MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS

Agatha Christie is the world’s best known mystery writer. Her books have sold over a billion copies in the English language and another billion in 44 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her writing career spanned more than half a century, during which she wrote 79 novels andshort story collections, as well as 14 plays, one of which, The Mousetrap, is the longest-running play in history. Two of the characters she created, the brilliant little Belgian Hercule Poirot and the irrepressible and relentless Miss Marple, went on to become world-famous detectives. Both have been widely dramatized in feature films and made-for-TV movies. Agatha Christie also wrote six romantic novels under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott. As well, she wrote four nonfiction books including an autobiography and an entertaining account of the many expeditions she shared with her archaeologist husband Sir Max Mallowan. Agatha Christie died in 1976.

 

 

PART I

THE FACTS

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AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS

It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood the

train grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and

dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.

By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in

uniform conversing, with a small man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a

pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward-curled moustache.

It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be

envied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in

polished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as

there always were in such cases. The General’s—his General’s—temper had grown worse and

worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed.

There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A

very distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, anxious faces

had suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General,

Lieutenant Dubosc’s own particular General, had suddenly looked ten years younger.

Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger. “You have saved

us, mon cher,” said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke.

“You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I

thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—”

To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the

phrase—“But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the General

had made another fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and with more

mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had

embraced each other heartily and the conversation had ended.

As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been

delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with

all the zeal and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.

“To-day is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be in

Stamboul.”

It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations on the platform, before

the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

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“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”

“Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through—

comme ça.” He snapped his fingers descriptively. “Nothing presses—I shall remain there as a

tourist for a few days.”

“La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had never seen it.

A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc

managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five—only five minutes

more!

Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once more into speech.

“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of the

sleeping-car above them.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”

“That happens?”

“It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.”

“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.

“Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.”

“In Germany, too, I have heard.”

“Eh bien,” said Lieutenant Dubosc hastily as another pause seemed to be about to occur.

“Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in Constantinople.”

“Yes,” said M. Poirot, and went on desperately, “La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very

fine.”

“Magnificent, I believe.”

Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car compartments was pushed aside and a

young woman looked out.

Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday.

Neither in the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she

slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment,

she got up and peered out.

This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poorly lighted platform with

loud, furious altercations in Arabic going on somewhere. Two men below her window were

talking French. One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches.

She smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up. It must be very cold

outside. That was why they heated the train so terribly. She tried to force the window down

lower, but it would not go.

The Wagon Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train was about to depart, he said.

Monsieur had better mount. The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had! In

spite of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort of

little man one could never take seriously.

Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech. He had thought it out beforehand and had

kept it till the last minute. It was a very beautiful, polished speech.

Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind. ...

“En voiture, Monsieur,” said the Wagon Lit conductor. With an air of infinite reluctance M.

Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him. M. Poirot waved his hand.

Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute. The train, with a terrific jerk, moved slowly forward.

“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.

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“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full how cold he was.

“Voilà, Monsieur!” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of

his sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of

Monsieur, I have put it here.”

His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.

“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and business-like. “I have the tickets of

Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I

understand?”

M. Poirot assented. “There are not many people travelling, I imagine?” he said.

“No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers—both English. A Colonel from India and a

young English lady from Baghdad. Monsieur requires anything?”

Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.

Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. There were still two hours

before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully

accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.

When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot

coffee.

There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by

the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark—perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind

of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the

attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling.

She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated

atmosphere of the train.

M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying her without

appearing to do so.

She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect

ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her

features and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black head with its neat waves

of hair, and her eyes—cool, impersonal and grey. But she was, he decided, just a little too

efficient to be what he called “jolie femme.”

Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a tall man of between forty and

fifty, lean of figure, brown of skin, with hair slightly grizzled round the temples.

“The Colonel from India,” said Poirot to himself.

The newcomer gave a little bow to the girl. “Morning, Miss Debenham.”

“Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot.”

The Colonel was standing with a hand on the chair opposite her.

“Any objections?” he asked.

“Of course not. Sit down.”

“Well, you know, breakfast isn’t always a chatty meal.”

“I should hope not. But I don’t bite.”

The Colonel sat down. “Boy,” he called in peremptory fashion.

He gave an order for eggs and coffee.

His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on indifferently. Poirot,

reading the English mind correctly, knew that he had said to himself. “Only some damned

foreigner.”

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True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty. They exchanged a few brief

remarks and presently the girl rose and went back to her compartment.

At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they both completely ignored the

third passenger. Their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnot

talked of the Punjab and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where, it

became clear, she had been in a post as governess. In the course of conversation they discovered

some mutual friends, which had the immediate effect of making them more friendly and less

stiff. They discussed old Tommy Somebody and old Reggie Someone Else. The Colonel

inquired whether she was going straight through to England or whether she was stopping in

Stamboul.

“No, I’m going straight on.”

“Isn’t that rather a pity?”

“I came out this way two years ago and spent three days in Stamboul then.”

“Oh! I see. Well, I may say I’m very glad you are going right through, because I am.”

He made a kind of clumsy little bow, flushing a little as he did so.

“He is susceptible, our Colonel,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself with some amusement.

“The train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!”

Miss Debenham said evenly that that would be very nice. Her manner was slightly repressive.

The Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her back to her compartment. Later they

passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus. As they looked down towards the Cilician

Gates, standing in the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. Poirot was

standing near them and heard her murmur:

“It’s so beautiful! I wish—I wish—”

“Yes?”

“I wish I could enjoy it!”

Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw seemed a little sterner and grimmer.

“I wish to Heaven you were out of all this,” he said.

“Hush, please. Hush.”

“Oh! it’s all right.” He shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot’s direction. Then he went on:

“But I don’t like the idea of your being a governess—at the beck and call of tyrannical mothers

and their tiresome brats.”

She laughed with just a hint of uncontrol in the sound.

“Oh! you mustn’t think that. The downtrodden governess is quite an exploded myth. I can

assure you that it’s the parents who are afraid of being bullied by me.”

They said no more. Arbuthnot was, perhaps, ashamed of his outburst.

“Rather an odd little comedy that I watch here,” said Poirot to himself thoughtfully.

He was to remember that thought of his later.

They arrived at Konya that night about half-past eleven. The two English travellers got out to

stretch their legs, pacing up and down the snowy platform.

M. Poirot was content to watch the teeming activity of the station through a window pane.

After about ten minutes, however, he decided that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad

thing after all. He made careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers and

encasing his neat boots in goloshes. Thus attired, he descended gingerly to the platform and

began to pace its length. He walked out beyond the engine.

It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct figures standing in the shadow

of a traffic van. Arbuthnot was speaking.

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“Mary—”

The girl interrupted him.

“Not now. Not now. When it’s all over. When it’s behind us—then—”

Discreetly M. Poirot turned away. He wondered. ...

He would hardly have recognised the cool, efficient voice of Miss Debenham. ...

“Curious,” he said to himself.

The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled. They spoke little to each

other. The girl, he thought, looked anxious. There were dark circles under her eyes.

It was about half-past two in the afternoon when the train came to a halt. Heads were poked

out of windows. A little knot of men were clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing

at something under the dining-car.

Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who was hurrying past. The man

answered, and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham

who was standing just behind him.

“What is the matter?” she asked rather breathlessly in French. “Why are we stopping?”

“It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire under the dining-car.

Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure

you.”

She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as

something completely unimportant.

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!”

“The time?”

“Yes, this will delay us.”

“It is possible—yes,” agreed Poirot.

“But we can’t afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus

and catch the Simplon Orient Express on the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two

of delay we shall miss the connection.”

“It is possible, yes,” he admitted.

He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady; her lips,

too, were trembling.

“Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, it does. I—I must catch that train.”

She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join Colonel Arbuthnot.

Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train started again. It arrived at

Hayda-passar only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey.

The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. He was separated from

his travelling companions on the boat and did not see them again.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

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