Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
82
12 
THE EVIDENCE OF THE GERMAN LADY’S-MAID 
M. Bouc was looking at his friend curiously. 
“I do not quite understand you, 
mon vieux
. You were trying to do—what?” 
“I was searching for a flaw, my friend.” 
“A flaw?” 
“Yes—in the armour of a young lady’s self-possession. I wished to shake her 
sang-froid
. Did 
I succeed? I do not know. But I know this: she did not expect me to tackle the matter as I did.” 
“You suspect her,” said M. Bow slowly. “But why? She seems a very charming young lady—
the last person in the world to be mixed up in a crime of this kind.” 
“I agree,” said Constantine. “She is cold. She has not emotions. She would not stab a man—
she would sue him in the law courts.” 
Poirot sighed. 
“You must, both of you, get rid of your obsession that this is an unpremeditated and sudden 
crime. As for the reasons why I suspect Miss Debenham, there are two. One is because of 
something that I overheard, and that you do not as yet know.” 
He retailed to them the curious interchange of phrases he had overheard on the journey from 
Aleppo. 
“That is curious, certainly,” said M. Bouc when he had finished. “It needs explaining. If it 
means what you suspect it means, then they are both of them in it together—she and the stiff 
Englishman.” 
Poirot nodded. 
“And that is just what is not borne out by the facts,” he said. “See you, if they were both in 
this together, what should we expect to find? That each of them would provide an alibi for the 
other. Is not that so? But no—that does not happen. Miss Debenham’s alibi is provided by a 
Swedish woman whom she has never seen before, and Colonel Arbuthnot’s alibi is vouched for 
by MacQueen, the dead mans secretary. No, that solution of the puzzle is too easy.” 
“You said there was another reason for your suspicions of her,” M. Bouc, reminded him. 
Poirot smiled. 
“Ah! but that is only psychological. I ask myself, is it possible for Miss Debenham to have 
planned this crime? Behind this business, I am convinced, there is a cool, intelligent, resourceful 
brain. Miss Debenham answers to that description.” 
M. Bouc shook his head. “I think you are wrong, my friend. I do not see that young English 
girl as a criminal.” 
“Ah! Well,” said Poirot, picking up the last passport. “To the final name on our list. 
Hildegarde Schmidt, lady’s-maid.” 
Summoned by the attendant, Hildegarde Schmidt came into the restaurant car and stood 
waiting respectfully. 
Poirot motioned her to sit down. 
She did so, folding her hands and waiting placidly till he questioned her. She seemed a placid 
creature altogether—eminently respectable, perhaps not over-intelligent. 

---