Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot, #10)

by Agatha Christie

It was as though a wild animal—an animal savage, but savage! you understand—had passed me by.” “And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable.” “Précisément! The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”

“What’s wrong with my proposition?” Poirot rose. “If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said. And with that he left the restaurant car.

“There is a large American on the train,” said M. Bouc, pursuing his idea—“a common-looking man with terrible clothes. He chews the gum which I believe is not done in good circles. You know whom I mean?”

“His valet, Masterman, will have to know.” “He probably knows already,” said Poirot dryly. “If so try to get him to hold his tongue.” “That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher, and does what he calls ‘Keeps himself to himself.’ He’s a low opinion of Americans and no opinion at all of any other nationality.”

“Shall we now see the Italian?” Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.

You see, this crime, it was most probably committed by a woman. The man was stabbed no less than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, ‘It is a woman.’ Well, then, what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the Stamboul-Calais coach what Americans call the ‘once over.’ But to judge of an Englishwoman is difficult. They are very reserved, the English. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interests of justice. What sort of a person is this Miss Debenham? What do you know about her?”

“Miss Debenham,” said the Colonel with some warmth, “is a lady.” “Ah!” said

“Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there.” “In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?” “Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia,” said the Colonel. “Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system.” Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure that would be your view.

Poirot looked at his friend. “He has been a long time in America,” said M. Bouc, “and he is an Italian, and Italians use the knife! And they are great liars! I do not like Italians.”

“Ça se voit,” said Poirot with a smile. “Well, it may be that you are right, but I will point out to you, my friend, that there is absolutely no evidence against the man.” “And what about the psychology? Do not Italians stab?” “Assuredly,” said Poirot. “Especially in the heat of a quarrel. But this—this is a different kind of crime. I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not—how shall I express it?—a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain—I think an Anglo-Saxon brain.”

“But I understand nothing—but nothing of all this! The enemy that this Ratchett spoke of, he was then on the train after all? But where is he now? How can he have vanished into thin air? My head, it whirls. Say something, then, my friend, I implore you. Show me how the impossible can be possible!” “It is a good phrase that,” said Poirot. “The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”

We are all agreed that this person exists. The point is—where did he go?” Poirot shook his head reprovingly. “You are in error. You are inclined to put the cart before the horse. Before I ask myself, ‘Where did this man vanish to?’ I ask myself, ‘Did such a man really exist?’ Because, you see, if the man were an invention—a fabrication—how much easier to make him disappear! So I try to establish first that there really is such a flesh and blood person.”

“In fact you deliberately lied to us in the matter.” “Certainly. I would do the same again. Her mother was my friend. I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty—to one’s friends and one’s family and one’s caste.” “You do not believe in doing your utmost to further the ends of justice?” “In this case I consider that justice—strict justice—has been done.” Poirot leaned forward. “You see my difficulty, Madame.

“I like to see an angry Englishman,” said Poirot. “They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”

“That is yet another lie. Why did she do it?” “Possibly more loyalty. It makes things a little difficult.” “Ma foi,” said M. Bouc with violence. “But does everybody on this train tell lies?” “That,” said Poirot, “is what we are about to find out.”

“Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, M. Hardman?” inquired Poirot. “No, sir. It’s got me beat. I don’t know how to figure it out. They can’t all be in it; but which one is the guilty party is beyond me.