Agatha Christie
Murder On The Orient Express

© Берестова А. И., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2023

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2023

Part I
The Facts

Chapter I
An Important Passenger on the Taurus Express

Hercule Poirot had spent a week in Syria helping his friend, a general in the French Army, to solve a very serious crisis. His mission had been successfully completed.

Now, at about five o'clock in the morning, he was standing on the platform at Aleppo by the step leading up into the sleeping-car of the famous Taurus Express. The train consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local carriages.

It was a very cold winter morning. Hercule Poirot, muffled up to the ears, was talking with a young French lieutenant, who was seeing him off.

Lieutenant Dubosc had no idea what this small man's mission had been about, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the enthusiasm of a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.

“Today is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be in Stamboul.”

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”

“I have never visited Stamboul. It would be a pity just to pass through it. Yes, I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days.”

A cold wind blew down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc discreetly looked at his watch. Five minutes to five – only five minutes more!

Thinking that the other man had noticed it, he hastened once more into speech.

“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”

“That happens?”

“Yes, it has happened. Not this year, as yet.”

“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe are bad.”

“Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.”

“In Germany, too, I have heard.”

Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car compartments were pushed aside and a young woman looked out. Her name was Mary Debenham. She felt restless and couldn't sleep in her overheated compartment; she got up and looked out of the carriage window.

Two men below her window were talking French. One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches, heavily muffled up. It must be very cold outside. That was why they heated the train so terribly.

The sleeping-car conductor had come up to the two men. It was departure time for the train, and he advised the muffled up man to get aboard. The little man took off his hat. He had an egg-shaped head. He looked so ridiculous that Mary Debenham smiled in spite of her anxious thoughts. He was the sort of little man one could never take seriously.

Lieutenant Dubosc and Hercule Poirot exchanged beautiful parting speeches. M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute. The train moved slowly forward.

“At last!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.

“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, feeling how cold he was.

With a wide theatrical gesture, the conductor showed Poirot the beauty of his sleeping compartment. “I have put the little valise of Monsieur here.” Hercule Poirot put a folded note in his hinting hand.

“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. As I understand, Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul?”

M. Poirot agreed. “There are not many people on the train, I suppose?” he said.

“No, Monsieur. There are only two other passengers in my carriage – both English. A Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad.”

When the conductor left, M. Poirot fell asleep.

At half-past nine he awoke and went to the restaurant car for hot coffee.

He saw only one person in the restaurant car, obviously the young English lady mentioned by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark – perhaps twenty-eight years of age. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.

Hercule Poirot amused himself by studying her discreetly.

He decided this young woman could take care of herselfwith perfect ease wherever she went. She had self-possession and efficiency. He liked her appearance: the regular features and the delicate pallor of her face, the neat waves of her dark hair, and her cool grey eyes. But, in his opinion, she was just a little too efficient to be called beautiful.

A tall man entered the restaurant car. His age was between forty and fifty; he was lean; his skin was brown; his hair was slightly grey round the temples.

“The Colonel from India,” Poirot decided.

The man bowed slightly to the girl. “Morning, Miss Debenham.”

“Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot.”

The Colonel asked her permission to sit at her table. She didn't object.

The expression of the Colonel's eyes when they stopped at Hercule Poirot for a moment was absolutely indifferent, and Poirot, reading the English mind correctly, knew that he had said to himself: “Only some damned foreigner.”

The two English people exchanged a few short phrases and soon the girl went back to her compartment.

At lunch time they sat together again and completely ignored Poirot. Colonel Arbuthnot talked of India and asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where she had been in a post as governess. They became friendlier and less stiff when they discovered that they had some mutual friends. The Colonel asked whether she was stopping in Stamboul. The girl said she was going straight through to England.

“I may say I'm very glad you are going right through, because I am,” said the Colonel, flushing a little.

“He is amorous, our Colonel,” thought Hercule Poirot humourously. “The train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!”

The Colonel accompanied Miss Debenham back to her compartment. Later, as the train passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus, all three passengers stood in the corridor admiring the view. Poirot was standing near the two English and heard the girl sigh and murmur:

“It's so beautiful! I wish – I wish —”

“Yes?”

“I wish I could enjoy it!”

“I wish to Heaven you were out of all this,” Colonel Arbuthnot said.

“Hush, please! Hush!” said Miss Debebham.

The Colonel shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot's direction and said, “But I don't like the idea of your being a governess – running errands for tyrannical mothers and their tiresome brats.”

“Oh! I can assure you that it's the parents who are afraid of being bullied by me,” she laughed.

“Quite an odd little comedy that I watch here,” said Poirot to himself thoughtfully.

Later he remembered that thought of his.

At about half-past eleven that night the train stopped at Konya. The two English travellers got out and walked up and down the snowy platform.

At first, M. Poirot stayed inside, watching the life of the station through a window. Ten minutes later, however, he decided to have some fresh air, too. He walked down the platform.

There were two figures standing in the shadow of a traffic van. He recognized the voices. Arbuthnot was speaking.

“Mary —”

The girl interrupted him.

“Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us – then – ” Discreetly M. Poirot turned away.

“Curious,” he said to himself.

The next day, at about half-past two in the afternoon the train stopped. Something had caught fire under the dining-car. It was soon put out, and the damage was repaired. Mary Debenham got very nervous not because of the fire, but because of the possible delay.

“If there is an hour or two of delay, we won't be able to cross the Bosphorus in time to catch the Orient Express on the other side at nine o'clock,” she exclaimed anxiously.

Fortunately, ten minutes later the train started again and arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late.

The Bosphorus was stormy, and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. On the boat, he and his travelling companions were separated, and he did not see them again.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

Chapter II
The Tokatlian Hotel

At the hotel there were three letters waiting for him and a telegram. The telegram was quite unexpected. He was asked to return to London immediately.

Poirot asked the receptionist to reserve a sleeping-car accommodation in the Orient Express for him. Then he glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight. “I have time to dine?”

“But of course, Monsieur.”

The little Belgian nodded. He cancelled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.

As he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on his shoulder.

“What an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.

The speaker was a short stout elderly man. He was smiling delightedly.

Poiret stood up.

“M. Bouc!”

“M. Poirot!”

M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Sleeping-cars International Company, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.

“So far from home, my dear,” said M. Bouc.

“A little affair in Syria.”

“Ah! And you return home – when?”

“To-night.”

“Splendid! I, too. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I understand?”

“Yes. I wanted to stay here some days, but I have received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”

“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Affaires, affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, old man!”

“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed remarkably.

M. Bouc laughed.

“We will meet later,” he said.

Hercule Poirot ate his soup trying to keep his famous moustache out of it. While waiting for the next course, he glanced round him. There were few people in the restaurant, and of those few only two interested Hercule Poirot.

They sat at a table not far away. The younger was a pleasant – looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. But the little detective's attention was attracted by his companion.

That man was much older – between sixty and seventy. His face with his smiling mouth might produce an impression of kindness, but his eyes, small and deep-set, were cunning. When he looked at Poirot for a second, there was a strange malice, an unnatural tension in his glance. His voice, when he addressed his young companion, had a strange, soft, dangerous quality.

When Poirot joined his friend in the lounge, those two men were just leaving the hotel. Poirot watched them, and after they went out, he asked M. Bouc, “What do you think of those two?”

“They are Americans,” his friend said.

“Surely they are Americans. What do you think of their personalities?”

“The young man seemed quite pleasant.”

“And the other?”

“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not like him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”

Hercule Poirot was silent for a moment.

“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as if a wild animal had passed me by.”

“And yet he looked altogether most respectable.”

“Exactly! The body – the cage – is everything of the most respectable – but through the bars, the wild animal looks out. I had the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”

“That respectable American gentleman?”

“That respectable American gentleman.”

“Well,” said M. Bouc cheerfully, “it may be so. There is much evil in the world.”

At that moment the receptionist came up to them. He brought unexpected and unpleasant news to Hercule Poirot: there was not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.

M. Bouc was very much surpised, but he promised to help.

“There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which the conductor keeps vacant!” He smiled; then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time to go.”

But when they arrived at the station, the sleeping-car conductor informed M. Bouc that the No. 16 had been already taken.

“But what's the matter?” asked M. Bouc angrily. “There is a conference somewhere? It is a party?”

“No, Monsieur. It is only chance. It just happens that many people have decided to travel to-night.”

“So annoying,” said M. Bouc.

“Don't worry, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”

“Has everyone arrived?” M. Bouc turned once more to the conductor.

“There is one passenger,” said the man slowly, with hesitation, “who has not yet arrived.”

“What compartment?”

“No. 7 berth, a second class.”

“Who is it?”

“An Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A Mr. Harris.”

“It's a good omen,” said Poirot merrily, “like the made-up Missis Harris from a novel by Dickens. Mr. Harris, he will not arrive.”

M. Bouc told the conductor to put Poirot's luggage in No. 7.

“If this M. Harris arrives, we will settle the matter one way or another.”

When Poirot reached the compartment indicated, he found the tall young American of the Tokatlian there.

He frowned as Poirot entered.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you've made a mistake.”

“You are Mr. Harris?” asked Poirot.

“No, my name is MacQueen. I —”

“There is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here,” said the sleeping-car conductor apologetically.

Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. No doubt, the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the exclusive use of the other traveller.

However, even the most generous of tips lose their effect when a Director of the Company is on board and gives his orders.

“The train's remarkably full,” said the young man. He had evidently got over his annoyance and decided to take the matter philosophically.

The No. 7 was the upper berth.

“I say, Sir,” said MacQueen. “If you'd rather have the lower berth – easier and all that – well, that's all right by me.”

A likeable young fellow.

“No, no,” protested Poirot. “It is for one night only. At Belgrade —”

“Oh! I see. You're getting out at Belgrade —”

“Not exactly. You see —”

There was a sudden jerk, and then the long lighted platform glided slowly past them.

The Orient Express had begun its journey across Europe.

Chapter III
Poirot Refuses a Case

On the following day, M. Hercule Poirot rose early, had breakfast almost alone, and spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He saw little of his travelling companion.

When he entered the dining-car at lunch time, M. Bouc, who was already seated, invited him to his table. The director's table was served first, and the food, too, was unusually good.

As they were eating a delicate cream cheese, M. Bouc reached the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had the pen of a Balzac, I would describe this scene!” He waved a hand.

“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.

“Ah, you agree? These people around us, they are of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages, strangers to one another.

For three days they sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their own ways, never perhaps to see each other again.”

“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident —”

“Ah, no, my friend —”

“Of course, it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these people here are joined together – by death.”

Poirot ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.

At the table opposite were three men. A big swarthy Italian was enthusiastically picking his teeth. Opposite him a thin neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well – trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a garish suit – possibly a commercial traveller.

Poirot's eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was a very ugly old lady. But her ugliness charmed rather than disgusted. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large real pearls. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was frightfully unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.

She was speaking now to the waiter in a clear, polite, but completely imperious tone.

“You will be kind enough to bring to my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will organize that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening, also some boiled fish.”

The waiter replied respectfully that it would be done.

She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot's and went past him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.

“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husband made all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan.”

Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.

“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes her presence felt. You agree?”

Poirot agreed.

At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged. She wore glasses and had a long mild friendly face rather like a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking non-stop in a monotonous voice.

“I guess there's nothing like education. We've got to apply our Western ideals and teach the East to recognize them. My daughter says —”

The train went into a tunnel. The calm, monotonous voice was drowned out.

Colonel Arbuthnot sat alone at the next small table. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham's head. They were not sitting together though it could easily have been arranged. Why?

Perhaps, Poirot thought, it had been Mary Debenham's wish. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl who works for her living has to be discreet.

At the far end on the other side of the carriage, against the wall, there was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, he thought. Probably the German lady's maid.

At the table next to her a man and a woman were talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes, but he was not English. The shape of his head and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well-made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of a little over thirty with a big fair moustache.

The woman opposite him was very young – twenty at a guess. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, very white skin, large brown eyes, black hair. She was fashionably dressed in a little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, and a small black toque on her head. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.

“Beautiful and elegant,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife, eh?”

M. Bouc nodded. “Hungarian Embassy, I think,” he said. “A handsome couple.”

There were only two more people – young MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and again Poirot studied that unattractive face with its false kindness of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.

Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend's expression.

“It is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.

Poirot nodded.

As Poirot's coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot he had finished some time ago.

“I return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along soon and have a talk with me.”

“With pleasure.”

Poirot drank his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The waiter was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady's voice rose shrill and plaintive.

“My daughter said, 'Take a book of food tickets and you'll have no trouble at all.' Well, that isn't so. Seems they want to have a ten per cent tip, and then there's that bottle of mineral water – and a strange sort of water, too. They didn't have any Evian or Vichy.”

“They must – how do you say? – serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.

“Well, it seems strange to me.” She looked at small change on the table in front of her with displeasure. “Look at all these dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish! My daughter said —”

Mary Debenham got up and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot followed her. The American woman gathered up her despised coins and went out. The other one followed her like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. Only three men were left in the restaurant car – Poirot and Ratchett, and MacQueen.

Ratchett said something to his companion. MacQueen got up and left the car. Then Ratchett got up and quite unexpectedly sat down at Poirot's table.

The man introduced himself. “My name is Ratchett,” he said in a soft, slightly nasal voice.

Poirot bowed slightly.

“I think,” Ratchett went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”

Poirot bowed again. “You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”

“Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”

Hercule Poirot's eyebrows went up a little.

“I undertake very few cases nowadays, Monsieur.”

“Naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.”

Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said, “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur – er – Ratchett?”

“Mr. Poirot, I am a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”

“Only one enemy?”

“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.

“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually come to one enemy only.”

Ratchett said quickly, “Well, yes, enemy or enemies – it doesn't matter. What does matter is my safety.”

“Safety?”

“My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Of course, I can take pretty good care of myself.” He took out a small automatic from his pocket for a moment. He continued grimly. “But I want to be double confident. I think you're the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And remember – big money.”

Poirot was thoughtful for some minutes.

“I regret, Monsieur,” he said at last, “that I cannot oblige you.”

Ratchett tried to tempt him with twenty thousand dollars payment.

Poirot shook his head.

“You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as interest me.”

“What's wrong with my proposition?”

Poirot rose. “If you will forgive me for being personal – I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said and left the restaurant car.

Chapter IV
A Cry in the Night

That evening the Simplon Orient Express stood at Belgrade station for half an hour (from 8.45 to 9.15). Poirot decided to walk along the platform. But it was so cold that he soon walked back to his compartment. The conductor told him that his luggage had been moved to the compartment No. 1, the compartment of M. Bouc, who had moved into the carriage from Athens which had just been put on.

M. Bouc explained Poirot when he came to see him in his compartment that the new arrangement was more convenient.

“You are going through to England, so it is better that you should stay in the through carriage to Calais. I am very well here. It is most peaceful. There is only one other passenger in this carriage – one little Greek doctor.”

M. Bouc worried that the train might be held up because of the unusually heavy snowfall.

At 9.15 the train pulled out of the station, and soon afterwards Poirot said good night to his friend and went back into his own carriage which was in front next to the dining-car.

In the corridor he saw Colonel Arbuthnot talking to MacQueen. When MacQueen saw Poirot, he broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised.

“You said you were getting off at Belgrade,” he said.

Poirot smiled. “You misunderstood me. I remember now, the train started from Stamboul just as we were talking about it.”

“But your luggage is gone.”

“It has been moved into another compartment.”

Poirot passed on down the corridor, and MacQueen continued his conversation with Arbuthnot.

Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly American, Mrs. Hubbard, was talking to the sheep-like Swedish lady. Mrs. Hubbard nodded amicably to Poirot.

“I hope you'll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning,” said Mrs. Hubbard.

“It's just the cold. I'll make myself a cup of tea.”

“Have you got some aspirin? Are you sure now? I've got plenty. Well, good night, my dear.”

She turned to Poirot as the other woman departed.

“A nice creature, but doesn't talk much English. She's a Swede. As I understand, she's a kind of missionary. She was most interested in what I told her about my daughter.”

Everyone on the train who could understand English knew all about Mrs. Hubbard's daughter by now, and that this was Mrs. Hubbard's first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and the condition of their roads.

The door next to them opened and the thin pale manservant went out. Inside Poirot saw Mr. Ratchett sitting up in bed. When he saw Poirot, his face darkened with anger. Then the door was closed.

Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little aside.

“You know, I'm absolutely scared to death of that man. Not the valet – his master. There's something wrong about that man. He's next door to me and I don't like it. My daughter always says I'm very intuitive. I put my grips against the communicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Do you know, I wouldn't be surprised if that man turned out to be a murderer – one of these train robbers. It may be foolish, but I feel as if anything might happen – anything at all.”

Colonel Arbuthnot and MacQueen passed them, talking, and went on down the corridor to MacQueen's compartment.

“I guess I'll go right to bed and read,” Mrs. Hubbard said to Poirot. “Good night.”

“Good night, Madame.”

Poirot went into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Ratchett's. He read for about half an hour and then turned out the light, and fell asleep.

Some hours later he suddenly awoke. He knew what had wakened him – a loud groan, almost a cry, somewhere very close. At the same moment a bell rang loudly.

Poirot switched on the light. He thought they were at some station because the train was at a standstill.

That cry had alarmed him. He remembered that Ratchett was in the next compartment. Just as he opened the door of his own compartment, the sleeping-car conductor came running and knocked on Ratchett's door. Poirot kept his door slightly open and watched. The conductor knocked a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down. The conductor glanced over his shoulder. At the same moment a man's voice from inside Ratchett's compartment said in French that it had been a mistake, and nothing was needed.

The conductor ran to knock at the door where the light was showing.

Poirot felt relieved and returned to bed. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty-three minutes to one.

Chapter V
The Crime

Poirot turned off the light but couldn't sleep. The train still didn't move. If it was a station outside, it was curiously quiet. And inside the train the noises seemed unusually loud. He could hear Ratchett moving about next door – the sound of the washbasin pulled down, the sound of the tap water running, a splashing noise, then the sound of the basin shut again. Footsteps of someone in bedroom slippers passed up the corridor outside.

Poirot felt thirsty and decided to ring for the conductor and ask for some mineral water. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. His finger went out to the bell, but another bell rang at that moment. The conductor couldn't answer every bell at once, so Hercule Poirot waited.

The bell rang and rang, again and again. Where was the conductor? Somebody was getting impatient.

At last the conductor's running footsteps were heard. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot's own.

Then he heard the conductor's apologetic voice and a torrent of words from a woman.

Mrs. Hubbard!

Poirot smiled to himself.

Finally he heard a “Bonne nuit, Madame,” and a closing door. He pressed his own finger on the bell.

The conductor arrived immediately. He looked hot and worried. Poirot asked for mineral water.

Perhaps a glint in Poirot's eye made him unburden himself. “La dame americaine —”

“Yes?”

He wiped his forehead. “She insists – but insists – that there is a man in her compartment! Just imagine, Monsieur. In so small a space, where would he hide? But she will not listen. She insists. She woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door bolted behind him? As though there were not enough to worry us already. This snow —”

“Snow?”

“But yes, Monsieur. We have run into a snowdrift. I remember once being snowed up for seven days.”

“Where are we?”

“Between Vincovci and Brod.”

When the man brought the water, Poirot drank a glass and was just falling asleep when something again woke him. This time it was as though something heavy had fallen outside his door.

He jumped up, opened it and looked out. There was nothing on the floor. But to his right, some distance down the corridor, a woman in a scarlet kimono was moving away from him. At the other end, sitting on his little seat, the conductor was writing down figures on large sheets of paper. Everything was absolutely quiet.

“Definitely I suffer from the nerves,” decided Poirot and went to bed again. This time he slept till morning.

He awoke after nine o'clock and raised a blind. Heavy mounds of snow surrounded the train.

At a quarter to ten, neat and dandified as ever, he went to the restaurant car, where a chorus of lamenting voices was heard. As usual, Mrs. Hubbard was loudest in her lamentations.

“My boat sails day after tomorrow. And we may be here for days and days. And I can't even wire to cancel my passage!”

The Italian man said he was needed urgently in Milan. The Swedish lady wept because she couldn't let her relatives know about the delay in her journey.

Mary Debenham asked impatiently if anybody knew how long the delay would be. Poirot noticed that she was not so worried as she had been during the delay of the Taurus Express.

Mrs. Hubbard began again.

“Nobody knows a thing on this train. And nobody's trying to do anything. Just a crowd of useless foreigners. Why, if this were at home, there'd be someone at least trying to do something!”

Arbuthnot addressed Poirot in careful British French as if he were the director of the rail way line.

Poirot corrected him, smiling.

“No, no,” he said in English. “You confuse me with my friend, M. Bouc. I am just in the compartment that he had formerly.”

M. Bouc was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot looked around to see who else was absent.

He didn't see Princess Dragomiroff, the Hungarian couple, Ratchett, his valet, and the German lady's maid.

The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.

“I should not cry,” she said. “All is for the best, whatever happens.”

“That's all very well,” said MacQueen restlessly. “We may be here for days.”

“What is this country anyway?” demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.

On being told it was Jugoslavia, she said, “Oh! One of these Balkan things. What can you expect?”

“You are the only patient one, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot to Miss Debenham.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “What can one do?”

“You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”

“I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.”

She was speaking more to herself than to him. She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snow lay in heavy masses.

“You are a strong character, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “I think you are the strongest character amongst us.”

“Oh! I know a character much stronger than I am.”

“And that is —?”

It seemed she suddenly realized that she was talking to a stranger and foreigner, with whom, until this morning, she had exchanged only a few phrases.

She laughed politely but with estrangement.

“Well, that old lady, for example. A very ugly old lady but rather charming. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice – and the whole train runs.”

“It runs also for my friend M. Bouc,” said Poirot. “But that is because he is a director of the line, not because he has a strong character.”

Mary Debenham smiled.

One of the sleeping-car conductors came into the car and stood at Poirot's elbow.

“Pardon, Monsieur.”

“Yes?”

“M. Bouc would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes.”

Poirot asked to excuse him and followed the man out of the dining-car. It was a big fair man, not his own conductor.

M. Bouc was not in his own compartment. It was a second – class one – chosen because of its slightly larger size.

Besides M. Bouc and a small dark man, who were sitting, the chief of the train and his own sleeping-car conductor were standing there.

By the expression on M. Bouc's face Poirot understood that something out of the ordinary had happened.

“We need you, my friend. An American called Ratchett lies dead in his berth – stabbed,” said M. Bouc.

“Brr!” said Poirot. “This is serious!”

“And the unusual circumstances make it even more serious. First, may be here for days because of the snow; another circumstance – in Jugoslavia we have no police on the train. You see?”

“It is a position of great difficulty,” said Poirot.

“Moreover, Dr. Constantine – I forgot, I have not introduced you. Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot.”

The little dark man bowed, and Poirot returned the bow.

“Dr. Constantine thinks that the man was stabbed at about 1 a.m.”

“It is difficult to judge exactly,” said the doctor, “but I think I can say definitely that death occurred between midnight and two in the morning.”

“When was this M. Ratchett last seen alive?” asked Poirot.

M. Bouc said that the man had spoken to the conductor at about twenty minutes to one.

“Yes, I myself heard that,” said Poirot. “That is the last thing known?”

“Yes.”

The doctor told Poirot that the window of M. Ratchett's compartment had been wide open, but there were no traces in the snow under the window, so the murderer could not have escaped that way.

“When was the crime discovered?” asked Poirot.

M. Bouc ordered Michel, the sleeping-car conductor to tell them exactly how it had been.

The man told them that Ratchett's valet had knocked on his door several times that morning, but received no answer.

Then, at eleven o'clock, the waiter came from the restaurant car and asked if Monsieur would have breakfast. Michel opened the door for him with his key, but the door was chained on the inside.

“There is no answer and it is very still in there, and cold. With the window open and snow drifting in,” the conductor went on. “I thought the gentleman had had a heart attack, perhaps. I got the chief of the train. We broke the chain and went in. He was – Ah! So terrible!”

“The door was closed and chained. It was not suicide – eh?” said Poirot.

The Greek doctor laughed with sarcasm. “Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten-twelve-fifteen places?” he asked.

Poirot's eyes opened wide. “That is great cruelty,” he said.

“Surely, it was a woman,” said the chief of the train, speaking for the first time. “Only a woman would stab like that.”

“She must have been a very strong woman,” Dr. Constantine said thoughtfully. “One or two of the blows were delivered with enormous force.”

“It was clearly not a scientific crime,” said Poirot.

“It was most unscientific,” confirmed Dr. Constantine. “It seems the blows have been delivered at random. Some have done hardly any damage. It is as if somebody had closed his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.”

“It is a woman,” said the chief of the train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged, they have great strength.” He spoke so confidently that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.

“I have, perhaps, something to add to your knowledge,” said Poirot. “M. Ratchett told me yesterday that his life was in danger.”

“Then it is not a woman. It is a 'gangster' or a 'gunman',” said M. Bouc.

The chief of the train was disappointed that his theory had come to nothing.

“If so,” said Poirot, “it has been done very amateurishly.”

In M. Bouc's opinion, a large American in terrible clothes, who chews the gum (and that is not done in good society), might be the murderer.

The sleeping-car conductor said it was impossible.

“I would have seen him enter or leave the compartment.”

“You might not. But we will go into that later. The question is, what to do?” He looked at Poirot.

Poirot looked back at him.

“I know your abilities, my friend,” said M. Bouc. “Take command of this investigation! Please, do not refuse. It is very important for my Company. It will be so simple if by the time the Jugoslavian police arrive, we can say 'A murder has occurred – this is the criminal!' Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences.”

“And suppose I do not solve the mystery?”

“Ah, my dear!” M. Bouc said gently. “This is the ideal case for you. Have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Use (as you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind – and you will know! I have faith in you!”

He looked affectionately at the detective.

“I'm touched by your faith, my friend,” said Poirot emotionally. “In truth, this problem intrigues me. Instead of many hours of boredom while we are stuck here, a problem lies ready to my hand.”

Poirot agreed to take the case and asked for the plan of the Istanbul – Calais carriage, with a note of the people who occupied the several compartments, and he also wanted to see their passports and their tickets. The conductor went to fetch them.

Poirot asked about other passengers on the train. From what he was told it seemed that the murderer could only be in the Istanbul – Calais carriage.

The doctor said, “At half an hour after midnight we ran into the snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then.”

M. Bouc said solemnly, “The murderer is with us – on the train now…”

Chapter VI
A Woman

First of all, Poirot wanted to talk to young Mr. MacQueen. “He may be able to give us valuable information.”

M. Bouc asked the chief of the train to invite Mr. MacQueen to come to their compartment.

The conductor returned with passports and tickets. M. Bouc took them from him and told him to go back to his post.

“We will take your evidence formally later,” he said.

“Very good, Monsieur,” said Michel, and left the carriage.

The chief of the train returned with Hector MacQueen.

M. Bouc rose. “We are a little crowded here,” he said pleasantly. “Take my seat, Mr. MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you – so.”

He turned to the chief of the train and told him to ask all the passengers leave the restaurant car free for M. Poirot.

“You will conduct your interviews there, my dear?”

“It would be the most convenient, yes,” agreed Poirot.

“What's up on the train? Has anything happened?” MacQueen looked from one man to another.

Poirot nodded. “Yes. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, M. Ratchett, is dead!”

MacQueen didn't show any sign of shock. He just whistled, and his eyes grew a bit brighter.

“So they got him after all,” he said.

“You suppose,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?”

“That's just what I thought,” MacQueen said slowly. “Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was so strong.”

“No, no,” said Poirot. “Your supposition was quite right.

M. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. But I would like to know why you were so sure it was murder.”

MacQueen didn't answer at once. “I must understand,” he said, “who you are exactly.”

“I represent the Sleeping-cars International Company.” Poirot paused, then added, “I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot.”

His words didn't produce the effect he expected.

“You know the name, perhaps?”

“Well, it seems familiar. Only I always thought it was a woman's dressmaker.”

Hercule Poirot looked at him with dislike. “It is incredible!”

Poirot began to ask his questions. From MacQueen's answers he learnt that the young man had become Ratchett's secretary in Persia over a year ago. He had come to Persia from New York on business, but things had gone badly for him. Mr. Ratchett was in the same hotel. He had just parted with his secretary and offered the job to MacQueen.

“And since then?”

“We've travelled a lot. Mr. Ratchett wanted to see the world, but he didn't know any foreign language. I acted more as a courier than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life.”

“Now tell me as much as you can about your employer.”

The young man said it was not easy.

“I know that his full name is Samuel Edward Ratchett, that he was an American citizen”

“What else do you know?”

“In fact, Mr. Poirot, I know nothing at all! Mr. Ratchett never spoke of himself, of his relatives, or of his life in America.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“I don't know. He might be ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are.”

“You must have formed some theory, Mr. MacQueen.”

“Well, I don't believe Ratchett was his real name. I think he left America in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful – until a few weeks ago when he began to get threatening letters. The first letter came a fortnight ago.”

“Were these letters destroyed?”

“No, I think I've got a couple still in my files.”

Poirot asked MacQueen to bring those letters. In a few minutes he laid down two letters before Poirot.

The first letter ran as follows:

Thought you'd escape, did you? Never. We're out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!

There was no signature.

Poirot read the second letter.

We're going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We're going to GET you – see?

“The style is monotonous!” Poirot said. “But not the handwriting.”

MacQueen looked surprised.

“This letter,” explained Poirot, “was not written by one person, M. MacQueen. Two or more persons wrote it – one letter of a word was written by one person, another letter was written by another persion. Also, the letters are printed. It is much more difficult to identify the handwriting that way.”

Poirot asked then what Ratchett's reaction to the first letter was. MacQueen said that he had laughed quietly, but he had shivered slightly.

Poirot nodded. Then he asked an unexpected question.

“Mr. MacQueen, will you tell me, quite honestly, did you like your employer?”

Hector MacQueen didn't answer at once.

“No,” he said at last. “I did not.”

“Why?”

“I felt he was a cruel and dangerous man.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. One more question: when did you last see Mr. Ratchett alive?”

“Last evening about – ” he paused for a minute – “ten o'clock, I would say. I went into his compartment to take down some instruction from him.”

“On what subject?”

“It was about some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia.”

“And that was the last time Mr. Ratchett was seen alive?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you know when Mr. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?”

“On the morning of the day we left Constantinople.”

“Thank you, Mr. MacQueen. That is all for the present,” Poirot said.

The American left the carriage.

“Do you believe what this young man says?” asked M. Bouc.

“He seems honest. He did not pretend to like his employer, as he probably would have done if he had been mixed up in this.”

“So one person at least is innocent of the crime,” said M. Bouc cheerfully.

“I suspect everybody till the last minute,” Poirot said. “But yes, I cannot see how MacQueen could lose his head and stab his victim twelve or fourteen times.”

“No,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. “It's more like the Latin temperament. Or, as our friend the chief of the train insisted – a woman.”

Chapter VII
The Body

Poirot and Dr. Constantine went to the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The window was still open. Poirot examined the window carefully.

“You are right,” he said. “Nobody left the carriage this way.”

He examined the frame of the window carefully.

“No fingerprints at all,” he said. “Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.”

Then he turned his attention to the body of the murdered man.

“How many wounds are there exactly?”

“I make it twelve. One or two are practically scratches. Just three were fatal.”

The doctor frowned suddenly.

“What is it?” asked Poirot.

“These two wounds,” The doctor pointed. “They are deep, but they have not bled.”

“What does that mean?”

“That the man was already dead when the stabs were made.”

“Anything else?” asked Poirot.

“Well, the wound near the right shoulder. The blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”

“So, our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”

“Yes, M. Poirot. Some of the other blows are righthanded.”

“So, two people,” murmured the detective. He asked suddenly, “Was the electric light on?”

“It is difficult to say. It is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o'clock.”

“The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.

He examined the switch of the top light and also the bedhead light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The second Murderer came in in the dark and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. What do you think?”

“Excellent!” the little doctor said.

“It seems a little like nonsense to me.”

“Can there be any other explanation?”

“That is what I am asking myself. What else can show that two people have been mixed up in this?”

“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows are very weak, like scratches. But great strength was needed for two others.”

“You think they were struck by a man?”

“Most certainly.”

“It could not have been a woman?”

“It might have been a young, athletic woman, driven by a strong emotion, but, in my opinion, it is highly unlikely.”

Poirot was silent a moment or two.

“The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength – he was weak – it was a woman – it was a right-handed person – it was a left-handed person. It's just ridiculous!” He spoke with sudden anger. “And the victim – what does he do? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?”

He drew out the automatic pistol from under the pillow.

“Fully loaded, you see,” he said.

They looked round them. On the small table formed by the lid of the washbasin were various objects, an empty glass and an ash-tray among them. There was the butt of a cigar in it and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.

“That is why there was no struggle – the victim was drugged,” he said quietly.

Poirot picked up the two matches and examined them carefully. One of them was flatter than the other. He felt the pockets of Ratchett's clothing and pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones.

“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said.

“Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”

No other matches were found, but from the floor Poirot picked up a small cambric handkerchief with an initial embroidered in the corner – H.

“Our friend the chief of the train was right,” said the doctor. “There is a woman mixed up in this.”

“And she leaves her handkerchief marked with an initial to make things easier for us. Exactly as it happens in the books and films!” said Poirot.

Before the doctor could say anything, he again picked up something from the floor. This time it was a pipe-cleaner.

There was no pipe in any of Mr. Ratchett's pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.

“It is a clue,” the doctor said.

“A masculine clue, this time. One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”

“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”

“I wonder why,” Poirot thought.

At this moment the doctor pulled out a gold watch from the breast pocket of the dead man's pyjama.

The case was badly damaged, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

“You see?” cried Dr. Constantine. “This gives us the hour of the crime. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o'clock. Here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”

“It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”

The doctor looked at him curiously. “You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”

“I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all. And it worries me.”

He sighed and started examining the charred fragment of paper in the ash-tray. He murmured to himself, “I need an old – fashioned woman's hat-box.”

Poirot called for the conductor and the man arrived at a run. He wanted to know how many women there were on the carriage.

The conductor enumerated them – “the old American lady, the Swedish lady, the young English lady, the Countess Andrenyi, and Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff and her maid.”

“They all have hat-boxes, yes?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Poirot asked the conductor to bring him the Swedish lady's hat-box and that of the lady's maid.

The conductor brought the two hat-boxes. Poirot opened that of the maid, and put it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady's and was satisfied. He took out the hats carefully and disclosed round humps of wire-netting.

“Yes, that's it! About fifteen years ago hat-boxes were made like this. You pierced the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire-netting.”

He skillfully removed two of the humps. Then he repacked the hat-box and told the conductor to return both boxes where they belonged.

When the conductor left, he turned to his companion.

“You see, my dear doctor, I mostly rely on the psychology, not on the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those are real clues?”

“I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot.”

“Well, for example, there are two possibilities. A man, committing the crime, decides to make it look like a woman's crime, makes several weak stabs, and drops a woman's handkerchief. Or a woman kills him and makes it look like a man's work, dropping a pipe-cleaner. Or should we seriously suppose that two people, a man and a woman, did it separately, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to his or her identity? It is a little too much of a coincidence, that!”

“But what is the role of the hat-box?” asked the doctor, still puzzled.

“Ah! I am coming to that. All these clues we have found may be real, or they may be false. I cannot yet tell. But I think there is one real clue here – that flat match. I believe that that match was used by the murderer. It was used to burn some note that left a possible clue to the murderer. I am going to try to discover what it was.”

He left the compartment for a few moments and returned with a small spirit-lamp and a pair of curling-tongs.

“I use them for the moustaches,” he said, referring to the latter.

The doctor watched him with great interest. Poirot flattened out the two humps of wire, and with great care put the charred fragment of paper on one of them. Very quickly, he put the other on top of it and then, holding both pieces together with the tongs, held the whole thing over the flame of the spiritlamp.

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