Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
84
“He came out of one of the compartments, Monsieur.” 
“What?” M. Bouc leaned forward. “Which one?” 
Hildegarde Schmidt looked frightened again, and Poirot cast a reproachful glance at his 
friend. 
“Naturally,” he said. “The conductor often has to answer bells at night. Do you remember 
which compartment it was?” 
“It was about the middle of the coach, Monsieur. Two or three doors from Madame la 
Princesse.” 
“Ah! tell us, if you please, exactly where this was and what happened?” 
“He nearly ran into me, Monsieur. It was when I was returning from my compartment to that 
of the Princess with the rug.” 
“And he came out of a compartment and almost collided with you. In which direction was he 
going?” 
“Towards me, Monsieur. He apologised and passed on down the corridor towards the dining-
car. A bell began ringing, but I do not think he answered it.” She paused and then said: “I do not 
understand. How is it—” 
Poirot spoke reassuringly. 
“It is just a question of time,” he said. “All a matter of routine. This poor conductor, he seems 
to have had a busy night—first waking you and then answering bells.” 
“It was not the same conductor who woke me, Monsieur. It was another one.” 
“Ah! another one! Had you seen him before?” 
“No, Monsieur.” 
“Ah!—do you think you would recognise him if you saw him?” 
“I think so, Monsieur.” 
Poirot murmured something in M. Bouc’s ear. The latter got up and went to the door to give 
an order. 
Poirot was continuing his questions in an easy, friendly manner. 
“Have you ever been to America, Fräulein Schmidt?” 
“Never, Monsieur. It must be a fine country.” 
“You have heard, perhaps, who this man who was killed really was—that he was responsible 
for the death of a little child?” 
“Yes, I have heard, Monsieur. It was abominable—wicked. The good God should not allow 
such things. We are not so wicked as that in Germany.” 
Tears had come into the woman’s eyes. Her strong, motherly soul was moved. 
“It was an abominable crime,” said Poirot gravely. 
He drew a scrap of cambric from his pocket and handed it to her. 
“Is this your handkerchief, Fräulein Schmidt?” 
There was a moment’s silence as the woman examined it. She looked up after a minute. The 
colour had mounted a little in her face. 
“Ah! no, indeed. It is not mine, Monsieur.” 
“It has the initial H, you see. That is why I thought it was yours.” 
“Ah! Monsieur, it is a lady’s handkerchief, that. A very expensive handkerchief. Embroidered 
by hand. It comes from Paris, I should say.” 
“It is not yours and you do not know whose it is?” 
“I? Oh! no, Monsieur.” 
Of the three listening, only Poirot caught the nuance of hesitation in the reply. 

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