Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
95
The conductor replaced the bags and they moved on to the next compartment. Colonel 
Arbuthnot was sitting in a corner smoking a pipe and reading a magazine. 
Poirot explained their errand. The Colonel made no demur. He had two heavy leather 
suitcases. 
“The rest of my kit has gone by long sea,” he explained. 
Like most Army men the Colonel was a neat packer. The examination of his baggage took 
only a few minutes. Poirot noted a packet of pipe-cleaners. 
“You always use the same kind?” he asked. “Usually. If I can get ’em.” 
“Ah!” Poirot nodded. These pipe-cleaners corresponded exactly with the one he had found on 
the floor of the dead man’s compartment. 
Dr. Constantine remarked as much when they were out in the corridor again. 
“
Tout de même
,” murmured Poirot, “I can hardly believe it. It is not 
dans son caractère
, and 
when you have said that, you have said everything.” 
The door of the next compartment was closed. It was that occupied by Princess Dragomiroff. 
They knocked on the door and the Princess’s deep voice called “
Entrez
!” 
M. Bouc was spokesman. He was very deferential and polite as he explained their errand. 
The Princess listened to him in silence, her small toad-like face quite impassive. 
“If it is necessary, Messieurs,” she said quietly when he had finished, “that is all there is to it. 
My maid has the keys. She will attend to it with you.” 
“Does your maid always carry your keys, Madame?” asked Poirot. 
“Certainly, Monsieur.” 
“And if, during the night at one of the frontiers, the customs officials should require a piece of 
luggage to be opened?” 
The old lady shrugged her shoulders. “It is very unlikely. But in such a case, the conductor 
would fetch her.” 
“You trust her, then, implicitly, Madame?” 
“I have told you so already,” said the Princess quietly. “I do not employ people whom I do not 
trust.” 
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Trust is indeed something in these days. It is perhaps better 
to have a homely woman whom one can trust than a more 
chic
maid—for example, some smart 
Parisienne.” 
He saw the dark intelligent eyes come slowly round and fasten themselves upon his face. 
“What exactly are you implying, M. Poirot?” 
“Nothing, Madame. I? Nothing.” 
“But yes. You think, do you not, that I should have a smart Frenchwoman to attend to my 
toilet?” 
“It would be perhaps more usual, Madame.” She shook her head. “Schmidt is devoted to me.” 
Her voice dwelt lingeringly on the words. “Devotion—
c’est impayable
.” 
The German woman had arrived with the keys. The Princess spoke to her in her own 
language, telling her to open the valises and help the gentlemen in their search. She herself 
remained in the corridor looking out at the snow, and Poirot remained with her, leaving M. Bouc 
to the task of searching the luggage. 
She regarded him with a grim smile. 
“Well, Monsieur, do you not wish to see what my valises contain?” 
He shook his head. “Madame, it is a formality, that is all.” 
“Are you so sure?” 

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