Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
55
“You have given us most interesting and valuable evidence,” said Poirot soothingly. “Now 
may I ask you a few questions?” 
“Why, certainly.” 
“How was it, since you were nervous of this man Ratchett, that you hadn’t already bolted the 
door between the compartments?” 
“I had,” returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly. 
“Oh, you had?” 
“Well, as a matter of fact I asked that Swedish creature—a pleasant soul—if it was bolted, 
and she said it was.” 
“How was it you couldn’t see for yourself?” 
“Because I was in bed and my spongebag was hanging on the door-handle.” 
“What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?” 
“Now let me think. It must have- been round about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. She’d 
come along to see if I had an aspirin. I told her where to find it and she got it out of my grip.” 
“You yourself were in bed?” 
“Yes.” 
Suddenly she laughed. “Poor soul—she was so upset! You see, she’d opened the door of the 
next compartment by mistake.” 
“Mr. Ratchett’s?” 
“Yes. You know how difficult it is as you come along the train and all the doors are shut. She 
opened his by mistake. She was very distressed about it. He’d laughed, it seemed, and I guess he 
said something not quite nice. Poor thing, she certainly was upset. ‘Oh! I make mistake,’ she 
said. ‘I ashamed make mistake. Not nice man,’ she said. ‘He say, “You too old.” ’ ” 
Dr. Constantine sniggered, and Mrs. Hubbard immediately froze him with a glance. 
“He wasn’t a nice kind of man,” she said, “to say a thing like that to a lady. It’s not right to 
laugh at such things.” Dr. Constantine hastily apologised. 
“Did you hear any noise from Mr. Ratchett’s compartment after that?” asked Poirot. 
“Well—not exactly.” 
“What do you mean by that, Madame?” 
“Well—” She paused. “He snored.” 
“Ah!—he snored, did he?” 
“Terribly. The night before, it kept me awake.” 
“You didn’t hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in your 
compartment?” 
“Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead.” 
“Ah, Yes, truly,” said Poirot. He appeared confused. 
“Do you remember the affair of the Armstrong kidnap ping, Mrs. Hubbard?” he asked. 
“Yes, indeed I do. And how the wretch that did it escaped scot-free! My, I’d have liked to get 
my hands on him.” 
“He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night.” 
“You don’t mean—?’ Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement. 
“But yes, I do. Ratchett was the man.” 
“
Well
! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn’t I tell you last 
night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: ‘When 
Mamma’s got a hunch you can bet your bottom dollar it’s O.K.’ ” 
“Were you acquainted with any of the Armstrong family, Mrs. Hubbard?” 

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