Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
91
“It is the weapon all right,” he said. “It would account for any of the wounds.” 
“I implore you, my friend, do not say that!” The doctor looked astonished. 
“Already we are heavily overburdened by coincidence. Two people decided to stab M. 
Ratchett last night. It is too much of a good thing that both of them should select the same 
weapon.” 
“As, to that, the coincidence is not perhaps so great as it seems,” said the doctor. “Thousands 
of these sham Eastern daggers are made and shipped to the bazaars of Constantinople.” 
“You console me a little, but only a little,” said Poirot. 
He looked thoughtfully at the door in front of him, then, lifting off the sponge-bag, he tried 
the handle. The door did not budge. About a foot above the handle was the door bolt. Poirot drew 
it back and tried again, but still the door remained fast. 
“We locked it from the other side, you remember,” said the doctor. 
“That is true,” said Poirot absently. He seemed to be thinking about something else. His brow 
was furrowed as though in perplexity. 
“It agrees, does it not?” said M. Bouc. “The man passes through this carriage. As he shuts the 
communicating door behind him he feels the sponge-bag. A thought comes to him and he 
quickly slips the blood-stained knife inside. Then, all unwitting that he has awakened Mrs. 
Hubbard, he slips out through the other door into the corridor.” 
“As you say,” murmured Poirot. “That is how it must have happened.” But the puzzled look 
did not leave his face. 
“But what is it?” demanded M. Bouc. “There is something, is there not, that does not satisfy 
you?” 
Poirot darted a quick took at him. 
“The same point does not strike you? No, evidently not. Well, it is a small matter.” 
The conductor looked into the carriage. “The American lady is coming back.” 
Dr. Constantine looked rather guilty. He had, he felt, treated Mrs. Hubbard rather cavalierly. 
But she had no reproaches for him. Her energies were concentrated on another matter. 
“I’m going to say one thing right out,” she said breathlessly as she arrived in the doorway. 
“I’m not going on any longer in this compartment! Why, I wouldn’t sleep in it to-night if you 
paid me a million dollars.” 
“But, Madame—” 
“I know what you are going to say, and I’m telling you right now that I won’t do any such 
thing! Why, I’d rather sit up all night in the corridor.” She began to cry. “Oh, if my daughter 
could only know—if she could see me now, why—” 
Poirot interrupted firmly. 
“You misunderstand, Madame. Your demand is most reasonable. Your baggage shall be 
changed at once to another compartment.” 
Mrs. Hubbard lowered her handkerchief. “is that so? Oh! I feel better right away. But surely 
it’s all full, unless one of the gentlemen—” 
M. Bouc spoke. 
“Your baggage, Madame, shall be moved out of this coach altogether. You shall have a 
compartment in the next coach, which was put on at Belgrade.” 
“Why, that’s splendid. I’m not an extra nervous woman, but to sleep in that compartment next 
door to a dead man!” She shivered. “It would drive me plumb crazy.” 
“Michel,” called M. Bouc. “Move this baggage into a vacant compartment in the Athens-Paris 
coach.” 

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