Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
36
“Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue, this time, you note! 
One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the 
way, what have you done with the weapon?” 
“There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.” 
“I wonder why,” mused Poirot. 
“Ah!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man. 
“I overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.” 
From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the 
hands pointed to a quarter past one. 
“You see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my 
calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one 
o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. 
Eh bien
, here is confirmation. A 
quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.” 
“It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.” 
The doctor looked at him curiously. “You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite 
understand you.” 
“I do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all. And, as you perceive, 
it worries me.” 
He sighed and bent over the little table examining the charred fragment of paper. He 
murmured to himself, “What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman’s hat-box.” 
Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case Poirot 
gave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor. 
The man arrived at a run. 
“How many women are there in this coach?” 
The conductor counted on his fingers. 
“One, two, three—six, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Swedish lady, the young English 
lady, the Countess Andrenyi, and Madame la Princesse Dragomiroff and her maid.” 
Poirot considered. 
“They all have hat-boxes, yes?” 
“Yes, Monsieur.” 
“Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s-maid. Those two 
are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that 
occurs to you.” 
“That will be all right, Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment.” 
“Then be quick.” 
The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the maid, 
and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Swedish lady’s and uttered an exclamation of 
satisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire-netting. 
“Ah, here is what we need! About fifteen years ago hat-boxes were made like this. You 
skewered through the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire-netting.” 
As he spoke he was skillfully removing two of the attached humps. Then he repacked the hat-
box and told the conductor to return both boxes where they belonged. 
When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion. 
“See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the 
psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a 

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