Murder On The Orient Express Page #3

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Bring all the passports

to Monsieur Poirot.

Are there any other

passengers on the train?

In the Pullman coach,

nobody but myself and Mr. Bianchi.

Alors.

Then we must concentrate

on the Calais coach.

Where, in my amateur opinion,

the murderer is with us now.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Please, please, patience.

You must have patience.

Now, you will all get the chance

to state your views to Monsieur Poirot

at his own good time.

- Now, please...

- It is not good time. It is bad time.

God's laws have been bust,

thou shalt not kill.

And why was I not notified at once,

Signor... Mr. Bianchi?

- I was his nearest associate.

- And I was nearest to his murderer.

You mean you saw the man?

You can identify the murderer?

I mean nothing of the kind.

I mean there was a man

in my compartment last night.

It was pitch-dark, of course,

and my eyes were closed in terror.

Then how did you know it was a man?

Because I've enjoyed very warm

relationships with both my husbands.

- With your eyes closed?

- That helped.

- Excuse me.

- Anyway, the man smelt of tobacco.

Mr. McQueen,

Monsieur Poirot would be grateful

for a few minutes of your time.

- Excuse me.

- Don't you agree the man

must've entered my compartment

to gain access to Mr. Ratchett?

I can think of no other reason,

Madame.

Pierre, your passkey.

Voil? monsieur.

And will you discreetly procure

me a lady's hatbox,

one of the big, old-fashioned kind,

perhaps from the

Princess Dragomiroff's maid?

Give me five minutes, doctor.

Mr. McQueen, I regret

to have kept you waiting,

but there has been much to establish.

Please be seated. Now,

Mr. McQueen, I should be grateful

for anything you can usefully tell me.

What, for example, is?

Let's get just a couple

of things straight first, Mr. Poirot.

Who, for example, are you,

and what is your status here?

Excuse me.

Monsieur Poirot is a detective,

officially delegated to investigate

this case by me.

Let us proceed with the matter in

hand. Your relationship with Ratchett?

I'm his... I was his secretary.

- For how long?

- A year, give or take.

- Where did you meet?

- In Persia.

He was collecting Gorgan pottery

with considerable success.

And I was trying to collect oil

concessions, you know,

with so little success

that I went bankrupt,

and he offered me the job. I took it.

- And since then?

- Well, we've traveled around.

He was hampered

by not knowing any languages.

I acted more as his courier

than as his secretary.

It was a pleasant enough job.

What part of America

did Ratchett come from?

I don't know.

The fact is, he never talked

about his background.

- Why, do you think?

- Well, I used to...

Well, I began to believe

that he had left America

to escape something, you know.

Or someone. And until a couple

of weeks ago, I think he succeeded.

And then?

Well, he began to get these

anonymous letters,

threatening letters, like these.

"I kill killers."

"Prepare to die."

- How brief.

- But in a sense, how complicated.

Last night, I noticed you dispatching

a telegram from Belgrade Station.

That's right.

Let's see, he sent for me

to see the text

right after we left Belgrade.

And then he went...

Yeah, it was the last I ever saw of him.

Were there any other

threatening letters?

Yeah, but none that

I was allowed to read.

He used to... He used to burn them.

That explains...

What?

My interest in hatboxes.

Precisely what I needed.

Doctor, first the wounds.

- You counted a dozen?

- Yes.

Five are deep,

of which three are lethal.

The rest are shallow.

And two...

...are so slight as to be

mere scratches.

What does that suggest?

That there were two murderers,

a strong man and a weak man?

Or a weak woman.

Or a strong man stabbing

the victim both strongly

and weakly in order to confuse us.

At least we know that

by the time of the murder,

Ratchett was too drugged to cry out

or defend himself with this.

But how did you guess?

I didn't. He showed it to me

when he offered me $15,000

to be his bodyguard and I refused.

Ought I to have accepted?

Now, let us consider the ashtray.

Two different matches.

A smoked cigar.

- A pipe cleaner...

- And this.

- The initial H.

- That should not be hard to identify.

I wonder, Christian name or surname?

We must wait until

we examine the passports.

Bianchi, doctor,

has it occurred to you that there

are too many clues in this room?

Let us proceed by examining what

I hope will prove to be the last of them.

The burnt paper.

I use it for the mustaches.

What has that to do

with mustaches?

To melt the wax.

Observe, memorize,

you are my only witnesses.

- A-l-S-Y A-R-M-S.

- What does that mean?

It means we know

the true identity of Mr. Ratchett.

And why he had to leave America.

Do you remember

the Armstrong case?

Of course, the kidnapping of that

little American girl, and the killing.

Who does not?

Do you remember the name

of the child?

Certamente. It was Daisy.

D.

D-A

l-S-Y.

Space, A-R-M-S.

Daisy Armstrong.

- And Ratchett was her murderer?

- Well, no, the actual murderer

was tried, sentenced

and electrocuted.

But he was only the number two.

The subordinate of a boss whom,

at first, he was too terrified to identify.

Only on the eve of his electrocution

did he give the name of the boss,

who by then had disappeared

with the ransom money.

I remember feeling ashamed

that he had an Italian name.

Cassetti.

Che mostro. He had

a child's blood on his hands.

He had worse than that.

After the shock

of the body's discovery,

Mrs. Armstrong gave premature birth

to a stillborn child,

and herself died in the process.

Her husband, Colonel Armstrong,

once a brave officer in

the Scots Guard, shot himself,

and Mrs. Armstrong's personal maid,

who came wrongly

under suspicion of complicity,

threw herself from her

bedroom window and she died,

so five deaths, five.

Then I thank heaven that Giuseppe,

who spilt so much blood in his lifetime,

should have his own blood

spilt now.

Excellent, Pierre. And could you

summon the passengers to me here?

One by one in this order except

for the Princess Dragomiroff,

who is not only of royal blood, but also

much older than she tries not to look.

And, Pierre, since you are here

already, we can conveniently start

by questioning you.

Your full name is Pierre Paul Michel.

- Correct, monsieur.

- Two male saints' names.

You must be greatly blessed.

I've had my share

of good fortune, monsieur.

So... And of bad.

I note the cancellation

of your wife's photograph

nearly five years ago.

- She is deceased.

- She died, monsieur.

Of grief at the death

of our only daughter.

From scarlet fever.

I am truly sorry.

Let us talk of less

distressing matters.

On the night of the murder,

after we left Belgrade,

who were the last passengers

to retire to their compartment?

Show me on the diagram.

About 1:
30, I remember seeing

the English colonel say good night

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