Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
98
into your head that I know something about this sordid business—this murder of a man I never 
saw before.” 
“You are imagining things, Mademoiselle.” 
“No, I am not imagining things at all. But it seems to me that a lot of time is wasted by not 
speaking the truth—by beating about the bush instead of coming straight out with things.” 
“And you do not like the waste of time. No, you like to come straight to the point. You like 
the direct method. 
Eh bien
, I will give it to you, the direct method. I will ask you the meaning of 
certain words that I overheard on the journey from Syria. I had got out of the train to do what the 
English call ‘stretch the legs’ at the station of Konya. Your voice and the Colonel’s, 
Mademoiselle, they came to me out of the night. You said to him, ‘
Not now. Not now. When it’s 
all over. When it’s behind us
.’ What 
did
you mean by those words, Mademoiselle?” 
She asked very quietly, “Do you think I meant—murder?” 
“It is I who am asking you, Mademoiselle.” 
She sighed—was lost a minute in thought. Then, as though rousing herself, she said: 
“Those words had a meaning, Monsieur, but not one that I can tell you. I can only give you 
my solemn word of honour that I had never set eyes on this man Ratchett in my life until I saw 
him on this train.” 
“And—you refuse to explain those words?” 
“Yes, if you like to put it that way—I refuse. They had to do with—with a task I had 
undertaken.” 
“A task that is now ended?” 
“What do you mean?” 
“It is ended, is it not?” 
“Why should you think so?” 
“Listen, Mademoiselle, I will recall to you another incident. There was a delay to the train on 
the day we were to reach Stamboul. You were very agitated, Mademoiselle. You, so calm, so 
self-controlled. You lost that calm.” 
“I did not want to miss my connection.” 
“So you said. But, Mademoiselle, the Orient Express leaves Stamboul every day of the week. 
Even if you had missed the connection it would only have been a matter of twenty-four hours’ 
delay.” 
Miss Debenham for the first time showed signs of losing her temper. 
“You do not seem to realise that one may have friends awaiting one’s arrival in London, and 
that a day’s delay upsets arrangements and causes a lot of annoyance.” 
“Ah, it is like that? There are friends awaiting your arrival? You do not want to cause them 
inconvenience?” 
“Naturally.” 
“And yet—it is curious—” 
“What is curious?” 
“On this train—again we have a delay. And this time a more serious delay, since there is no 
possibility of sending a telegram to your friends or of getting them on the long—the long—” 
“Long distance? The telephone, you mean.” 
“Ah, yes, the portmanteau call, as you say in England.” 
Mary Debenham smiled a little in spite of herself. “Trunk call,” she corrected. “Yes, as you 
say, it is extremely annoying not to be able to get any word through, either by telephone or by 
telegraph.” 

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