Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
88
“Therefore this story, the story of a small dark man with a womanish voice dressed in Wagon 
Lit uniform, rests on the testimony, direct or indirect, of four witnesses.” 
“One small point,” said Dr. Constantine. “If Hildegarde Schmidt’s story is true, how is it that 
the real conductor did not mention having seen her when he came to answer Mrs. Hubbard’s 
bell?” 
“That is explained, I think. When he arrived to answer Mrs. Hubbard, the maid was in with 
her mistress. When she finally returned to her own compartment, the conductor was in with Mrs. 
Hubbard.” 
M. Bouc had been waiting with difficulty until they had finished. 
“Yes, yes, my friend,” he said impatiently to Poirot. “But whilst I admire your caution, your 
method of advancing a step at a time, I submit that you have not yet touched the point at issue. 
We are all agreed that this person exists. The point is, 
where did he go
?” 
Poirot shook his head reprovingly. 
“You are in error. You are inclined to put the cart before the horse. Before I ask myself, 
‘
Where did this man vanish to
?’ I ask myself, ‘
Did such a man really exist
?’ Because, you see, if 
the man were an invention—a fabrication—how much easier to make him disappear! So I try to 
establish first that there really 
is
such a flesh-and-blood person.” 
“And having arrived at the fact that there is—
eh bien
, where is he now?” 
“There are only two answers to that, 
mon cher
. Either he is still hidden on the train in a place 
of such extraordinary ingenuity that we cannot even think of it; or else he is, as one might say, 
two persons
. That is, he is both himself—the man feared by M. Ratchett—and a passenger on the 
train so well disguised that M. Ratchett did not recognise him.” 
“It is an idea, that,” said M. Bouc, his face lighting up. Then it clouded over again. “But there 
is one objection—” 
Poirot took the words out of his mouth. 
“The height of the man. It is that you would say? With the exception of Mr. Ratchett’s valet, 
all the passengers are big men—the Italian, Colonel Arbuthnot, Hector MacQueen, Count 
Andrenyi. Well, that leaves us the valet—not a very likely supposition. But there is another 
possibility. Remember the ‘womanish’ voice. That gives us a choice of alternatives. The man 
may be disguised as a woman, or, alternatively, he may actually 
be
a woman. A tall woman 
dressed in men’s clothes would look small.” 
“But surely Ratchett would have known—” 
“Perhaps he 
did
know. Perhaps, already, this woman had attempted his life, wearing a mares 
clothes the better to accomplish her purpose. Ratchett may have guessed that she would use the 
same trick again, so he tells Hardman to look for a man. But he mentions, however, a womanish 
voice.” 
“It is a possibility,” said M. Bouc. “But—” 
“Listen, my friend, I think that I should now tell you of certain inconsistencies noticed by Dr. 
Constantine.” 
He retailed at length the conclusions that he and the doctor had arrived at together from the 
nature of the dead man’s wounds. M. Bouc groaned and held his head again. “I know,” said 
Poirot sympathetically. “I know exactly how you feel. The head spins, does it not?” 
“The whole thing is a fantasy!” cried M. Bouc. 
“Exactly. It is absurd—improbable—it cannot be. So I myself have said. And yet, my friend, 
there it is
! One cannot escape from the facts.” 
“It is madness!” 

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