Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
97
The Count considered for a moment. 
“Thank you,” he said. “But I do not think that I care to have an exception made in my case. I 
should prefer that our baggage should be examined like that of the other passengers.” 
He turned to his wife. “You do not object, I hope, Elena?” 
“Not at all,” said the Countess without hesitation. 
A rapid and somewhat perfunctory search followed. Poirot seemed to be trying to mask an 
embarrassment by making various small pointless remarks, such as: 
“Here is a label all wet on your suitcase, Madame,” as he lifted down a blue morocco case 
with initials on it and a coronet. 
The Countess did not reply to this observation. She seemed, indeed, rather bored by the whole 
proceeding, remaining curled up in her corner and staring dreamily out through the window 
whilst the men searched her luggage in the compartment next door. 
Poirot finished his search by opening the little cupboard above the washbasin and taking a 
rapid glance at its contents—a sponge, face cream, powder and a small bottle labelled trional. 
Then with polite remarks on either side, the search party withdrew. 
Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment, that of the dead man, and Poirot’s own came next. 
They now came to the second-class carriages. The first one, Nos. 10 and 11, was occupied by 
Mary Debenham, who was reading a book, and Greta Ohlsson, who was fast asleep but woke 
with a start at their entrance. 
Poirot repeated his formula. The Swedish lady seemed agitated, Mary Debenham calmly 
indifferent. He addressed himself to the Swedish lady. 
“If you permit, Mademoiselle, we will examine your baggage first, and then perhaps you 
would be so good as to see how the American lady is getting on. We have moved her into one of 
the carriages in the next coach, but she is still very much upset as the result of her discovery. I 
have ordered coffee to be sent to her, but I think she is of those to whom someone to talk to is a 
necessity of the first order.” 
The good lady was instantly sympathetic. She would go immediately. It must have been 
indeed a terrible shock to the nerves, and already the poor lady was upset by the journey and 
leaving her daughter. Ah, yes, certainly she would go at once—her case was not locked—and she 
would take with her some sal ammoniac. 
She bustled off. Her possessions were soon examined. They were meagre in the extreme. She 
had evidently not yet noticed the missing wires from the hat-box. 
Miss Debenham had put her book down. She was watching Poirot. When he asked her, she 
handed over her keys. Then, as he lifted down a case and opened it, she said: 
“Why did you send her away, M. Poirot?” 
“I, Mademoiselle! Why, to minister to the American lady.” 
“An excellent pretext—but a pretext all the same.” 
“I don’t understand you, Mademoiselle.” 
“I think you understand me very well.” She smiled. “You wanted to get me alone. Wasn’t that 
it?” 
“You are putting words into my mouth, Mademoiselle.” 
“And ideas into your head? No, I don’t think so. The ideas are already there. That is right, 
isn’t it?” 
“Mademoiselle, we have a proverb—” 
“
Qui s’excuse s’accuse
—is that what you were going to say? You must give me the credit for 
a certain amount of observation and common sense. For some reason or other you have got it 

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