Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
45
“That is all,” he said, “for the moment.” 
“Thank you, Monsieur.” 
The man rose. He looked at M. Bouc. 
“Do not distress yourself,” said the latter kindly; “I cannot see that there has been any 
negligence on your part.” 
Gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment. 

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Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
46
2 
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SECRETARY 
For a minute or two Poirot remained lost, in thought. 
“I think,” he said at last, “that it would be well to have a further word with Mr. MacQueen, in 
view of what we now know.” 
The young American appeared promptly. 
“Well,” he said, “how are things going?” 
“Not too badly. Since our last conversation, I have learnt something—the identity of Mr. 
Ratchett.” 
Hector MacQueen leaned forward interestedly. “Yes?” he said. 
“ ‘Ratchett,’ as you suspected, was merely an alias. The man ‘Ratchett’ was Cassetti, who ran 
the celebrated kidnapping stunts—including the famous affair of little Daisy Armstrong.” 
An expression of utter astonishment appeared on MacQueen’s face. Then it darkened. “The 
damned skunk!” he exclaimed. 
“You had no idea of this, Mr. MacQueen?” 
“No, sir,” said the young American decidedly. “If I had, I’d have cut off my right hand before 
it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!” 
“You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. MacQueen?” 
“I have a particular reason for doing so. My father was the district attorney who handled the 
case, Mr. Poirot. I saw Mrs. Armstrong more than once—she was a lovely woman. So gentle and 
heartbroken.” His face darkened. “If ever a man deserved what he got, Ratchett—or Cassetti—is 
the man. I’m rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn’t fit to live!” 
“You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?” 
“I do. I—” He paused, then added rather guiltily, “Seems I’m kind of incriminating myself.” 
“I should be more inclined to suspect you, Mr. MacQueen, if you displayed an inordinate 
sorrow at your employer’s decease.” 
“I don’t think I could do that even to save myself from the chair,” said MacQueen grimly. 
Then he added: “If I’m not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Cassetti’s 
identity, I mean.” 
“By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment.” 
“But surely—I mean—that was rather careless of the old man?” 
“That depends,” said Poirot, “on the point of view.” 
The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though 
trying to make him out. 
“The task before me,” said Poirot, “is to make sure of the movements of every one on the 
train. No offence need be taken, you understand. It is only a matter of routine.” 
“Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can.” 
“I need hardly ask you the number of your compartment,” said Poirot, smiling, “since I shared 
it with you for a night. It is the second-class compartment Nos. 6 and 7, and after my departure 
you had it to yourself.” 
“That’s right.” 

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