Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
67
“Ah, yes, thank you, Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?” 
She stared at him as she stood poised for departure. 
“Yes.” 
“A pipe?” 
“No. Cigarettes and cigars.” 
“Ah! Thank you.” 
She lingered, her eyes watching him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, dark and almond-
shaped with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Her lips, very 
scarlet in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful. 
“Why did you ask me that?” 
“Madame,” Poirot waved an airy hand, “detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For 
instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing-gown?” 
She stared at him. Then she laughed. “it is corn-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?” 
“Very important, Madame.” 
She asked curiously: “Are you really a detective, then?” 
“At your service, Madame.” 
“I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Jugo-Slavia—not until 
one got to Italy.” 
“I am not a Jugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.” 
“You belong to the League of Nations?” 
“I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically. He went on: “I work mainly in 
London. You speak English?” he added in that language. 
“I speak a leetle, yes.” Her accent was charming. Poirot bowed once more. 
“We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible.” 
She smiled, inclined her head and departed. 
“
Elle est jolie femme
,” said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. “Well, that did not advance us 
much.” 
“No,” said Poirot. “Two people who saw nothing and heard nothing.” 
“Shall we now see the Italian?” 
Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic 
passport. 

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