Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
80
character, and I frame my questions accordingly. just a little minute ago I am asking questions of 
a gentleman who wants to tell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I keep strictly to the 
point. I want him to answer yes or no. This or that. And then you come. I see at once that you 
will be orderly and methodical. You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers 
will be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human nature is perverse, I ask of you 
quite different questions. I ask what you feel, what you think. It does not please you, this 
method?” 
“If you will forgive my saying so, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I 
liked Mr. Ratchett’s face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him.” 
“Do you know who the man Ratchett really was, Mademoiselle?” 
She nodded. “Mrs. Hubbard has been telling everyone.” 
“And what do you think of the Armstrong affair?” 
“It was quite abominable,” said the girl crisply. 
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. 
“You are travelling from Baghdad, I believe, Miss Debenham?” 
“Yes.” 
“To London?” 
“Yes.” 
“What have you been doing in Baghdad?” 
“I have been acting as governess to two children.” 
“Are you returning to your post after your holiday?” 
“I am not sure.” 
“Why is that?” 
“Baghdad is rather out of things. I think I should prefer a post in London if I can hear of a 
suitable one.” 
“I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married.” 
Miss Debenham did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The 
glance said plainly: “You are impertinent.” 
“What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment—Miss Ohlsson?” 
“She seems a pleasant, simple creature.” 
“What colour is her dressing-gown?” 
Mary Debenham stared. “A kind of brownish colour—natural wool.” 
“Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing-
gown on the way from Aleppo to Stamboul. A pale mauve, I believe.” 
“Yes, that is right.” 
“Have you any other dressing-gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing-gown, for example?” 
“No, that is not mine.” 
Poirot leant forward. He was like a cat pouncing on a mouse. 
“Whose, then?’ 
The girl drew back a little, startled. “I don’t know. What do you mean?” 
“You do not say, ‘No, I have no such thing.’ You say, ‘That is not mine.’ Meaning that such a 
thing does belong to someone else.” 
She nodded. 
“Somebody else on this train?” 
‘Yes.” 
“Whose is it?” 

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