Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
35
“A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip 
of a strong emotion; but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.” 
Poirot was silent a moment or two. 
The other asked anxiously, “You understand my point?” 
“Perfectly,” said Poirot. “The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was 
a man of great strength—he was feeble—it was a woman—it was a right-handed person—it was 
a left-handed person. 
Ah! c’est rigolo, tout ça
!” He spoke with sudden anger. “And the victim—
what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?” 
He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had 
shown him the day before. 
“Fully loaded, you see,” he said. 
They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On 
the small table formed by the lid of the wash basin were various objects. False teeth in a glass of 
water. Another glass, empty. A bottle of mineral water. A large flask. An ash-tray containing the 
butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches. 
The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it. 
“Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly. 
“Drugged?” 
“Yes.” 
Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinised them carefully. 
“You have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly. 
“Those two matches are of different shapes,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. You 
see?” 
“It is the kind you get on the train,” said the doctor. “In paper covers.” 
Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of 
matches. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones. 
“The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also the 
flatter kind.” 
But a further search showed no other matches. 
Poirot’s eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s. 
One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny. 
With a little exclamation he bent and picked-up something from the floor. 
It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. In the corner was an embroidered initial—H. 
“A woman’s handkerchief,” said the doctor. “Our friend the 
chef de train
was right. There is a 
woman concerned in this.” 
“And most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it 
happens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us, it is marked with 
an initial.” 
“What a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor. 
“Is it not?” said Poirot. 
Something in his tone surprised the doctor, but before he could ask for elucidation Poirot had 
made another dive onto the floor. 
This time he held out on the palm of his hand—a pipe-cleaner. 
“It is perhaps the property of Mr. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor. 
“There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.” 
“Then it is a clue.” 

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