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Agatha Christie - MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS

Chapter 5
THE CRIME
Pirot found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing he missed the
motion of the train. If it was a station outside, it was curiously quiet. By contrast
the noises on the train seemed unusually loud. He could hear Ratchett moving
about next door—a click as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound of the tap
running, a splashing noise, then another click as the basin shut to again. Footsteps
passed up the corridor outside, the shuffling footsteps of someone in bedroom
slippers.
Hercule Poirot lay awake staring at the ceiling. Why was the station outside so
silent? His throat felt dry. He had forgotten to ask for his usual bottle of mineral
water. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. He would ring
for the conductor and ask for some mineral water. His finger went out to the bell,
but he paused as in the stillness he heard a ting. The man couldn’t answer every
bell at once.
Ting. ... Ting. ... Ting. ...
It sounded again and again. Where was the man? Somebody was getting
impatient.
Ti-i-i-ing!
Whoever it was, was keeping a finger solidly on the push-button.
Suddenly with a rush, his footsteps echoing up the aisle, the man came. He
knocked at a door not far from Poirot’s own.
Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential, apologetic; and a woman’s,
insistent and voluble.
Mrs. Hubbard!
Poirot smiled to himself.
The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time. Its proportions were
ninety per cent of Mrs. Hubbard’s to a soothing ten per cent of the conductor’s.
Finally the matter seemed to be adjusted. Poirot heard distinctly a “Bonne nuit,
Madame,” and a closing door.
He pressed his own finger on the bell.
The conductor arrived promptly. He looked hot and worried.
“De l’eau minérale, s’il vous Plaît.”
“Bien, Monsieur.” Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot’s eye led him to unburden
himself. “La dame américaine—”
“Yes?”
He wiped his forehead. “Imagine to yourself the time I have had with her! She
insists—but insists—that there is a man in her compartment! Figure to yourself,
Monsieur. In a space of this size.” He swept a hand round. “Where would he
conceal himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists. She
woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the
door bolted behind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though there were not
enough to worry us already. This snow—”
“Snow?”
“But yes, Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The train has stopped. We have
run into a snowdrift. Heaven knows how long we shall be here. I remember once
being snowed up for seven days.”
“Where are we?”
“Between Vincovci and Brod.”
“Là-là,” said Poirot vexedly.
The man withdrew and returned with the water.
“Bon soir, Monsieur.”
Poirot drank a glass of water and composed himself to sleep.
He was just dropping off when something again woke him. This time it was as
though something heavy had fallen with a thud against the door.
He sprang up, opened it and looked out. Nothing. But to his right, some distance
down the corridor, a woman wrapped in a scarlet kimono was retreating from him.
At the other end, sitting on his little seat, the conductor was entering up figures on
large sheets of paper. Everything was deathly quiet.
“Decidedly I suffer from the nerves,” said Poirot and retired to bed again. This
time he slept till morning.
When he awoke the train was still at a standstill. He raised a blind and looked
out. Heavy banks of snow surrounded the train.
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was past nine o’clock.
At a quarter to ten, neat, spruce and dandified as ever, he made his way to the
restaurant car, where a chorus of woe was going on.
Any barriers there might have been between the passengers had now quite
broken down. All were united by a common misfortune. Mrs. Hubbard was loudest
in her lamentations.
“My daughter said it would be the easiest way in the world. Just sit in the train
until I got to Parrus. And now we may be here for days and days,” she wailed.
“And my boat sails day after to-morrow. How am I going to catch it now? Why, I
can’t even wire to cancel my passage. I’m just too mad to talk about it!”
The Italian said that he had urgent business himself in Milan. The large
American said that that was “too bad, Ma’am,” and soothingly expressed a hope
that the train might make up time.
“My sister—her children wait me,” said the Swedish lady, and wept. “I get no
word to them. What they think? They will say bad things have happen to me.”
“How long shall we be here?” demanded Mary Debenham. “Doesn’t anybody
know?”
Her voice sounded impatient, but Poirot noted that there were no signs of that
almost feverish anxiety which she had displayed during the check to the Taurus
Express.
Mrs. Hubbard was off again.
“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.
“You had better let that man sit down,” he said. “He may faint otherwise.”
The chef de train moved slightly and the Wagon Lit man sank down in the
corner and buried his face in his hands.
“Brr!” said Poirot. “This is serious!”
“Certainly it is serious. To begin with, a murder—that in itself is a calamity of
the first water. But not only that, the circumstances are unusual. Here we are,
brought to a standstill. We may be here for hours—and not only hours—days!
Another circumstance—passing through most countries we have the police of that
country on the train. But in Jugo-Slavia, no. You comprehend?”
“It is a position of great difficulty,” said Poirot.
“There is worse to come. Dr. Constantine—I forgot, I have not introduced you.
Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot.”
The little dark man bowed, and Poirot returned the bow.
“Dr. Constantine is of the opinion that death occurred at about 1 A.M.”
“It is difficult to speak exactly in these matters,” said the doctor, “but I think I
can say definitely that death occurred between midnight and two in the morning.”
“When was this M. Ratchett last seen alive?” asked Poirot.
“He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes to one, when he spoke
to the conductor,” said M. Bouc.
“That is quite correct,” said Poirot. “I myself heard what passed. That is the last
thing known?”
“Yes.”
Poirot turned toward the doctor, who continued.
“The window of M. Ratchett’s compartment was found wide open, leading one
to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But in my opinion that open
window is a blind. Anyone departing that way would have left distinct traces in the
snow. There were none.”
“The crime was discovered—when?” asked Poirot.
“Michel!”
The Wagon Lit conductor sat up. His face still looked pale and frightened.
“Tell this gentleman exactly what occurred,” ordered M. Bouc.
The man spoke somewhat jerkily.
“The valet of this M. Ratchett, he tapped several times at the door this morning.
There was no answer. Then, half an hour ago, the restaurant car attendant came. He
wanted to know if Monsieur was taking déjeuner. It was eleven o’clock, you
comprehend.
“I open the door for him with my key. But there is a chain, too, and that is
fastened. There is no answer and it is very still in there, and cold—but cold. With
the window open and snow drifting in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit,
perhaps. I got the chef de train. We broke the chain and went in. He was—Ah!
c’était terrible!”
He buried his face in his hands again.
“as not suicide—eh?”
The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh. “Does a man who commits suicide stab
himself in ten—twelve—fifteen places?” he asked.
Poirot’s eyes opened. “That is great ferocity,” he said.
“It is a woman,” said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. “Depend upon
it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that.”
Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully.
“She must have been a very strong woman,” he said. “It is not my desire to
speak technically—that is only confusing; but I can assure you that one or two of
the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of
bone and muscle.”
“It was clearly not a scientific crime,” said Poirot.