Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
54
“Now I’m just not going to pretend I was as bright as I might have been. I got it into my head 
that it was the man from next door—the poor fellow who’s been killed. I told the conductor to 
look at the door between the compartments, and sure enough it wasn’t bolted. Well, I soon saw 
to that. I told him to bolt it then and there, and after he’d gone out I got up and put a suitcase 
against it to make sure.” 
“What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?” 
“Well, I’m sure I can’t tell you. I never looked to see. I was so upset.” 
“And what is your theory now?” 
“Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be. The man in my compartment was the 
murderer. Who else could he be?” 
“And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?” 
“How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut.” 
“He might have slipped out through the door into the corridor.” 
“Well, I couldn’t say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut.” 
Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively. 
“Mercy, I was scared! If my daughter only knew—” 
“You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of someone moving about 
next door—in the murdered man’s compartment?” 
“No, I do not, Mr.—what is it?—Poirot. The man was 
right there in the same compartment 
with me
. And what’s more I’ve got proof of it.” 
Triumphantly, she hauled a large handbag into view and proceeded to burrow in its interior. 
She took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a bottle of 
aspirin, a packet of Glauber’s Salts, a celluloid tube of bright green peppermints, a bunch of 
keys, a pair of scissors, a book of American Express cheques, a snapshot of an extraordinarily 
plain-looking child, some letters, five strings of pseudo-Oriental beads, and a small metal 
object—a button. 
“You see this button? Well, it’s not one of 
my
buttons. It’s not off anything I’ve got. I found it 
this morning when I got up.” 
As she placed it on the table, M. Bouc. leaned forward and gave an exclamation. “But this is a 
button from the tunic of a Wagon Lit attendant!” 
“There way be a natural explanation for that,” said Poirot. 
He turned gently to the lady. 
“This button, Madame, may have dropped from the conductor’s uniform, either when he 
searched your cabin or when he was making the bed up last night.” 
“I just don’t know what’s the matter with all you people. Seems as though you don’t want to 
do anything but make objections. Now listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I 
went to sleep. Before I turned the light out, I placed that magazine on a little case that was 
standing on the floor near the window. Have you got that?” 
They assured her that they had. 
“Very well then. The conductor looked under the seat from near the door, and then he came in 
and bolted the door between me and the next compartment, but he never went near the window. 
Well, this morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine. What do you call that, I 
should like to know?” 
“That, Madame, I call evidence,” said Poirot. 
The answer seemed to appease the lady. 
“It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained. 

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