Murder on the Orient Express: Part One: Chapters 4-8

How she and her husband were on the staff of a big American college in Smyrna and how this was Mrs. Hubbard’s first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and their slipshod ways and the condition of their roads.

You know, I’m dead scared of that man. Oh, not the valet—the other—his master.

Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential, apologetic, and a woman’s—insistent and voluble.

Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential, apologetic, and a woman’s—insistent and voluble.

The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time.

But to his right some way down the corridor a woman wrapped in a scarlet kimono was retreating from him.

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.

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.

“It is not I. You confound me with my friend M. Bouc.”

The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh.

I had come over from New York to look into an oil concession.

“Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What was delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject.”

Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.

“All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all.”

“Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.

But before he could ask for elucidation, Poirot had made another dive on to the floor.

“Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Swedish lady’s and that of the lady’s maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that occurs to you.”

Quickly and deftly he went once more through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes but found nothing there of interest.

“Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative he should leave America.”

Public indignation rose to fever point. And there was worse to follow.

“Yes—an unfortunate French or Swiss nursemaid. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of despair, the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved afterwards that she was absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime.”

But by means of the enormous wealth he had piled up and by the secret hold he had over various persons, he was acquitted on some technical inaccuracy.

Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip.

Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip.

M. Bouc’s tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust.