Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
128
“That is all, sir.” 
He paused; then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic little bow and after a 
momentary hesitation left the dining-car in the same quiet unobtrusive fashion as he had come. 
“This,” said Dr. Constantine, “is more wildly improbable than any 
roman policier 
I have ever 
read.” 
“I agree,” said M. Bouc. “Of the twelve passengers in that coach, nine have been proved to 
have had a connection with the Armstrong case. What next, I ask you? Or should I say, who 
next?” 
“I can almost give you the answer to your question,” said Poirot. “Here comes our American 
sleuth, Mr. Hardman.” 
“Is he, too, coming to confess?” 
Before Poirot could reply the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at 
them and sitting down he drawled out: “Just exactly what’s up on this train? It seems bughouse 
to me.” 
Poirot twinkled at him. 
“Are you quite sure, Mr. Hardman, that you yourself were not the gardener at the Armstrong 
home?” 
“They didn’t have a garden,” replied Mr. Hardman literally. 
“Or the butler?” 
“Haven’t got the fancy manners for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with the 
Armstrong house—but I’m beginning to believe I’m about the only one on this train who hadn’t! 
Can you beat it? That’s what I say—can you beat it?” 
“It is certainly a little surprising,” said Poirot mildly. 
“
C’est rigolo
,” burst from M. Bouc. 
“Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, Mr. Hardman?” inquired Poirot. 
“No, sir. It’s got me beat. I don’t know how to figure it out. They can’t 
all
be in it—but which 
one is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this? That’s what I want to 
know.” 
“I just guessed.” 
“Then, believe me, you’re a pretty slick guesser. Yes, I’ll tell the world you’re a slick 
guesser.” 
Mr. Hardman leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly. 
“You’ll excuse me,” he said, “but no one would believe it to look at you. I take off my hat to 
you. I do indeed.” 
“You are too kind, M. Hardman.” 
“Not at all. I’ve got to hand it to you.” 
“All the same,” said Poirot, “the problem is not yet quite solved. Can we say with authority 
that we know who killed M. Ratchett?” 
“Count me out,” said Mr. Hardman. “I’m not saying anything at all. I’m just full of natural 
admiration. What about the other two you haven’t had a guess at yet? The old American dame, 
and the lady’s-maid? I suppose we can take it that they’re the only innocent parties on the train?” 
“Unless,” said Poirot, smiling, “we can fit them into our little collection as—shall we say—
housekeeper and cook in the Armstrong household?” 
“Well, nothing in the world would surprise me now,” said Mr. Hardman with quiet 
resignation. “Bughouse—that’s what this business is—bughouse!” 

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