Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
76
“I’m plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside, and nobody came along the train 
from the rear carriages. I’ll take my oath on that.” 
“Could you see the conductor from your position?” 
“Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door.” 
“Did he leave that seat at all after the train stopped at Vincovci?” 
“That was the last station? Why, yes, he answered a couple of bells—that would be just after 
the train came to a halt for good. Then, after that, he went past me into the rear coach—was there 
about a quarter of an hour. There was a bell ringing like mad and he came back running. I 
stepped out into the corridor to see what it was all about—felt a mite nervous, you understand—
but it was only the American dame. She was raising hell about something or other, I grinned. 
Then he went on to another compartment and came back and got a bottle of mineral water for 
someone. After that he settled down in his seat till he went up to the far end to make somebody’s 
bed up. I don’t think he stirred after that until about five o’clock this morning.” 
“Did he doze off at all?” 
“That I can’t say. He may have.” 
Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the 
official card once more. 
“Be so good as just to initial this,” he said. 
The other complied. 
“There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, Mr. Hardman?” 
“On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young MacQueen. I know him well 
enough—I’ve seen him in his father’s office in New York. But that’s not to say he’ll remember 
me from a crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you’ll have to wait and cable New York 
when the snow lets up. But it’s O.K. I’m not telling the tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to 
have met you, Mr. Poirot.” 
Poirot proffered his cigarette case. “But perhaps you prefer a pipe?” 
“Not me.” He helped himself, then strode briskly off. 
The three men looked at each other. 
“You think he is genuine?” asked Dr. Constantine. 
“Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easy to disprove.” 
“He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence,” said M. Bouc. 
“Yes, indeed.” 
“A small man—dark—with a high-pitched voice,” said M. Bouc thoughtfully. 
“A description which applies to no one on the train,” said Poirot. 

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