dress. Not Miss Debenham; that class of English-woman has a dainty linen handkerchief, but not an expensive wisp of cambric costing perhaps two hundred francs. And certainly not the maid. But there are two women on the train who would be likely to own such a handkerchief. Let us see if we can connect them in any way with the letter H. The two women I refer to are Princess Dragomiroff—”

  “Whose Christian name is Natalia,” put in M. Bouc ironically.

  “Exactly. And her Christian name, as I said just now, is decidedly suggestive. The other woman is Countess Andrenyi. And at once something strikes us—”

  “You!”

  “Me, then. Her Christian name on her passport is disfigured by a blob of grease. Just an accident, anyone would say. But consider that Christian name. Elena. Suppose that, instead of Elena, it were Helena. That capital H could be turned into a capital E and then run over the small e next to it quite easily—and then a spot of grease dropped to cover up the alteration.”

  “Helena,” cried M. Bouc. “It is an idea, that.”

  “Certainly it is an idea! I look about for any confirmation, however slight, of my idea—and I find it. One of the luggage labels on the Countess’s baggage is slightly damp. It is one that happens to run over the first initial on top of the case. That label has been soaked off and put on again in a different place.”

  “You begin to convince me,” said M. Bouc, “But the Countess Andrenyi—surely—”

  “Ah, now, mon vieux, you must turn yourself round and approach an entirely different angle of the case. How was this murder intended to appear to everybody? Do not forget that the snow has upset all the murderer’s original plan. Let us imagine, for a little minute, that there is no snow, that the train proceeded on its normal course. What, then, would have happened?

  “The murder, let us say, would still have been discovered in all probability at the Italian frontier early this morning. Much of the same evidence would have been given to the Italian police. The threatening letters would have been produced by M. MacQueen, M. Hardman would have told his story, Mrs. Hubbard would have been eager to tell how a man passed through her compartment, the button would have been found. I imagine that two things only would have been different. The man would have passed through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment just before one o’clock—and the Wagon Lit uniform would have been found cast off in one of the toilets.”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean that the murder was planned to look like an outside job. The assassin would have been presumed to have left the train at Brod, where the train is timed to arrive at 00:58. Somebody would probably have passed a strange Wagon Lit conductor in the corridor. The uniform would be left in a conspicuous place so as to show clearly just how the trick had been played. No suspicion would have been attached to the passengers. That, my friends, was how the affair was intended to appear to the outside world.

  “But the acci
dent to the train changes everything. Doubtless we have here the reason why the man remained in the compartment with his victim so long. He was waiting for the train to go on. But at last he realized that the train was not going on. Different plans would have to be made. The murderer would now be known to be still on the train.”

  “Yes, yes,” said M. Bouc impatiently. “I see all that. But where does the handkerchief come in?”

  “I am returning to it by a somewhat circuitous route. To begin with, you must realize that the threatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of an indifferently written American crime novel. They are not real. They are, in fact, simply intended for the police. What we have to ask ourselves is, ‘Did they deceive Ratchett?’ On the face of it, the answer seems to be, ‘No.’ His instructions to Hardman seem to point to a definite ‘private’ enemy of the identity of whom he was well aware. That is if we accept Hardman’s story as true. But Ratchett certainly received one letter of a very different character—the one containing a reference to the Armstrong baby, a fragment of which we found in his compartment. In case Ratchett had not realized it sooner, this was to make sure that he understood the reason of the threats against his life. That letter, as I have said all along, was not intended to be found. The murderer’s first care was to destroy it. This, then, was the second hitch in his plans. The first was the snow, the second was our reconstruction of that fragment.

  “That note being destroyed so carefully can only mean one thing. There must be on the train someone so intimately connected with the Armstrong family that the finding of that note would immediately direct suspicion upon that person.

  “Now we come to the other two clues that we found. I pass over the pipe cleaner. We have already said a good deal about that. Let us pass on to the handkerchief. Taken at its simplest, it is a clue which directly incriminates someone whose initial is H, and it was dropped there unwittingly by that person.”