Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
93
very disappointing city—all tumbling down; and as for those mosques, and putting on those 
great shuffling things over your shoes—where was I?” 
“You were saying that Mr. Johnson met you.” 
“That’s so, and he saw me on board a French Messageries boat for Smyrna, and my 
daughter’s husband was waiting right on the quay. What he’ll say when he hears about all this! 
My daughter said this would be just the safest, easiest way imaginable. ‘You just sit in your 
carriage,’ she said, ‘and you land right in Parrus, and there the American Express will meet you.’ 
And, oh, dear, what am I to do about cancelling my steamship passage? I ought to let them know. 
I can’t possibly make it now. This is just too terrible—” 
Mrs. Hubbard showed signs of tears once more. 
Poirot, who had been fidgeting slightly, seized his opportunity. 
“You have had a shock, Madame. The restaurant attendant shall be instructed to bring you 
along some tea and some biscuits.” 
“I don’t know that I’m so set on tea,” said Mrs. Hubbard tearfully. “That’s more an English 
habit.” 
“Coffee, then, Madame. You need some stimulant—” 
“That cognac’s made my head feel mighty funny. I think I would like some coffee.” 
“Excellent. You must revive your forces.” 
“My, what a funny expression!” 
“But first, Madame, a little matter of routine. You permit that I make a search of your 
baggage!” 
“What for?” 
“We are about to commence a search of all the passengers’ luggage. I do not want to remind 
you of an unpleasant experience, but your sponge-bag—remember.” 
“Mercy! Perhaps you’d better! I just couldn’t bear to get any more surprises of that kind.” 
The examination was quickly over. Mrs. Hubbard was travelling with the minimum of 
luggage—a hat-box, a cheap suitcase, and a well-burdened travelling bag. The contents of all 
three were simple and straightforward, and the examination would not have taken more than a 
couple of minutes had not Mrs. Hubbard delayed matters by insisting on due attention being paid 
to photographs of “my daughter” and of two rather ugly children—“my daughter’s children. 
Aren’t they cunning?” 

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