Murder on the Orient Express

Agatha Christie 
™
 MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 
62
“Again, no, Monsieur.” 
“Odd,” said M. Bouc. 
“Not so very,” said Poirot. “It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in 
her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that 
the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not 
come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was 
ample time—” 
“For what? For what, 
mon cher
! Remember, there are thick drifts of snow all round the train.” 
“There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin,” said Poirot slowly. “He could retreat 
into either of the toilets or—he could disappear into one of the compartments.” 
“But they were all occupied.” 
“Yes.” 
“You mean that he could retreat into his 
own
compartment?” 
Poirot nodded. 
“It fits—it fits;’ murmured M. Bouc. “During that ten minutes’ absence of the conductor, the 
murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Ratchett’s, kills him, locks and chains the 
door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard’s compartment, and is back safely in his own 
compartment by the time the conductor arrives.” 
Poirot murmured: “It is not quite so simple as that, my friend. Our friend the doctor here will 
tell you so.” 
With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the three conductors might depart. 
“We have still to see eight passengers,” said Poirot. “Five first-class passengers—Princess 
Dragomiroff, Count and Countess Andrenyi, Colonel Arbuthnot, and Mr. Hardman. Three 
second-class passengers—Miss Debenham, Antonio Foscarelli, and the lady’s-maid, Fräulein 
Schmidt.” 
“Whom will you see first—the Italian?” 
“How you harp on your Italian! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la 
Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her, 
Michel.” 
“
Oui, Monsieur
,” said the conductor, who was just leaving the car. 
“Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the 
trouble of coming here,” called M. Bouc. 
But Princess Dragomiroff declined to take this course. She appeared in the dining-car, 
inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite Poirot. 
Her small toad-like face looked even yellower than the day before. She was certainly ugly, 
and yet, like the toad, she had eyes like jewels, dark and imperious, revealing latent energy and 
an intellectual force that could be felt at once. 
Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it. 
She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc. 
“You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally 
you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power.” 
“You are most amiable, Madame,” said Poirot. 
“Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?” 
“Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them 
yourself?” 
Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside. 

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