Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
29
6 
A WOMAN 
“First of all,” said Poirot, “I should like a word or two with young Mr. MacQueen. He may be 
able to give us valuable information.” 
“Certainly,” said M. Bouc. He turned to the 
chef de train
. “Get Mr. MacQueen to come here.” 
The 
chef de train
left the carriage. 
The conductor returned with a bundle of passports and tickets. M. Bouc took them from him. 
“Thank you, Michel. It would be best now, I think, if you were to go back to your post. We 
will take your evidence formally later.” 
“Very good, Monsieur,” said Michel, and in his turn left the carriage. 
“After we have seen young MacQueen,” said Poirot, “perhaps 
M. le docteur 
will come with 
me to the dead man’s carriage.” 
“Certainly.” 
“After we have finished there—” 
But at this moment the 
chef de train
returned with Hector MacQueen. 
M. Bouc rose. “We are a little cramped here,” he said pleasantly. “Take my seat, Mr. 
MacQueen. M. Poirot will sit opposite you—so.” 
He turned to the 
chef de train
. “Clear all the people out of the restaurant car,” he said, “and let 
it be left free for M. Poirot. You will conduct your interviews there, 
mon cher
?” 
“It would be the most convenient, yes,” agreed Poirot. 
MacQueen had stood looking from one to the other, not quite following the rapid flow of 
French. 
“
Qu’est-ce qu’il y a
?” he began laboriously. “
Pourquoi
—?” 
With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in the corner. He took it and began 
once more. 
“
Pourquoi
—?” Then checking himself and relapsing into his own tongue: “What’s up on the 
train? Has anything happened?” 
He looked from one man to another. 
Poirot nodded. “Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock. 
Your 
employer, M. Ratchett, is dead
!” 
MacQueen’s mouth pursed itself into a whistle. Except that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he 
showed no signs of shock or distress. 
“So they got him after all,” he said. 
“What exactly do you mean by that phrase, Mr. MacQueen?” 
MacQueen hesitated. 
“You are assuming,” said Poirot, “that M. Ratchett was murdered?” 
“Wasn’t he?” This time MacQueen did show surprise. “Why, yes,” he said slowly. “That’s 
just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as—
as tough—” 
He stopped, at a loss for a simile. 
“No, no,” said Poirot. “Your assumption was quite right. M. Ratchett was murdered. Stabbed. 
But I should like to know why you were so sure it 
was
murder, and not just—death.” 

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