Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie Page B

he defend himself?”
    He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.
    â€œFully loaded, you see,” he said.
    They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the lid of the washing basin were various objects—false teeth in a glass of water; another glass, empty; a bottle of mineral water, a large flask and an ashtray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.
    The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.
    â€œHere is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,” he said quietly.
    â€œDrugged?”
    â€œYes.”
    Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinized them carefully.
    â€œYou have a clue then?” demanded the little doctor eagerly.
    â€œThose two matches are of a different shape,” said Poirot. “One is flatter than the other. You see?”
    â€œIt is the kind you get on a train,” said the doctor, “in paper covers.”
    Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Ratchett’s clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of matches. He compared them carefully.
    â€œThe rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Ratchett,” he said. “Let us see if he had also the flatter kind.”
    But a further search showed no other matches.
    Poirot’s eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird’s. One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny.
    With a little exclamation he bent and picked up something from the floor.
    It was a small square of cambric, very dainty. “Our friend the chef de train was right. There is a woman concerned in this.”
    â€œAnd most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!” said Poirot. “Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us it is marked with an initial.”
    â€œWhat a stroke of luck for us!” exclaimed the doctor.
    â€œIs it not?” said Poirot.
    Something in his tone surprised the doctor.
    But before he could ask for elucidation, Poirot had made another dive on to the floor.
    This time he held out on the palm of his hand—a pipe cleaner.
    â€œIt is perhaps the property of M. Ratchett?” suggested the doctor.
    â€œThere was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch.”
    â€œThen it is a clue.”
    â€œOh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue this time, you note! One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?”
    â€œThere was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him.”
    â€œI wonder why,” mused Poirot.
    â€œAh!” The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man.
    â€œI overlooked this,” he said. “I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back.”
    From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.
    â€œYou see?” cried Constantine eagerly. “This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between midnight and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about one o’clock, though it is difficult to be exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime.”
    â€œIt is possible, yes. It is certainly possible.”
    The doctor looked at him curiously.
    â€œYou will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you.”
    â€œI do not understand myself,” said Poirot. “I understand nothing at all, and, as you perceive, it worries me.”
    He sighed and bent over the little table, examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmured to himself.
    â€œWhat I need