Murder on the Orient Express

“There isn’t anybody knows a thing on this train. And nobody’s trying to do anything. Just a pack of useless foreigners. Why, if this were at home, there’d be someone at least trying to do something!”

Arbuthnot turned to Poirot and spoke in careful British French.

“Vous êtes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur. Vous pouvez nous dire–”

Smiling, Poirot corrected him.

“No, no,” he said in English. “It is not I. You confound me with my friend, M. Bouc.”

“Oh, I’m sorry”

“Not at all. It is most natural. I am now in the compartment that he had formerly.”

M. Bouc was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot looked about to notice who else was absent.

Princess Dragomiroff was missing, and the Hungarian couple. Also Ratchett, his valet, and the German lady’s maid.

The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.

“I am foolish,” she said. “I am bad to cry. All is for the best, whatever happen.”

This Christian spirit, however, was far from being shared.

“That’s all very well,” said MacQueen restlessly. “We may be here for days.”

“What is this country anyway?” demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.

On being told it was Jugo-Slavia, she said: “Oh! one of these Balkan things. What can you expect?”

“You are the only patient one, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot to Miss Debenham.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. “What can one do?”

“You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle.”

“That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself useless emotion.”

She was speaking more to herself than to him. She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snow lay in heavy masses.

“You are a strong character, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “You are, I think, the strongest character amongst us.”

“Oh! no. No, indeed. I know one far, far stronger than I am.”

“And that is–?”

She seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realise that she was talking to a stranger and foreigner, with whom, until this morning, she had exchanged only half a dozen sentences.

She laughed, a polite but estranging laugh.

“Well – that old lady, for instance. You have probably noticed her. A very ugly old lady but rather fascinating. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a polite voice – and the whole train runs.”

“It runs also for my friend M. Bouc,” said Poirot. “But that is because he is a director of the line, not because he has a strong character.”

Mary Debenham smiled.

The morning wore away. Several people, Poirot amongst them, remained in the dining-car. The communal life was felt, at the moment, to pass the time better. He heard a good deal more about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter, and he heard the lifelong habits of Mr. Hubbard, deceased, from his rising in the morning and commencing breakfast with a cereal to his final rest at night in the bed-socks that Mrs. Hubbard herself had been in the habit of knitting for him.

It was when he was listening to a confused account of the missionary aims of the Swedish lady that one of the Wagon Lit conductors came into the car and stood at his elbow.

“Pardon, Monsieur.”

“Yes?”

“The compliments of M. Bouc, and he would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes.”

Poirot rose, uttered excuses to the Swedish lady and followed the man out of the dining-car. It was not his own conductor, but a big fair man.

He followed his guide down the corridor of his own carriage and along the corridor of the next one. The man tapped at a door, then stood aside to let Poirot enter.

The compartment was not M. Bouc’s own. It was a second-class one – chosen presumably because of its slightly larger size. It certainly gave the impression of being crowded.

M. Bouc himself was sitting on the small seat in the opposite corner. In the corner next the window, facing him, was a small dark man looking out at the snow. Standing up and quite preventing Poirot from advancing any farther were a big man in blue uniform (the chef de train) and his own Wagon Lit conductor.

“Ah! my good friend,” cried M. Bouc. “Come in. We have need of you.”

The little man in the window shifted along the seat, and Poirot squeezed past: the other two men and sat down facing his friend.

The expression on M. Bouc’s face gave him, as he would have expressed it, furiously to think. It was clear that something out of the common had happened.

“What has occurred?” he asked.

“You may well ask that. First this snow – this stoppage. And now–”

He paused – and a sort of strangled gasp came from the Wagon Lit conductor.

“And now what?”

“And now a passenger lies dead in his berth – stabbed.”

M. Bouc spoke with a kind of calm desperation.

“A passenger? Which passenger?”

“An American. A man called – called–” he consulted some notes in front of him. “Ratchett. That is right – Ratchett?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the Wagon Lit man gulped.

Poirot looked at him. He was as white as chalk.