Murder on the Orient Express

“No, I would not say that. But I think more force than an elderly woman could display, and Princess Dragomiroff’s physique is particularly frail.”

“It might be a question of the influence of mind over body,” said Poirot. “Princess Dragomiroff has great personality and immense will-power. But let us pass from that for the moment.”

“To questions Nos. 9 and 10? Can we be sure that Ratchett was stabbed by more than one person, and what other explanation of the wounds can there be? In my opinion, medically speaking, there can be no other explanation of those wounds. To suggest that one man struck first feebly and then with violence, first with the right hand and then with the left, and after an interval of perhaps half an hour inflicted fresh wounds on a dead body – well, it does not make sense.”

“No,” said Poirot. “It does not make sense. And you think that two murderers do make sense?”

“As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?”

Poirot stared straight ahead of him. “That is what I ask myself,” he said. “That is what I never cease to ask myself.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“From now on, it is all here.” He tapped himself on the forehead. “We have thrashed it all out. The facts are all in front of us – neatly arranged with order and method. The passengers have sat here, one by one, giving their evidence. We know all that can be known – from outside…

He gave M. Bouc an affectionate smile.

“It has been a little joke between us, has it not – this business of sitting back and thinking out the truth? Well, I am about to put my theory into practice – here before your eyes. You two must do the same. Let us all three close our eyes and think…

“One or more of those passengers killed Ratchett. Which of them?”

3. Certain Suggestive Points

It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke.

M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot’s instructions. They had endeavoured to see through a maze of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.

M. Bouc’s thoughts had run something as follows:

“Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought… Poirot obviously thinks that this English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most unlikely… The English are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures… But that is not the point. It seems that the Italian could not have done it – a pity. I suppose the English valet is not lying when he said the other never left the compartment? But why should he! It is not easy to bribe the English; they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this. There must be some rescue work in progress. They are so slow in these countries… it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the police of these countries, they will be most trying to deal with – puffed up with importance, touchy, on their dignity. They will make a grand affair of all this. It is not often that such a chance comes their way. It will be in all the newspapers…”

And from there on, M. Bouc’s thoughts went along a well-worn course which they had already traversed some hundred times.

Dr. Constantine’s thoughts ran thus:

“He is queer, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will he solve this mystery? Impossible – I can see no way out of it. It is all too confusing… Everyone is lying, perhaps… But even then, that does not help one. If they are all lying, it is just as confusing as if they were speaking the truth. Odd about those wounds. I cannot understand it… It would be easier to understand if he had been shot – after all, the term ‘gunman’ must mean that they shoot with a gun. A curious country, America. I should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home I must get hold of Demetrius Zagone – he has been to America, he has all the modern ideas… I wonder what Zia is doing at this moment. If my wife ever finds out–”

His thoughts went on to entirely private matters…

Hercule Poirot sat very still.

One might have thought he was asleep.

And then, suddenly, after a quarter of an hour’s complete immobility his eyebrows began to move slowly up his forehead. A little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath.

“But after all, why not? And if so – why, if so, that would explain everything.”

His eyes opened. They were green like a cat’s. He said softly: “Eh bien. I have thought. And you?”

Lost in their reflections, both men started violently.

“I have thought also,” said M. Bouc, just a shade guiltily. “But I have arrived at no conclusion. The elucidation of crime is your metier, not mine, my friend.”

“I, too, have reflected with great earnestness,” said the doctor, unblushingly recalling his thoughts from certain pornographic details. “I have thought of many possible theories, but not one that really satisfies me.”

Poirot nodded amiably. His nod seemed to say: