Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
78
“Tell me, if you please, your exact movements last night from dinner onwards.” 
“With pleasure. I stay here as long as I can. It is more amusing. I talk to the American 
gentleman at my table. He sells typewriter ribbons. Then I go back to my compartment. It is 
empty. The miserable John Bull who shares it with me is away attending to his master. At last he 
comes back—very long face as usual. He will not talk—says yes and no. A miserable race, the 
English—not sympathetic. He sits in the corner, very stiff, reading a book, Then the conductor 
comes and makes our beds.” 
“Nos. 4 and 5,” murmured Poirot. 
“Exactly—the end compartment. Mine is the upper berth. I get up there. I smoke and read. 
The little Englishman has, I think, the toothache. He gets out a little bottle of stuff that smells 
very strong. He lies in bed and groans. Presently I sleep. Whenever I wake I hear him groaning.” 
“Do you know if he left the carriage at all during the night?” 
“I do not think so. That, I should hear. The light from the corridor—one wakes up 
automatically thinking it is the customs examination at some frontier.” 
“Did he ever speak of his master? Ever express any animus against him?” 
“I tell you he did not speak. He was not sympathetic. A fish.” 
“You smoke, you say—a pipe, cigarettes, cigar?” 
“Cigarettes only.” 
Poirot proffered one, which he accepted. 
“Have you ever been to Chicago?” inquired M. Bouc. 
“Oh! yes—a fine city—but I know best New York, Cleveland, Detroit. You have been to the 
States? No? You should go. It—” 
Poirot pushed a sheet of paper across to him. 
“If you will sign this, and put your permanent address, please.” 
The Italian wrote with a flourish. Then he rose, his smile as engaging as ever. 
“That is all? You do not require me further? Good day to you, Messieurs. I wish we could get 
out of the snow. I have an appointment in Milan.” He shook his head sadly. “I shall lose the 
business.” He departed. 
Poirot looked at his friend. 
“He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use the 
knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians.” 
“
Ça se voit
,” said Poirot with a smile “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out 
to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.” 
“And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?” 
“Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind 
of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It 
is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. it is not—how shall I express it?—a 
Latin
crime. It is a crime 
that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain—” 
He picked up the last two passports. 
“Let us now,” he said, “see Miss Mary Debenham.” 

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