Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
71
“Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came 
across the fellow, though of course I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody 
liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C.” 
“The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel 
Armstrong’s child.” 
Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim. “Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. 
Though I would have preferred to see him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over 
there.” 
“In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?” 
“Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the 
Mafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.” 
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two. 
“Yes,” he said. I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think 
there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that 
in any way snuck you—or shall we say strikes you now, looking back—as suspicious?” 
Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two. 
“No,” he said. “Nothing at all. Unless—” he hesitated. 
“But yes, continue, I pray of you.” 
“Well, it’s nothing really,” said the Colonel slowly. “But you said 
anything
.” 
“Yes, yes. Go on.” 
“Oh! it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door 
of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—” 
“Yes, No. 16.” 
“Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of 
way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course I know there’s nothing in that—but it just 
struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want 
to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention.” 
“Ye-es,” said Poirot doubtfully. 
“I told you there was nothing to it,” said Arbuthnot, apologetically. “But you know what it 
is—early hours of the morning—everything very still. The thing had a sinister look—like a 
detective story. All nonsense really.” 
He rose. “Well, if you don’t want me any more—” 
“Thank you, Colonel Arbuthnot, there is nothing else.” 
The soldier hesitated for a minute. His first natural distaste for being questioned by 
“foreigners” had evaporated. 
“About Miss Debenham,” he said rather awkwardly. “You can take it from me that she’s all 
right. She’s a 
pukka sahib
.” 
Flushing a little, he withdrew. 
“What,” asked Dr. Constantine with interest, “does a 
pukka sahib 
mean?” 
“It means,” said Poirot, “that Miss Debenham’s father and brothers were at the same kind of 
school as Colonel Arbuthnot was.” 
“Oh! said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. “Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.” 
“Exactly,”, said, Poirot. 
He fell into a reverie, beating a light tattoo on the table. Then he looked up. 
“Colonel Arbuthnot smokes a pipe,” he said. “In the compartment of Mr. Ratchett I found a 
pipe-cleaner. Mr. Ratchett smoked only cigars.” 

---