Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
109
3 
CERTAIN SUGGESTIVE POINTS 
It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke. 
M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot’s instructions. They had 
endeavoured to see through a maze of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution. 
M. Bouc’s thoughts had run something as follows: 
“Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought. ... Poirot obviously 
thinks that this English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most 
unlikely. ... The English are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures. ... But 
that is not the point. It seems that the Italian could not have done it—a pity. I suppose the 
English valet is not lying when he said the other never left the compartment? But why should he! 
It is not easy to bribe the English; they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most 
unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this. There must be 
some
rescue work in progress. 
They are so slow in these countries ... it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the 
police of these countries, they will be most trying to deal with—puffed up with importance, 
touchy, on their dignity. They will make a grand affair of all this. It is not often that such a 
chance comes their way. It will be in all the newspapers. ...” 
And from there on, M. Bouc’s thoughts went along a well-worn course which they had 
already traversed some hundred times. 
Dr. Constantine’s thoughts ran thus: 
“He is queer, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will he solve this mystery? Impossible—I 
can see no way out of it. It is all too confusing. ... Everyone is lying, perhaps. ... But even then, 
that does not help one. If they are all lying, it is just as confusing as if they were speaking the 
truth. Odd about those wounds. I cannot understand it. ... It would be easier to understand if he 
had been shot—after all, the term ‘gunman’ must mean that they shoot with a gun. A curious 
country, America. I should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home I must get hold 
of Demetrius Zagone—he has been to America, he has all the modern ideas. ... I wonder what 
Zia is doing at this moment. If my wife ever finds out—” 
His thoughts went on to entirely private matters. ... 
Hercule Poirot sat very still. 
One might have thought he was asleep. 
And then, suddenly, after a quarter of an hour’s complete immobility his eyebrows began to 
move slowly up his forehead. A little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath. 
“But after all, why not? And if so—why, if so, that would explain everything.” 
His eyes opened. They were green like a cat’s. He said softly: “
Eh bien
. I have thought. And 
you?” 
Lost in their reflections, both men started violently. 
“I have thought also,” said M. Bouc, just a shade guiltily. “But I have arrived at no 
conclusion. The elucidation of crime is your 
métier
, not mine, my friend.” 
“I, too, have reflected with great earnestness,” said the doctor, unblushingly recalling his 
thoughts from certain pornographic details. “I have thought of many possible theories, but not 
one that really satisfies me.” 

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