All language subtitles for Murder.On.The.Orient.Express.2017.1080p.BluRay.x265-RARBG

He said four minutes precisely.

Non, non, non.

Quickly.

Two perfect eggs this time, no?

Ah.

Hmm.

Maybe.

I blame the chicken.

Why do hens lay eggs of different sizes?

It's not you, Mon ami.

These are two perfectly good œufs.

Mr. Poirot...

I've got three religions bent on riot.

If you're going to perform
one of your miracles,

the time is now.

Have the eggs. Allons-y !

Poirot!

Sorry for the, um...

It is not the, uh...

It is the imbalance of the...

Right.

That's better.

Excuse me. Coming through.

Make way, please. Excuse me.

Please call for the accused.

The rabbi...

the priest...

and the imam.

It is like the old joke, yes?

The rabbi, the priest, and the imam.

Forgive me, I am Belgian.

So, let us begin.

In the Church of the Holy Sepulcher
above us...

three representatives meet
under the supervision...

of the Chief Inspector of Police

to discuss a divided timetable
for market use.

One hour after this tense meeting...

a priceless relic is found to be stolen.

It is said, one of these three men
has stolen it.

The police find no pieces of evidence
at all.

I find one.

On the meticulously
well-kept wall of a fresco...

a single crack from an indelicate climb...

with a hard-soled shoe or perhaps a boot.

So, ladies and gentlemen, we must ask...

who stands to benefit from the crime.

Our three holy men live humbly.

They're thin-soled shoes poor.

Sudden riches and rubies would be...

too conspicuous, yes, to enjoy.
They do not gain.

At this point, we need an armed guard
at the south gate.

Thank you very much.

No, the only one...

who benefits from the theft
and the unrest it causes...

is a man whose office
I had searched this morning...

as I waited, I have to tell you,

rather disappointedly upon my breakfast.

Difficulty with eggs.
You don't need to know this.

A man who is paid lavishly
to keep order in Jerusalem.

I mean, of course,

the Chief Inspector of the Police.

A man who does not wish
to lose a well-paid post...

when there is discussion

among the local peoples
of self-governance...

who does wear boots, and who,
I believe, now does regret...

inviting me to consult on this case.

How dare you accuse me!

Please, Sergeant...

did you search the office as I asked?

Uh, yes, sir.

And did you find what I said you might?

Uh, yes, sir. Just as you said.

Merci.

FarangSiam thanks you. Enjoy!

Halt!

You need to deliver that, Captain.

It should be through
first thing in the morning.

Very good, sir.

Luggage is on board, sir.

I won the right to escort you
to your boat.

To Stamboul, then?

Will you be back to London straight off?

I am tired, and I have earned myself
a little holiday.

I want to look at paintings

and have too much time on my hands.

You are staring. Does it stop?

It's just...

How did you know it was him, sir?

From just a tiny crack on the wall.

I have the advantage...

I can only see the world as it should be.

And when it is not,
the imperfection stands out...

like the nose in the middle of a face.

It makes most of life unbearable.

But it is useful in the detection of crime.

But it's as though
you see into their hearts

and divine their true natures.

And whatever people say,

there is right, there is wrong.

There is nothing in between.

We must part here.

Oh, no, sir, I'm to escort you
on the ferry.

Au revoir, mon capitaine.
(Goodbye, Captain.)

We must never meet again.

Could you straighten your tie, please?
Just a little.

- Yes.
- That is perfect.

Final passengers, please!

Oh, I'm sorry.

Will be fixed soon.

But, will it be fixed in time?

We are working!

I have a connection in Stamboul.

Leaves tomorrow at seven.

There's a very ill patient
waiting for me in London.

I am a doctor.

Doctor.

I am a doctor.

I am shouting at you in English,

and now I'm doing it louder and slower.

Very silly, forgive me.

May I help? Let me help.

I know your mustache.

From the papers.

You're the detective, Heracles Poirot?

Hercule Poirot. I do not slay the lions.
Mademoiselle ?

Mary Debenham, monsieur.

I'll forget a name but never a face.

Not yours, anyway.

You come from Baghdad?

It's true. No detail escapes his notice.

- Your ticket.
- Ah.

I might also ask you
if you enjoyed your time there...

as a governess?

The chalk on your sleeve
and the geography primer.

A governess or a cartographer.
I made my gamble.

I always begin them with geography...

and monster them till
they have the world down cold.

They may get lost in life...

but I'll be damned if
they don't know where they are.

Well, our chains are free. Right on time.

I feel so free out here on the water.

I wish I could enjoy it.

We should be out of this, Mary.

Not now.

When it's all over.

When it's done.

Then, nothing can touch us.

Ah, my holiday begins here.

I can see the soul of the city
in these humble breads.

The world insists on destruction,
yet here...

masterpieces are baked to order every day.

Monsieur Poirot!

Mohammed!

Mohammed, my friend...

you are an artist.

Ah! My friend!

Sorry.

Here. Come, come.

Don't mind us, we're just looking

for a place to have a private argument.

It should take some 20 minutes or so...

at which point we will both

come to an agreement, or at least I will.

Monsieur Bouc!

Poirot! In the kitchen?

Well, of course, this man will sniff out

a perfect pastry faster than he catches...

a jewel thief.

Mon ami !

Now, I am no longer a policeman.

I cannot bail you out
when this goes badly, eh?

This is my dear, old friend,
the esteemed...

Poirot, who I knew before the esteem.

Hercule Poirot, this is...

- A prostitute.
- She is.

I am. Bouc, you did not tell
me you had famous friends.

We're friends because

I'm the only person who never asks him...

any questions about his cases,
because I don't care.

And he never judges me
for being a terrible person.

Indeed you are.

Madame, Bouc, please join me for a drink,
yes?

You only have me for an hour.

I ride on the Orient Express at seven,

official director business.

Uncle pays me absurdly

to stay on board his gorgeous train...

and far away from him...

at the home office...

consigned to wine and dine

handsome officials for all eternity.

There is an art to nepotism.

And you are its Michelangelo!

Mr. Poirot.

Are you a prostitute as well?

Certainly not.

Is this man bothering you?

He is about to.

You are from the British consulate.

- I am, sir.
- It is the Kassner case.

Why, yes.

I was correct in certain predictions?

Quite.

I do not need to read the telegram.

Oh, how fun.

Did someone cheat, or die?

Unfortunately, both.

Someone has...

interrupted my longing for rest.

It appears that I must travel
with you tonight, Bouc.

Can you find me a cabin
on the Orient Express?

My friend...

I may not be good for much,
but I sure as hell

can get you a bed on my train...

in the dead of winter. Three days...

free of care, concern
or crime. You will love it.

Mademoiselle, it has been a pleasure. Sir.

Your luggage has been collected

and your expenses paid.

You will be met at Calais...

and then escorted to Dover,

and then by rail to London Victoria.

I would like to formally

- express gratitude.
- Please, don't speak.

You make it worse.

- Here's a tip for you, pal.
- Thank you, Mr. Marquez.

I didn't even carry your luggage.

Oh, I had a good week.

We celebrate when fortune smiles,

and we share the good fortune.

Remember to say nice things
about us Americans, huh?

No!

Hey, stop!

Monsieur, bonsoir.

For you, Mr. Ratchett,

the best table in the house.

Just here, sir. The very best table.

No, I want that one.

Hey, Masterman. You got everything?

Kind of you to inquire, Mr. MacQueen.

I do not make mistakes.

Oh, my goodness! It's Count Andrenyi.

Come, come, come.

I saw you dance at the Monte Cristo.

Could I take your photograph?

Please, my face, no!

Sorry.

The Simplon Orient Express...

with stops in Sofia, Niš,
Belgrade, Vinkovci, Brod...

with transfers to Bucharest, Zagreb,

Trieste, Venezia, Milan, Lausanne...

Dijon, Paris, Boulogne, Calais...

with connection to Dover and London,

leaves in fifteen minutes!

This way, Michel! Precious cargo.

I need a first-class compartment.

Give special care to my friend, Michel.

I want him pampered like a zoo panda.

But Monsieur Bouc, we are fully booked.

There's no space left.

Then we make space.
He can have the number eleven.

The eleven is always kept
open for official use.

It's very comfortable.

Eleven is taken.

The Austrian professor
booked it two days ago.

There is not one first-class

sleeper car on the whole train?

Negative, sir.

Second-class?
There's no space left at all.

Mademoiselle Debenham.

Mr. Poirot, are you joining us?

It depends who wins this debate.

Have all the passengers arrived?

All but one. Mr. Harris.

«All passengers must check in»

«at least one half hour prior
to time of departure...»

«or their seat may be forfeit.»

The half hour has passed.
The seat is forfeit.

Please take Monsieur Poirot's luggage

to number three with Mr. MacQueen.

- Merci,< Bouc.
- Enjoy, my friend.

- Welcome, sir.
- Merci.

Number three is unlucky.

Oh!

Apologies, madame. I meant no disrespect.

Well, you could try to mean a little.

One thing about train travel,

you're always knocking into somebody.

It's wonderful.

Though, I am looking forward
to getting back.

Travel is fine for spicy food,
mosques, meeting men.

But eventually, you just
miss your own bed.

I've been accused of
husband hunting abroad.

Well, I can't, in all honesty, deny it.

I like my time alone, I do.

But a lady has certain needs

that deserve to be met
if she has any money...

and preferably, on a regular basis.

Oh!

Oh, my! Fire in the kitchen!

Farewell, madame.

Good evening.

Bonsoir.

Number nine.

- Good evening.
- Bonsoir, bonsoir.

How you doing? Bonsoir.

Oh. Excusez-moi.

No, after you.

Merci, merci.

Ah number three.

You are Mr MacQueen?

Yeah. I think you might have
the wrong berth.

Uh...

Sorry, is there a problem sir?

No, no problem.

The train is full.

I think that we are, how do you say...
«bunkies».

Really?

I am equally disappointed in you.
This is nice.

Come along, darlings.

No.

No.

This?

Why am I not yet unpacked?

Five minutes to departure.

Final call for passengers!

Shall we brush you?

What the hell is taking them so long?

Soon as we get out of here,
have them make up the bed.

It's already arranged, Mr. Ratchett.

No, I want the bed made.
And bring my Dictaphone.

Dogs on the table.

Most disgusting thing
I've ever seen in my life.

- Yes, sir.
- I want you to get MacQueen...

and have him bring every
receipt from the Milan sale.

- I want you to get it done.
- Yes, sir.

I want you to get it done now.

- Did I say get it done now?
- Right away, sir.

«Better watch yourself.»

Your coffee, Mr. Ratchett.

Who did this?

I can't say, sir.

Good evening, Mrs. Hubbard.

Hello there, Mr. Masterman.

Well, hello.

Eyes linger any longer,
I'll have to charge rent.

I'll pay.

Mmm. Have another drink.

Are you insulted?

Hmm. Disappointed.

Some men have a good look.

All they have to do is...

keep their mouth shut,

and they can take home
any prize they want.

Still, the mouth opens.

Is everything all right, Mrs. Hubbard?

You have a strong intuition, I know.

My second husband used to say just so.

Hold that, it was my first.

Yeah.

Brightest man I ever met.

Face like a turnip,
but I loved that turnip.

It was nice to talk.

Good night.

Monsieur Poirot?

Entrez, Pierre Michel.

Voilà.

When you take supper...

I will move Monsieur MacQueen

into Monsieur Bouc's compartment.

You travel first class, monsieur.

Ah, impeccable. Merci.

Bon appétit.

...and the eggs?

Good afternoon.

Ah, Mrs. Hubbard.

Good afternoon.

There we are.

Compliments of the Orient Express.

Thank you, Mr. Bouc.

I am here for all of your needs.

No, thank you. I do not drink.

It does not agree with you?

Sin does not agree with me.

Vice is where the devil
finds his darlings.

We should no longer speak.

Good afternoon.

Monsieur How about a apéritif?

I regret I have an appointment

with the director of the train.

He was gonna leave anyway.

Please, sir. Madame, madame.

Madame, madame.

All settled in?

- Ah, merci !
- As advertised.

And yet, the best things
on the train are not food.

You know there's something about...

a tangle of strangers pressed together

for days on end, with nothing in common...

but the need to go
from one place to another...

then never to see each other again.

Boredom plus anonymity plus a...

constant, gentle rocking.

With your hobbies, you will
never amount to anything.

- God, I hope so.
- Hmm.

Order me the fish.

Um, exchange grouper for sole,

escarole for the potato, and...

the beef sauce for the velouté.

Garçon, that sounds superb.
The same for me.

The Princess Dragomiroff.

You know, if I ever were
to marry for money,

I'd marry for that much money.

I brushed Dalia this morning.

No, you tortured my darling doggy.

I asked you to brush her.

Are you still enjoying your Dickens?

Very much, mon ami.

You know, with your books and your capers,

you are missing out on romance.

Romance never goes unpunished.

There was, uh...

There was someone once.

I would prefer, in the future,
to be sat not with that man.

Like should be seated with like.

We are not alike.

Not all of us are so concerned

with the separateness of races, Professor.

It is out of respect for all kinds

that I prefer to keep them separate.

To mix your red wine and the white

would be to ruin them both.

I like a good rosé.

Hey, how you doing? Would you mind...

if I joined you?

Dessert is an indulgence...

and I feel kinda silly
and stupid indulging alone.

I am at my happiest alone.

But...

for a small piece of your fragility,

please join me.

Oh, with pleasure.
Excuse me, another fork?

I've been trying to make
your acquaintance, Mr. Poirot.

Merci.

I never ever sat so close to fame before.

No, I tell a lie.

Once, I was on a bus with Ty Cobb.

- Ball player, Detroit.
- Ah.

Would you mind if I have the
little curly bit at the top?

You're an odd bird there.

You're a strange, peculiar man.

I am of an age

where I know what I like
and what I do not like.

What I like, I enjoy enormously.

What I dislike, I cannot abide.

For instance, the temporary pleasantries

before what is determined
to be a business discussion.

You're fun.

All right.

I would like to offer you a job.

«The avenger of the innocent.»

It's what they call you in the papers.

And you are an innocent?

I'm a businessman.

I'm an art dealer. I mean, I'm new to it.

But my beginner's luck has panned out.

Relics, antiquities.

Rugs, weird. Orientals.

I'm new to the game,
so I got the amateur eyeball.

But I got a little problem
with these, uh...

so-called appraisers.

You can't trust a one of 'em.

Some of my customers...

they buy a piece...

they find out that they're
not exactly original...

which is hardly my fault...

if a Kashan silk scarf is a fake.

Right? Huh?

C'est bon.

But I've managed to make
a few enemies, is the thing.

I got a few letters,
people making threats.

I think, most likely, it's the Italians.

I sold them a set of Oriental carpets
in Milan.

And the buyers weren't so happy
with the provenance.

And they want their money back
with interest, you know?

Italians.

A guinea's a guinea.

And then comes along the genius detective.

Me?

- Yes, you. Hercules Poirot.
- Hercule.

Um...

Here's what I'd like to do.

I would like to hire you
to watch my back...

until I get someplace safe.

It's easy money for you.

And it's peace of mind for me, you know?

- I understand.
- Good.

I refuse.

I'm sorry? That's bad.

Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough.

You see, someone's out to get me.

And I know I'm not the best
guy born, not by a long shot.

And if there's a world after this one,

I will face judgment just like you.

But...

I ain't in no goddamn rush to do it.

- You're holding a gun on me?
- No.

Not you. On the world.

I exist in the world.
Do not point a gun at me.

How's ten thousand sound for a week?

It's a generous offer,
Mr. Ratchett. I must decline.

Fifteen thousand?

You didn't hear me. I decline.

Oh, I get it.

It's not flashy enough for the
great Hercules Poirot, huh?

No flashbulbs...

You sell fakes to gangsters.

You're suffering the consequences.

I detect criminals. I do not protect them.

So you say «no» to my dirty money.

I say «no» to you, Mr. Ratchett.

Business with the gun, right?
Is that what it was?

It is far more personal than that.

I do not like your face.

If you will excuse me.

You liked my cake, didn't you?

The cake was excellent.

Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Ratchett.

Thank you.

Ooh! Cold.

Hmm.

My sweet Katherine.

My love.

Mr. Dickens.

Mr. Ratchett?

Mr. Ratchett?

It's nothing.

Very good sir.

Good night.

Mrs. Hubbard?

It's always Mrs. Hubbard.

Mrs. Hubbard.

Did we die?

Ladies and gentlemen,
the train has been derailed.

Are you all right, Mr. Marquez?

I'm fine. Thank you.

You'll be safest in your cabins.

Mr. Bouc will speak to you all...

in the morning.

Please, you will be safest in your cabins.

Of course.

Are we gonna die?

Oh...

My Katherine.

My beautiful...

Ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid

that our train is still
unable to go anywhere.

Yeah, except down.

How long are we supposed to just sit here?

Yes, someone must be doing something.

Of course I am doing
something. I am doing nothing.

Precisely two hours and ten minutes ago,

when we did not arrive
in Brod as scheduled...

the station master will have
surmised our situation...

and already dispatched a team
to excavate the engine...

clear our path, and send us on our way.

Until then, I assure you...

we will all be made warm
and fed and comfortable.

We could walk.

We could die of exposure trying.

I have a connection to make.

My boat sails day after
tomorrow from France.

Without you, I'd wager. Or me in London.

I hold you accountable for
my loss of time, Mr. Bouc.

Madam, you cannot hold me
accountable for the weather.

Of course I can. You're the one here.

And my conference in Turin?

And I was to meet at
the auto factory in Sochaux.

Yes, some things, they are in God's hands.

It is not for us to say...

if we deserve to arrive safely
at our destination...

or if, like Lucifer, we must fall.

Breakfast for you, Mr. Ratchett.

Ah, Bonjour Mr. Masterman.

There is a problem?

I can't say, sir.

Mr. Ratchett?

Excuse me.

That is cold air.

Please bring Monsieur Bouc immediately,

and also Dr. Arbuthnot.

Good God!

Touch nothing else, only the body.

My God, this is horrible.

First the snow, now...

I'll have to meet with the police

and make some statement
in some grimy station.

And a man has died.

And a man has died.

He was stabbed.

Long, straight-edged knife.

Multiple stab wounds, some shallow,

some cut clean through muscle.

Left-hand side or right-hand side?

That's the thing.

It appears the killer

maybe closed his eyes and struck blind.

Can you estimate the time of death?

It's hard to say with the window open...

but my best guess
is between midnight and 2:00.

But no one went in his compartment then.

I sat in my seat all night.

I would have seen if someone
went in. It's impossible.

Thank you, Doctor. Please,
return to the dining car.

Michel, secure this carriage.

Poirot.

I need your help, my friend.

You have to find who did this.

Please, I implore you,

on behalf of the Orient Express.

When the police arrive,

we can present them with the case closed.

You are the only one who can save me.

Your faith touches me, mon cher.

But I must have this rest.

Well, think of it as a little
beach-side puzzle.

That's nothing to your mind!

You look up the antecedents
of the passengers.

You establish their bona fides.
(good faith, sincerity)

Then you do what you do.
You... You... You...

You sit in a chair
and you eat your cake...

and you think until
the solution presents itself.

What else are you going to do
while we sit here in the snow?

Without constant stimulation,

your little gray cells
will starve and die.

You think that is what I do?
I sit in a chair...

and I have a little piece of cake,

and then I come up with a great idea?

- I don't know what you do.
- I have my Dickens.

Damn your Dickens!

If we leave this to the police,

they will choose a culprit...

right or wrong, and they will hang him.

Most probably Mr. Marquez...

for no other reason
than his name is Marquez.

Or Dr. Arbuthnot for
the color of his skin.

You are the only one
who can bring justice.

Let me have a map of this coach.

Of course.

- Every passport.
- Anything.

Interviews arranged
with all of our passengers.

Evidence, order and method,
until one culprit emerges.

I do not approve of murder, my friend.

Every day, we meet people

the world could do better without...

yet we do not kill them.

We must be better than the beasts.

So let us find this killer.

What's going on?

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to, um...

It appears that our bad luck has worsened.

That is...

A passenger has died on the train.

Monsieur Ratchett.

Looks like they got him after all.

You assume he was killed?

No, no.

I just mean he was
in perfectly good health.

He had his enemies, that's all.

Indeed, he did. He was murdered.

Good God. Murder, here?

Alas, madame.

God rest his soul.

Someone was rummaging around my cabin

in the middle of the night.

Nobody would believe me.

What is going on?

As we are snowbound,

I have elected to take the case...

and find for my friend,
Monsieur Bouc, the criminal.

And why you?

My name is Hercule Poirot...

and I am probably the greatest
detective in the world.

I will speak to all of you in time.

For the moment...

I must recommend that you remain

in your compartments
with the doors locked.

I feel like a prisoner here.

It is for your own safety.

If there was a murder...

then there was a murderer.

The murderer is with us...

on the train, now.

The doors between coaches
were locked at night, hmm?

Absolutely. Done myself.

The train's been searched.

There's no one hiding on it or under it.

We can therefore limit our investigation

to the occupants of the Calais coach.

Bouc, you will assist me.

As the only traveler
who slept in another coach...

you are the only one who is not a suspect.

Mr. MacQueen, is this
really the time for drinking?

My boss is dead.

I'm out of a job,

and you're looking at me like I did it.

We make no accusations.

You knew him, so from here

we must glean the essential facts.

Were you his relative?

No, his secretary.

Book his travel, order his steaks.

The man ate more steak

than I've ever seen in my entire life.

He was in antiques.

He had no qualification for it,

not the eye or the languages.

Truth is, he had no head
for business, accounting...

none of it.

I took care of everything.

How long were you in his employ?

Twenty days shy of a year.

Prohibition wasn't to my taste...

so I found myself overseas, and in debt.

I'm a lawyer by education...

not disposition.

I was downright awful at it.

You were fond of him?

I was fond of his money.

Ratchett was crude...

demanding, insulting,
and most likely a felon.

When did you last see him?

It must have been just after 10:00.

He called me in to go over our sales
in Italy.

Milan, the sale of forgeries?

Yeah, yeah.

He wanted to look over the accounts.

I had to translate everything...

as the contracts were in French

and he didn't speak a word.

And when we stopped at Vinkovci...

I struck up a chat with
the colored doctor, Arbuthnot.

And we had a couple of drinks,
stretched our legs.

He had some...

odd opinions about Stalin
I had to turn around.

I don't hold a man's race against him,

but I don't often take to Britishers.

When did your party end?

He left just after 2:00.

Did you know of any specific enemies

Ratchett might have had?

Gosh.

Pick a number.

He confided he had been threatened?

He got a couple of nasty letters.

I have them if you like. Some, anyway.

He tore up the rest.

Threw them into the fire.

That's them.

Merci, Mr. MacQueen.

Uh, thank you.

If we have any further questions,

we will call for you again.

Have you considered the Latin man?

Marquez. Hell of a guy.

And, well, you know, his kind...

they don't have
the same distaste for murder,

historically speaking.

You said you don't hold
a man's race against him.

I suppose...

depends on the race.

And he was doing so well.

- You think it's MacQueen?
- Too early to say.

I admit, I cannot see him

stabbing a man twelve times in a frenzy.

Not sober, anyway. Who did it then?

I do not know yet. It is time we ask.

- Ask who?
- The victim.

He has twelve stab wounds

and, as Arbuthnot said,
they are patternless.

If the doctor is guilty...

he certainly did not let it influence

his responsibilities.

Hey, the watch. Stopped at 1:15.

Now that agrees with the
doctor on the time of death.

Hmm. It is possible,
yes. Certainly possible.

I don't quite understand.

I do not understand, myself.

I understand nothing at all.

If you look at these two wounds...

they are powerful and deep,
and yet there is little blood.

But this was a frenzied attack.

Lashing here and there.

No pattern at all, just extreme violence.

And during all this, our victim,

vigorous and anxious and full of coffee...

merely lies still and accepts
death without struggle...

when he also has here...

the means by which
he might defend himself.

For you.

Now, let us see here.

Barbital. The Mickey slipped.

Drugged him so he couldn't use this.

And later around here,
a lady's handkerchief.

An objet de luxe, handmade.

Boom, two hundred francs in Paris.

And she even has an initial, «H».

And our little friend,

- the pipe cleaner.
- Another clue.

Yes, a riot of clues
dropped most conveniently.

Yet only one appears, however,
to be perhaps genuine.

And maybe this ashtray provides

the accidental breadcrumb.

A charred fragment of a note.

An attempt, perhaps, to burn evidence.

Merci, monsieur.

We may borrow your equipment, yes?

Thank you.

Merci, merci.

Now, I prefer to understand...

why a clue is left rather than
what the object is.

We seek the truth from
within, not without.

In this case, however,

I may welcome a little
scientific assistance.

You will adjust the flame.

It's just another one
of those nasty letters.

You are mistaken, mon ami.

This one has a secret to tell.

Look.

«As a strong blood is on hand,
you will die.»

What does this mean?

Come with me, Bouc.

Let us fill in the gaps.

This was never a beach-side puzzle.

I know the dead man's real name.

It is not Ratchett, but Cassetti.

I know that name.

Then you will also know
the name Armstrong.

The Armstrong case?

The story shocked the world.

Two years ago...

the renowned pilot,
Colonel John Armstrong...

and his wife, Sonia,

woke to find their
only child, little Daisy...

taken from her crib as she slept.

Desperate...

the Armstrongs paid the ransom.

But soon after,
Daisy was found murdered by...

Ratchett, who was Cassetti.

Sonia Armstrong was with child

when she received the news.

The shock sent her into premature labor.

Neither she nor her baby survived.

How do you know this, Poirot?

Because John Armstrong told me so himself.

He wrote to me to ask me for my help.

By the time I received his letter...

it was too late.

He was found dead of a gunshot wound.

Self-inflicted.

«Daisy Armstrong's blood is on your hands.»

«You will die for it.»

Indeed, you did.

- Monsieur Poirot?
- Yes, Michel.

Mrs. Hubbard wants to speak to you.

I held her as best as I could.

Ah, Mrs. Hubbard,
I'm sorry to have kept you.

You have a head full of steam
and a mouth full of words.

You're goddamn right, I do.
What I have been trying...

to tell you all day.

The murderer was in
my compartment last night.

I thought I'd be killed.
Turns out I might have been...

only he got Ratchett instead.

I woke up in the dark, and I knew

there was a man in my room.

You are certain it was a man?

I know what it feels like
to have a man in my bedroom.

I told your conductor,
and he wouldn't believe me.

I said, «Check the communication door»

«between my room and Ratchett's.»

«He must have left through there.»

Sure enough, it was unbolted.

I know I locked it...

after what Ratchett said.

He made a rather overt overture.

Have you perhaps...

heard of the Armstrong kidnapping?

You couldn't avoid it.

Morbid stuff.

The child's murderer, Cassetti...

died last night.

Ratchett was the man.

I told you, I knew he was a rotten one.

You do believe me...

about the man in my room?

I'm aware you think I'm a silly woman.

But I have proof it's true.

It is from the uniform...

of an Orient Express conductor...

but it might have fallen from Michel's

when he was in your room.

I'm not missing any.

I found it

at the foot of my bed, on the cover...

right where I slept.

What do you call that?

I call it evidence. Thank you
so much, Mrs. Hubbard.

Have you ever been to America?

Once.

Years ago, briefly.

For what purpose?

- To confirm a suspicion.
- Which was?

That I wouldn't like it.

I was offered a post in Boston.

Saw Boston, went straight back to London.

Is that where Ratchett was from?

- Boston?
- I can't says I know.

It wouldn't be proper...

to ask.

Carry on.

I last saw...

Mr. Ratchett at nine o'clock.

I brought his coffee
and hung up his clothes.

You have a toothache, I think.

I've got an extraction booked
in London this week.

Mr. Ratchett insisted on not
putting it off any longer.

He said he was tired of hearing

my suppressed groans.

This sympathetic Ratchett...

was it his usual practice
to drink coffee at night?

Not at all. But he'd been
very agitated lately.

Said he wanted to stay alert,
especially so last night.

He found a letter in his compartment.

Please tell me you didn't do this.

If I were to leave something unpleasant

on your pillow, sir...

it would not be a letter.

Coffee.

Surely, such a...

proper and precise valet...

would never speak
to his master as you did?

Unless he knew his career
was coming to a sudden...

end.

No mere toothache, I think.

The lungs?

The thyroid.

Spread now to stomach.

Same as got my father, five years younger.

Months at best.

«Inoperable, I'm afraid,» said the doctor.

And suddenly, I wasn't... afraid.

I would only do what
I wanted from here on.

I speak my mind now.

The coffee.

It appears that his cup
was laced with barbital.

You, of course, will tell me

that you did not put it in there.

Of course I didn't.

When and from where

did you procure the coffee and the cups?

In the kitchen, sir.

I ordered it at dinner to be
ready at 9:00, and so it was.

Anybody could have got
a hold of it before me.

Merci.

Mr. Masterman.

I'm sorry about the toothache.

Merci.

I love the little cakes.

So, Miss Pilar Estravados,
you are a missionary...

but you trained as a nurse

before you changed professions, yes?

I owed it to God.

You owed Him a debt?

There were...

indulgent times in my life...

when I took more than I gave.

Gerhard Hardman.

Professor of engineering.

It is science that will win back

for Germany her pride.

- Biniamino Marquez.
- Mr. Marquez.

Listen, I wanna be clear

of any association with the crime...

so please ask me anything.

Anything. I never lie anymore.

Did you leave your compartment
at all last night?

Only once, to get an aspirin.

Mrs. Hubbard offered me something earlier.

I declined at first,
but when I couldn't rest...

I went to ask for it.

My conference is in Turin.

I am the only Austrian to present,

which means without me...

the talks will be substandard.

Then I escaped prison,

and I bribed myself into the US...

where I swore never to lie or steal again.

You see, my friends, because when people

trust you, they buy more.

The Italians are cows.
The Spaniards, sheep.

The Belgians...

I come to my room, which I share

with the unhappy English butler.

A fish. He groans a lot.

But I'm sure he saw me sleep
all night until morning.

I should say...

in case it is relevant...

there was an embarrassing moment.

When I went to see Mrs. Hubbard...

first, I opened the wrong door.

Oh, sorry.

What time was this?

That must have been about...

Don't be sorry.

...twenty minutes to 11:00.

This is interesting.

As far as it is known,

you are the last person
to see Ratchett alive.

- Your business?
- Automobiles.

I have three showrooms.

I come to America with nothing. And now...

If what you say is true,

Miss Debenham will confirm it.

But it is true.

I would not lie.

May it be possible that Miss Debenham

left your compartment
without you noticing?

No. I sleep very lightly.

The slightest sound and I bolt upright.

I was surprised once.

Never again.

No, I didn't say I was a chauffeur.

The photographs that
spilled out of your luggage...

there was a beautiful one

with a little boy
wearing a chauffeur's hat...

visiting his papa at work.

Who did you chauffeur?

Miss Estravados, why do your hands

have the calluses of a boxer?

I do my work in dangerous cities...

where I cannot be governed by fear.

I trained to fight.

But you do not trust your god anymore...

since your surprise?

No, in case He is busy.

God is always busy.

It's Masterman.

A man dying is a man with nothing to lose.

Bravo, Bouc. Except for the problem
of Mr. Marquez...

who has now confirmed

that his bunkmate, Masterman...

was reading in his bed
at the time of death.

If it were easy, I would not be famous.
Next.

Miss Debenham...

you do not mind to brace the air?

For you, we have the picnic.

While you made my roommate
suffer cramped quarters.

I see.

Choose the best location

to extract the truth from each suspect.

Put her off-balance and me, freeze.

Clever.

Will you write down your full name

and address, please?

A pale mauve, by the way.

Miss Estravados told me you asked

the color of her dressing gown.

Merci.

«Mary Hermione Debenham.»

Do you ever go by Hermione?

A constant Mary, when I'm not
employed as Miss Debenham.

Left-handed.

Unusual, I know.

You mustn't have your theory fixed

if you're testing my handwriting.

What did you think of the dead man?

Uh, I can't say I did think about him.

I don't quite see
the point of your question.

Oh, forgive me, mademoiselle,
my little originalities.

Human nature is perverse
in its complexity.

To plumb it, it takes the right tools.

These are toys, not tools, Hercule.

I prefer you put them away.

The direct method? Parfait.

You knew the doctor before traveling?

Dr. Arbuthnot?

No.

But such instant attraction?

We are not in America...

Miss Debenham. There are no laws

against what you may feel.

Nor are there laws
against silence, of which...

I hold my...

I've never been to America.

Perhaps I may ask about some...

words I overheard?

You and the stranger, Arbuthnot,

are closer than strangers might be.

You said...

«Not now. When we are done.
Then no one can touch us.»

What did you mean?

You think I meant murder?

To a man with a hammer,
every problem is a nail.

You live crime.

- You see evil every day.
- Not so.

I see enough crime to know

that the criminal act is the anomaly.

I believe it takes
a fracture of the soul...

to murder another human being.

I ask again, what did you mean?

As we established...

there are no laws against my silence.

Very well.

And afterwards, Princess Dragomiroff?

After dinner, I came to bed.

God blessed me with long life,

but cursed me with a bad back
to make it miserable.

About a quarter to 1:00...

I called for Fräulein Schmidt.

- Mmm-hmm.
- She massaged me...

and read to me for a while.

- Then I sleep.
- Mmm-hmm.

Were you ever acquainted...

with a family by the name of Armstrong?

They endured an unspeakable tragedy.

I was an admirer of
Sonia Armstrong's mother...

Linda Arden, the actress.

A once-a-century talent.

Miss Arden was to turn to directing.

She would have become the first

woman titan of Broadway...

were it not for the tragedy.

And this Linda Arden, she is dead?

She might as well be.

She no longer leaves her home.

Daisy was my goddaughter.

She was a...

I don't see how this relates
to our troubles, Detective.

The man killed last night,
his true name was Cassetti.

The man who murdered
little Daisy Armstrong.

I see.

I admit I know this family,
and now this man is dead.

The coincidence...

must seem unbearable.

You may be permitted a coincidence.

I must now ask a few questions
of your Fräulein Schmidt.

No. There is no need.

I can answer to her character.

Even still, if you will allow.

Fraulein. Answer please in German.

But her Excellency cannot comprehend me.

That is the point.

This is yours? H for Hildegarde?

It is too fine for me.

This is the truth about last night?

As she said. She sent the conductor for me,

then I returned to bed.

Did you see anyone when you returned?

Only the other conductor.

«The other conductor.»

You mean Michel?

No. A different one than had awoken me.

Please come with me.

Are you sure you did not see him?

I'm certain. The other conductor

was a small man with a short beard.

Fräulein, there is no other conductor.

I know what I saw.

I remember because his voice was high

and the uniform was the same exactly.

Though, I suspect, missing one button.

Sir, I need your passkey immediately.

We need to find a uniform
and a red kimono.

Thousands of photographs,

endless pairs of socks...

dressing gowns in every color but red...

and still no contraband
conductor's uniform.

Have we checked
all the passengers' luggage?

All except for the Count

and Countess Andrenyi, monsieur.

It is forbidden to search their suitcases.

They travel under diplomatic visas.

Where else could it be?

There is one last suitcase
we have not checked.

My own.

The killer is mocking me.

Good. His first mistake.

And as the night must follow the day...

Pardon, mademoiselle.

No, it's not mine.

I told you of the conductor.
Why would I tell you

- if it was me?
- You would not...

which makes your compartment
the ideal choice to hide it.

Voilà, the button.

And if a conductor's uniform...

why not a conductor's passkey?

Now we know how the killer

magically passed through locked doors.

- Bourbon.
- MacQueen.

Now what are we looking for now?

500 pounds.

MacQueen also had a ledger.

All his dealings with Ratchett.

Where is it, hmm?

Poirot?

Bouc, keep everyone inside!

Monsieur! Please stop!

Monsieur!

Monsieur!

Please stay where you are.

Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you.

So, it was MacQueen? You have your man?

Pardonnez-moi, madame.

How could he?

I didn't kill him!

You tried to burn Ratchett's accounts...

but they are still legible in places.

The maths do not tally...

because you have been stealing from him.

It is full of the...

What is the English word? The chocolat ?

- Fudge?
- Fudge!

It is full of the fudge!

You stole from him!

You thought you would be found out.

That is why you killed him!

Yeah.

Yeah, you're damn right I stole from him.

Thousands.

I knew his money wasn't honest.

What did it matter if I
skimmed some off the top?

But let me ask you a question.

Why would I slaughter my cash cow?

I didn't do it.

- I didn't kill him!
- He didn't.

He didn't.

I expect his alibi revolves around me,

drinking till the early hours.

Well, it's true.

I saw him having whiskey, and remarked

on the lesser quality of American liquor.

He offered me a tipple

to change my mind, then another.

We got to arguing politics. He had some...

tomfool opinions on Stalin

I had to correct. But the
man knows his spirits.

A word, please, monsieur.

You can confirm you were
with him all night?

We smoked and spoke till nearly 2:00, yes.

Ah, such chums, him with
his cigarettes, and you...

Yes, you are the only man on
the train who smokes a pipe.

May I see your pipe
and your tobacco, please?

Of course.

And you, Dr. Arbuthnot,

were traveling from India, I believe. Yes?

- You're interviewing me now?
- Mmm-hmm.

Were you ever in Ratchett's compartment

- before he was killed?
- Certainly not.

But this is one of your pipe cleaners,
n'est-ce pas ?

If you found that in the dead
man's cabin, look elsewhere.

I am a doctor, sir.

I heal people. I do not hurt them.

About this, see, you must have worked

very hard to become a doctor.

Not many of your race
are allowed the opportunity.

Middlesex Medical College
permits one per class.

I had the honor in '24.

I was a sniper in my tour.

A sharpshooter.

Saved more than a few officers.

The more grateful,

recognized a fair mind
with a steady hand...

and supported my education.

I take their generosity as a debt.

Did you know a Colonel Armstrong?

Might have known two or three Armstrongs.

Tommy in the 60th... Selby Armstrong...

No, I meant Colonel John Armstrong.

He had an American wife,

and his child was kidnapped and killed.

Oh.

Never came across the fellow.

When did you first meet Miss Debenham?

We met when we shared
the railway convoy car

from Kirkuk to Nissibin.

She claims otherwise,

and she has made herself
problematically suspicious.

Excusez-moi.

Mary is a lady.

Leave her out of this. I can
vouch for her character.

As you vouched for MacQueen's time?

- You won't listen to reason.
- Never.

You are lucky. The good doctor insists

he did not let you out of his sight.

See? There. Couldn't have done it.

Yes, you could.

Ratchett took a sleeping
draught each evening.

You could add barbital,
easily access that drug.

Do the same with one
of the doctor's many drinks...

and the chance to kill him is clear.

Why would I do any of that?

We have established your motive.

Perhaps I will suggest a different one.

A different reason, a more personal reason.

«A lawyer by education,
not by disposition.»

Why did you pursue the law, I wonder?

Was it to appease a much loved,

but demanding father...

one who himself had made a great success

in the same field...

and then lost his position?

There was a renowned
MacQueen, was there not?

The district attorney for
the state of New Jersey...

responsible for the prosecution

of the Armstrong case.

They didn't have a suspect.

My dad was pressured to go after

this poor French woman...

a maid with a weak alibi, Susanne.

He hung his whole case on her.

She killed herself.

She was innocent.

By the time the evidence lead to Cassetti,

oh, he was long gone.

They tore my old man apart.

I couldn't do anything for him.

And yet you claim

that you did not know
Ratchett was Cassetti?

No, no.

But you found him.

No.

You found him.

- You bled him dry...
- No.

In order to settle your father's debts,

and then finally, to settle the score.

No, no, no.

No. It wasn't...

It wasn't like that. It's not the way...

Someone kicked in the door...

Doctor!

Covered my face.

All right, this needs to come out now.

- I want my bag.
- Of course.

It's in my compartment.

There will be no fingerprints.

The killer was disposing
of the murder weapon.

It's there!

The killer didn't hit a lung or artery.

She's lucky to be alive.

You all are.

Yeah, some genius!

Why haven't you solved this case?

You must give the man some time.

Yeah, well...

I can't give that much more.
I don't have any blood left.

Yeah.

Accosting Mr. MacQueen,

and the real killer is right here.

One of you people.

I don't know who you are. I said nothing.

Please, leave me alone.

Play something.

My friends, the tracks will be
cleared by morning.

Please, return to your rooms.

I'm sleeping here...

where everyone can see me
and I can see everyone.

You should all do the same. Conserve heat.

Remain in the open,
safely in view, until morning.

A killer will never
hesitate to kill again.

I will convey the same message
to the Andrenyis...

diplomatic immunity or not.

If I may, I will look at your passports.

You know that I must talk with her.

By the way, there is a grease
spot on your wife's name.

You might want to look at that.

Elena is not well.

If you do not permit me, your reluctance

will be noted to the Yugoslav Police...

and I have no doubt that they
will arrest both you and...

How dare you!

Darling!

Darling.

You are funny-looking, monsieur Poirot.

Are all detectives so funny-looking?

I am sorry to wake you,
madame la Comtesse.

Hmm.

I am always awake at night.

In the day, I sleep.

Some fear darkness,
but I cannot stand the light.

You are always under the influence of...

Barbital.

Barbital, barbital.

I take oceans of it.

Oh, there's no use in a lie, love.

He can see right through us.

I cannot go outside without it.

I cannot sleep without it.

I take it against my fears.

What are you afraid of?

Everything.

Your passport has your
maiden name as Goldenberg.

Jewish, yes?

Not so Jewish. My middle name isn't Maria.

And you are a dancer like your husband?

No, not like my husband.

Corps de ballet.

He is touched by angels.

I have been shoved by passion

and hard work to become adequate.

Excuse me, I must lie down again.

Is this your only dressing gown?

No, I have another. Corn-colored chiffon.

I like speaking to detectives.

You never know what they're
going to ask you next.

I'm particularly good at capitals.

My governess was a stickler for geography.

Are you satisfied?

I am always satisfied
when I uncover a liar.

Madame, your name is not Elena.
It is Helena.

Despite your clumsy attempts

to change it here and on your luggage.

My husband heard

of a piece of evidence found...

a handkerchief embroidered with an «H»,

and didn't want my «H» involved.

So we changed it.
The luggage and the passport.

It's no crime to want to be distant
from trouble.

Yet, here is trouble.

A curious detail

about the Armstrong tragedy
at the heart of this case...

is how many people were wounded by it.

The younger sister.

The actress mother...

stage name, Linda Arden.

I suppose she, too,
was of Jewish ancestry...

as who is most likely
to take a stage name?

Is it too far to suggest...

her original name was Goldenberg?

Especially when we find a young woman,

the same age...

as her surviving daughter...

living in a world of fear?

The sister of Sonia Armstrong.

Get out!

I hear noises and I run.
Just in time, yes?

You must now believe the count
and countess are the killers.

The count is protective.

The countess would no sooner
kill a bedroom spider.

And you may desist with this charade.

You are neither an Austrian,
nor a German, nor a professor.

But a good imitation.

Was it based on someone you know?

A local butcher where
I grew up was a Kraut.

Good man, great accent.

What was it?

You said "Tur-in..."

the emphasis on the wrong syllable

for a proud and proper Teuton.

"Tu-reen."

You are one sharp knife, I give you that.

Herr Professor Gerhard Hardman...

is my cover.

I'm sorry about the colored folks cracks.

Hell, I'm half a Heeb myself.

Cyrus Bethman Hardman.

You are a Pinkerton detective?

30 years.

I was in Stamboul, coming back from a job,

when the office cabled.

Ratchett asked for a man to tail him,

offering triple time.

Lucky me being nearby.

He told me to look out

for a small, dark man with a high voice.

I watched that hall...

all night through a crack in my door.

Any thug...

had to go by me first.

I'll take my oath on it.

And would you also take your oath...

on your thirty years
as a Pinkerton Detective...

or would you lie to me again...

and deny that you were,
in fact, a policeman first?

Your gun, the checkered grip,
the blue finish...

produced for the Police Positive edition.

1927 issue.

It appears there are no end to the lies

manufactured just for me.

You can leave your gun
as you go, Professor.

From the position of his cabin...

it would have been impossible to miss.

Unless Ratchett's door was open...

as Pilar Estravados claims she opened it.

In which case, someone could have been...

masked from his view.

My darling Katherine.

This is an abominable crime...

and I am stuck, ma Katherine.

I cannot find the crack in the wall.

Why does one of them elude me?

I have always been...

so sure.

Too sure.

But now, I am very humble.

And I say, like a little child...

I do not know.

I am afraid, ma Katherine.

My apologies, ladies and gentlemen.

It is not safe on board

whilst the engine
is put back on the tracks.

We are to wait in the tunnel. Thank you.

Where are they taking the dogs?

They'll be happy.

That's not right.

Just to stretch their legs, it's good.

No, that's not right.

It's freezing!

Are we stuck?

You asked for me?

Another interrogation?

Oh, no. I enjoy your company.

Merci, Bouc.

Uh, please.

I have a list of ten questions
I am no nearer to answering...

and the train is about to leave.

You have a clear mind...

and I thought that you might produce
an insight. Please.

Hmm.

«The handkerchief. The pipe cleaner.»

«The scarlet kimono. The uniform.»

«The time on the watch.»

«Was he murdered then? Earlier or later?»

«By one person or more?»

«Which of them?»

Sorry, I can't help you.

Uh... Merci.

Perhaps there is an eleventh question

you don't know to ask yet...

that will give you the answer to the rest.

Perhaps.

I could point an easy finger at the,
uh, Countess Andrenyi.

I discovered she was
Sonia Armstrong's sister.

- Are you certain?
- Yes.

I suspect she may perhaps be innocent.

Perhaps.

But so many people have lied to me

on this train and do not seem to mind.

You yourself did so effortlessly.

Me?

You told me you had never been to America.

You also concealed the fact

that at the time of the tragedy...

you were living
in the Armstrong household...

as governess to their daughter.

And you know this.

I have my living to get.

A girl detained in connection
to a murder case...

no decent class family would engage me.

Miss Debenham,
you planned Ratchett's murder.

And then you sent for
the countess to witness it.

If she saw him dead,

the Helena you knew might return.

You waited for your roommate
to sleep, but she did not.

You drugged her.

But the barbital only gave her a headache.

She begged for an aspirin
when the train stopped,

when the conductor was on the station...

when the coast was clear at last...

when you were allowed to enter

Ratchett's compartment, unseen.

You loved Daisy Armstrong.
You killed Cassetti.

Cassetti was a pig.

He deserved to die.

She didn't kill him.

I did.

Mary, go.

I can't let you take the blame...

for what I did alone.

Mary, please, go.

John Armstrong was my best friend,

my commander.

He believed in me.

He sent me to medical school,
gave me a future.

Cassetti destroyed him.

In grief, I found Mary.

Then I found Ratchett.

Our plan was to reveal him to the police,

that's what you heard.

But when I saw his face...

I knew he didn't deserve a trial.

So, you drugged MacQueen.

You changed the time on the watch...

so that you could lie
about the time of death.

I couldn't let Mary be accused.

Or MacQueen.

My sins are mine to pay for, alone.

I'm a soldier.

A soldier kills to protect.

And now, Mr. Poirot,

I must protect myself from you.

Why aren't you dead yet?

Poirot?

Gentlemen, stop!

Sir, we need to get all the passengers

back on the train.

You will retire...

away from the train...

until I tell you to return.

You tell your lies...

and you think no one will know.

But there are two people who will know.

Yes, two people.

Your God...

and Hercule Poirot.

It is time to solve this case.

Dr. Arbuthnot asked me
why I was not yet dead.

He knew, of course, the answer.

A sharpshooter who does not
kill at close range?

Your shot was not a mistake.
It was a surgery.

You could not kill me
because you are no killer.

None of you are killers.

And yet, someone must be.

There are two possible
solutions to this crime.

One difficult, because it fits with most

but not all of the facts...

and one more...

complex.

The first solution.

Ratchett had enemies.

A rogue Mafioso steals
onto the train at Vinkovci...

as MacQueen and Arbuthnot take the air.

Equipped with a uniform

and a passkey, he stabs Ratchett.

He leaves through
Mrs. Hubbard's compartment,

and makes his escape.

No.

No, no, no. It doesn't work.

Why hide the uniform, hmm?

Who drugs Ratchett?

Or stabs Mrs. Hubbard?

Damn it, man!

So I ask, who stands to benefit?

This crime is the murdering of a murderer.

The benefit is, perhaps...

to the spirit, an ease of suffering.

To quiet a shouting voice

in the head that prevents sleep.

There is a murderer among us.

So...

We have Dr. Arbuthnot,

a dedicated, grateful friend
to Colonel Armstrong.

He meets and finds solace

in the company of the
governess, Mary Debenham...

who is almost like a mother
to the little girl.

And so close to
Mrs. Armstrong's young sister,

Helena Goldenberg...

married to a powerful man

no stranger to rage and violence.

We travel also with Daisy's godmother...

to whom belongs...

the monogrammed handkerchief

found at the scene of the crime.

The letter «H» in the Russian alphabet,

of course, pronounced «N».

Natalia Dragomiroff.

And her devoted maid with a chef's eye?

Who was she before her current employ?

Might I suggest the Armstrongs' cook?

But we are not yet done.

The nurse in charge of Daisy...

her new-found religious zeal

born of guilt at allowing her charge...

to be abducted. It was you, was it not...

in her room the night when

Ratchett came in through the window?

Did you have a glass of wine too many

with your supper that night?

Have you blamed yourself ever since...

for not being alert to stop him?

She knew nothing but kindness...

and love, until...

until I...

No need to divine with me, sir.

I was Colonel Armstrong's
batman in the war.

And afterwards, his valet in New York.

As fine a man as God ever made.

Would his chauffeur agree?

Was it a bank loan, secured by Armstrong,

allows him to build his automobile empire?

He's indebted for life.
Who else can we count?

What of the Pinkerton detective,

once a police officer...

assigned to the Armstrong case?

And he becomes attached to someone,

for there is another, uncelebrated victim.

You fell in love with the maid

before she was falsely accused.

You quit the police when you witnessed...

the travesty of justice...

when MacQueen's father
insisted on her arrest.

When she took her own life.

No! No, no!

Susanne was so gentle.

And she fell for me.

Old and already getting grey.

I told her she could do better...

but there she was...

on time for every date.

Why else is a train...

so full in the dead of winter?
Why the inconsistent wounds?

Why the abundance of evidence? Why...?

Why the conductor?

Pierre Michel of Avignon...

who lost his sister...

the accused maid...

Susanne Michel.

Only one soul can claim to have lost

more than any of you.

The tragic Linda Arden...

mother of Sonia...

grandmother of Daisy.

Retired from the stage...

but for one final performance.

You're an awfully clever man.

A murder should have one victim.

When Ratchett kills Daisy Armstrong...

a dozen lives are broken, deformed, ended.

They demand justice!

Of all these wounded souls,
we must finally answer...

who among them is a killer?

Who takes up the knife? The answer is...

No single one of you could have done it.

Nor any pair.

It can only have been done...

by all of you.

Together.

Together.

Even when the avalanche
changes everything...

as does the detective, plans must change.

The kimono, the uniform.

A remarkable improvisation,

the doctor who knows how to
wound without killing.

Each has their part to play.

Do it.

It was my plan.

I recruited them.

I had Hardman track down Cassetti.

I sent MacQueen to work for him,

and then Masterman.

MacQueen could arrange

he travel on the day
that Michel was on duty.

Mr. Ratchett?

It's nothing.

Bien, monsieur. Good night.

And so it is done.

For the death of the innocent.

A life for a life.

Revenge.

No one should hang for this but me.

It was my plan!

Tell the police it was me, alone.

There's no life left in me anymore.

They have a chance now.

Helena, I pray...

has a chance.

They can...

go live...

find some joy...

somewhere.

Let it end with me.

They're not killers.

They're good people.

They can be good again.

There was right, there was wrong.

Now there is you.

I cannot judge this.

You must decide.

You wish to go free

without punishment for your crime...

then you must only commit one more.

I will not stop you.

You can't let them kill you.

You give my body to the lake,

and you walk away innocent at the station.

You must silence me.

Bouc can lie.

I cannot.

Do it! One of you!

Don't.

I already died with Daisy.

No!

You said your role was to find justice.

What is justice here?

Sometimes, the law of man is not enough.

Where does conscience lie?

Buried with Daisy.

My dear Colonel Armstrong.

Finally, I can answer your letter...

at least with the thoughts in my head

and the feeling in my heart...

that somewhere, you can hear me.

I have now discovered

the truth of the case, and it is...

profoundly disturbing.

I have seen the fracture
of the human soul.

So many broken lives,
so much pain and anger...

giving way to the poison of deep grief...

until one crime became many.

I have always wanted to believe

that man is rational and civilized.

My very existence depends
upon this hope...

upon order and method
and the little gray cells.

But now, perhaps, I am asked...

to listen, instead...

to my heart.

Ladies and gentlemen...

I have understood in this case
that the scales of justice...

cannot always be evenly weighed.

And I must learn, for once...

to live with the imbalance.

There are no killers here.

Only people who deserve a chance to heal.

The police have accepted

my first solution to the crime...

the lone assassin who made his escape.

I will leave the train here
to conclude formalities.

You are all free to go.

And may you find your peace with this.

May we all.

Hello.

I'm looking for a Mr. Poirot.

He's needed on a very urgent matter.

Ah. He is on holiday.

The, uh, Kassner case again?

No, sir, far worse.

I have to take him to Egypt straight away.

There's been a murder, sir,
right on the bloody Nile.

Are you the detective?

Yes.

I am the detective.

Could you please straighten your tie?

I will see you at the car.

Here you are, sir.

Merci.

Allons-y.