Murder on the Orient Express

Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.

“It is not pretty,” he said. “Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?”

“I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be capable of causing death.”

Something in the doctor’s tone caught Poirot’s attention. He looked at him sharply. The little Greek was standing staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.

“Something strikes you as odd, does it not?” he asked gently. “Speak, my friend. There is something here that puzzles you?”

“You are right,” acknowledged the other.

“What is it?”

“You see these two wounds – here and here–” He pointed. “They are deep. Each cut must have severed blood vessels – and yet the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected.”

“Which suggests?”

“That the man was already dead – some little time dead – when they were delivered. But that is surely absurd.”

“It would seem so,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Unless our murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished his job properly and came back to make quite sure – but that is manifestly absurd! Anything else?”

“Well, just one thing.”

“And that?”

“You see this wound here – under the right arm – near the right shoulder. Take this pencil of mine. Could you deliver such a blow?”

Poirot poised his hand.

“Précisément,” he said. “I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult, almost impossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with the left hand–”

“Exactly, M. Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand.”

“So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?”

“As you say, M. Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed.”

“Two people. We are back at two people again,” murmured the detective. He asked abruptly: “Was the electric light on?”

“It is difficult to say. You see, it is turned off by the conductor every morning about ten o’clock.”

“The switches will tell us,” said Poirot.

He examined the switch of the top light and also the roll-back bed-head light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed.

“Eh bien,” he said thoughtfully. “We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer, as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done, and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez – vous de ça?”

“Magnificent!” said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

The other’s eyes twinkled.

“You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense.”

“What other explanation can there be?”

“That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence, or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?”

“I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness – a lack of strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble, glancing blows. But this one here – and this one–” Again he pointed. “Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle.”

“They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?”

“Most certainly.”

“They could not have been delivered by a woman?”

“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 ca

!” 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?”