Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
59
“Did you go to sleep quickly?” 
“Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time.” 
“Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?” 
“I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station just as I was getting drowsy.” 
“That would be Vincovci. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?” He indicated 
it on the plan. 
“That is so, yes.” 
“You had the upper or the lower berth?” 
“The lower berth, No. 10.” 
“And you had a companion?’ 
“Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from Baghdad.” 
“After the train left Vincovci, did she leave the compartment?” 
“No, I am sure she did not.” 
“Why are you sure if you were asleep?” 
“I sleep very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound. I am sure that if she had come down 
from the berth above I should have awakened.” 
“Did you yourself leave the compartment?” 
“Not until this morning.” 
“Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?” 
“No, indeed. I have a good comfortable dressing-gown of Jaeger material.” 
“And the lady with you, Miss Debenham? What colour is her dressing-gown?’ 
“A pale mauve aba such as you buy in the East.” 
Poirot nodded. Then he asked in a friendly tone: “Why are you taking this journey? A 
holiday?” 
“Yes, I am going home for a holiday. But first I am going to Lausanne to stay with a sister for 
a week or so.” 
“Perhaps you will be so amiable as to write me down the name and address of your sister?’ 
“With pleasure.” 
She took the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down the name and address as requested. 
“Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?” 
“No. I very nearly went once. I was to go with an invalid lady, but the plan was cancelled at 
the last moment. I much regretted this. They are very good, the Americans. They give much 
money to found schools and hospitals. And they are very practical.” 
“Do you remember hearing of the Armstrong kidnapping case?” 
“No, what was that?” 
Poirot explained. 
Greta Ohlsson was indignant. Her yellow bun of hair quivered with her emotion. 
“That there are in the world such evil men! It tries one’s faith. The poor mother—my heart 
aches for her.” 
The amiable Swede departed, her kindly face flushed, her eyes suffused with tears. 
Poirot was writing busily on a sheet of paper. 
“What is it you write there, my friend?” asked M. Bouc. 
“
Mon cher
, it is my habit to be neat and orderly. I make here a little chronological table of 
events.” 
He finished writing and passed the paper to M. Bouc. 
9.15 
Train leaves Belgrade. 

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