All language subtitles for Murder.On.The.Orient.Express[1974]

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- Your ticket, please.
- Oh, yes.

- Welcome aboard, Miss Debenham.
- Thank you.

Bosporus Ferry will shortly depart
from Istanbul Sirkeci Station,

connecting with the Orient Express.

Here's your ticket,
Monsieur Poirot.

I'm afraid you've still got another hour.

Well, then, please do not wait.

Not wait? After all you've
done for us, Monsieur Poirot?

My general's orders were to
ensure your safe departure.

He also wished me
to thank you again

for saving the honor of the British
garrison in Jordan.

The brigadier's confession
was opportune.

I say, how did you do it?

Was it the old thumbscrew,
you know, the rack?

Yes. Well, you'll be able to rest
as soon as you get to Stamboul.

The...

The church of Santa Sofia
is absolutely magnificent.

You have seen it?

No.

Come on.

Move. Come on.

Get up. Come on.

Chop-chop.

I hope we did the right thing booking
you into a hotel on the European side

rather than the Asian side.

I have no prejudice against
either continent.

The... The crossing
should be pleasant.

The Bosporus is always calm.

You have crossed by the ferry?

No.

Welcome, Colonel Arbu...

Arbu... Arbut...

Arbuthnott.

The Bosporus Ferry will shortly
depart for Istanbul Sirkeci Station,

connecting with the Orient Express.

Not now.

Not now. When it's all over.
When it's behind us. Then.

What a funny little man.

Obviously a frog.

It can be important.

...between East and West, where you
can eat the finest Oriental food.

Good evening, sir.
This way, please.

Ecco finalmente un amico.

Monsieur Poirot.

Bianchi.

How are you, my friend?

- Good to see you.
- You have saved me from apoplexy.

- Sit down.
- Thank you.

You have not dined well.

The skewers are of better quality
than the kebab.

The bottle is more
distinguished than its wine.

And the coffee.

Fortunately, I have been called
to London. I leave tonight.

- On the Orient Express?
- How else?

Evviva! I have a traveling companion.
Eccellente.

Well, where shall we dine?

I am desolate, Monsieur Poirot.

There is not one single first-class
sleeping berth on the entire train.

- What? In December?
- In December, signor.

Has Bulgaria declared war on Turkey?

Are the aristocracy fleeing
the country?

I am a director of the line,

Monsieur Hercule Poirot
is not only a detective

of international fame and distinction,
but he is also my personal friend.

Signor Bianchi, Monsieur Poirot...

Courage, my friend,
we'll arrange something.

Andiamo!
We must go. Come on.

The Orient Express will depart
from platform one at 9 p. M.

For Uzonk�pr�, Sofia, Belgrade,

Zagreb, Brod, Trieste, Venice,
Milan, Lausanne,

Bazel, Paris, Calais,

with connections for London.

Bonsoir, Pierre.

Madame la Princesse,
mes hommages!

Num�ro quatorze.

- Fr�ulein Schmidt, Willkommen!
- Guten Tag.

Bett. Nummer sechs.

- Danke sch�n.
- Bitte sch�n.

Orient Express departs from
platform one at 9 p. M.

Az Andrenyi Gr�fot es Gr�fn�t
mindig sz�vesen l�tom.

A 12-tes.

Mrs. Hubbard.
It's always an honor to greet you.

You have your favorite number, 11.

Ecco, Signor Bianchi.
Benvenuto!

Numero nove. Come sempre.

Grazie, Pierre. I understand
that you are full up.

It's unbelievable, signor.
All the world elects to travel tonight.

Nonetheless, you must find room
for Monsieur Poirot here.

Monsieur Hercule Poirot?

- The famous...
- Precisely.

And he is also a personal
friend of mine.

Please be so good as to direct...

Fr�ken Ohlsson, god afton!
Plats nummer sju.

Sju...

Something is lost?

My little medal of St. Christopher,

to bring me luck and deliver...

Deliver me from evil.

Madame. Madame, lucky tooth
from St. Augustine of Hippo.

Madame. Madame, lucky tooth
from St. Augustine of Hippo.

- Lucky Buddha, Madame?
- Madame, lucky Buddha.

Thank God, my St. Christopher.

St. Christopher.

You see, my friend has been
urgently called to London

on a matter of
international importance,

and I have given him my
personal assurance

that you will secure an accommodation
for him on the coach to Calais.

- But, Signor Bianchi, I have already...
- Hector...

Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen,
but Mr. Ratchett has reservations,

and we'd be grateful if we could
board immediately.

Mr. Ratchett.

Welcome to the number ten.

Mr. Beddoes, the lower berth
in number one.

Mr. McQueen, the lower berth
in number four.

- The upper berth is...
- As arranged.

Now, Pierre, it is cold.

Now we can place Monsieur
Poirot in the number 16,

which is always kept vacant.

It is taken, signor, by a Mr. Hardman.

Then as a director of the line,

I command you to place
Monsieur Poirot

in what we know to be the empty berth
above Mr. McQueen's number four.

Monsieur.

At least you can get two tips.

- Pardon, monsieur.
- Sorry.

- Pardon.
- Excuse me, signor.

Well, my second husband,
Mr. Hubbard, would have raised hell.

No place for my makeup bag,
no ice in my drinking water,

and the hot water burps as it
comes out of the faucet.

Pardon.

Have courage, my friend.
It is the last compartment but one.

Pardon.

No.

I think there's a mistake.

Je crois que vous avez
fait une erreur.

Mr. McQueen, there is no
other berth on the train.

Monsieur Poirot has to come in here.

Voil�, monsieur, all is arranged.

Yours is the upper berth,
the number four.

We start in one minute.

I apologize if I have
incommoded you here.

However, it is for one
night only at Belgrade Station.

Oh, I see. At Belgrade,
you're... You're getting off.

Better than the hotel?

I shall probably keep
the menu as a souvenir.

Hector, I ordered three Islamic
13th-century, perforated pottery bowls

and six beakers.

They delivered only five beakers,
and one of the bowls arrived chipped,

which it was not when I paid for it.

Through the nose.

- Send a telegram from Belgrade.
- Yes. Yes, Mr. Ratchett.

What's the matter? You look tired.

- I slept badly.
- Yeah, why?

The Belgian in the upper berth snored.

Really? Any other
unanswered letters on file?

Only the anonymous ones.

We can't answer those, can we?

You'd better go catch up
on your sleep...

...before the Belgian gentleman
gets back to your compartment.

Go on.

Hi. My name's Hardman.

Call me Dick.

- Foscarelli. Call me Gino.
- How are you?

Beddoes.

Mr. Beddoes.

For the pen of a Balzac.

For three days, all these people,
these total strangers,

meet in a single train whose
engine controls their destiny.

Yes, I know. We are both
envious of the husband.

Is?

Is the husband as British
as his tweeds?

Oh, heaven forbid.
He's a hot-blooded Hungarian.

If you but look at his wife,
he will cease to be a diplomat.

Thank God we are not young.

My second husband said
always to ask for change in dollars

or at worst, sterling.

So for Pete's sake,
what's a drachma?

It is... What do you call it?
The currency...

My second husband also said,
"Take a book of food tickets, Mama,

"and you'll have no problem,
no problem at all."

That just isn't so.

First there's this ten-percent tip. Five
would've done the steward more...

I think Miss Ohlsson has a headache.

Would you forgive us if we went back
to the compartment, Mrs. Hubbard?

Gladly, if you must.

If you need aspirin,
I always carry it on my person.

I mistrust foreign drugs.

You must excuse me,
Mrs. Hubbard is upon us.

What's the matter with him?
Train-sick or something?

Some of us, in the words of the divine
Greta Garbo, "want to be alone".

And for dinner this evening?

You will have the goodness
to serve me the poached sole

with one new potato

and a small green salad
with no dressing. Hildegarde.

Who was that majestic lady?

- The Princess Dragomiroff.
- I have heard.

Pardon me, sir.

I wonder if you could
oblige me with a light.

Certainly.

Thank you.
My name is Ratchett.

Do I have the pleasure of speaking
to Mr. Hercule Poirot?

The pleasure possibly, Mr. Ratchett,
the intention certainly.

You asked me for a light.

I offered you one,
and you have not used it.

One can deduce that without
acute mental exhaustion.

That's wonderful. Sit down, sir.

- For a moment.
- Just for a moment.

Thank you very much.

Well, Mr. Poirot.

- Poirot.
- How's that?

- Poirot.
- Oh, Poirot. Right.

I just wanted to say that in my country
we also come quickly to the point.

I want you to take a job on for me.

It means big money.

Very big money.

What is the case, or, as you put it, the
job which you wish me to undertake?

Mr. Poirot, I'm a rich man.

Naturally, men in my
position have enemies.

Only one.

Now, what the hell
do you mean by that?

Merely that when a man is in a position
to have, as you say, enemies,

it does not usually resolve
itself into one enemy only.

Oh. Oh, sure. Sure. I appreciate that.

What is your profession?

I'm retired.

- From what?
- Business.

What sort of business?

Baby food.

But what does that matter?
What matters is my safety.

You are in danger?

My life has been threatened,
Mr. Poirot.

My secretary can show
you two letters on file.

And I... can show you this.

I sleep on it.

Mr. Poirot...

...5,000 dollars.

No?

Ten thousand?

Fifteen thousand.

Mr. Ratchett, I have
made enough money

to satisfy both my needs
and my caprices.

I take only such cases now
as interest me,

and to be frank, my interest
in your case is... dwindling.

Belgrade Station.

The Orient Express will
depart in five minutes.

Monsieur Poirot.

I am transferring Signor Bianchi's
luggage to the Pullman.

He's giving you
his own compartment.

But you cannot sit up all night.

My dear friend,
do not concern yourself.

Since you are going to England,
it is better for you

to stay on the through coach
to Calais.

Now, Pierre has made me
very comfortable.

There is no one in the Pullman
but one Greek doctor. Ecco.

- Such generosity deserves my thanks.
- Buon riposa.

- Monsieur Poirot.
- Pierre,

- could I have some clean towels and...
- Yes, monsieur.

Who are my new neighbors?

To the left, monsieur,
the Swedish lady, Miss Ohlsson,

shares seven and eight with
the English lady, Miss Debenham.

And to the right, in number ten,
is Mr. Ratchett.

And where is the loquacious
Mrs. Hubbard?

I should like to get some
sleep tonight.

Beyond Mr. Ratchett,
in the number 11.

She is still too near.

Good night, Mr. Beddoes.

Pardon.

Who is it?

It's me, sir, Beddoes,
with your sedative.

Come in.

Thank you, Pierre. Good night.

Good night, monsieur,
and pleasant dreams in number nine.

- How many drops?
- Of the valerian?

- Two, sir, as you said.
- OK.

No, no. Put it on the table.

And tell Mr. McQueen I want
to see the text of the telegram

he sent from Belgrade.

Very well, sir.

He wants you.

Come in.

La belle Comtesse.

Ce n'est rien.
C'�tait un cauchemar.

Bien, Mr. Ratchett.
May you now have pleasant dreams.

C'est le silence de mort.

Snowdrift. Mon Dieu. Quelle nuit.

So now there's a man in my room.

I woke up in the dark
three minutes ago,

and there was a man hiding
in this compartment. I sensed it.

What's more, I know who he was
because I absent-mindedly

nearly walked through
his open door earlier this evening.

"Madame," said this Mr. Ratchett,

"If you'd done this 20 years ago,
I'd have said come in."

Twenty years ago?
Why, I'd only have been 15.

If there should be a reoccurrence,
do not hesitate to ring, Madame.

Enfin c'est le comble.

Evidemment, j'ai une crise de nerfs.

It's me, sir, Beddoes,
with your pick-me-up.

Your amber moon, Mr. Ratchett.

Your passkey.

The chain.

Pierre, touch nothing.

Where are Signor Bianchi
and the Greek doctor?

In the dining car, monsieur.

Fetch them at once.

Well, can't you tap
the telephone wires?

- Or fire a rocket, or something?
- This is not a ship, Madame.

- Where exactly are we?
- We are between Vinkovci and Brod.

- But in what country?
- In Yugoslavia.

The Balkans.
What else can you expect?

Snow is God's will.
And all is for the best.

Yeah, but how long do you think before
we can start getting out of here?

As soon as the stationmaster
at Brod sees

that we do not arrive on time,
he will send...

Dr. Constantine,
Monsieur Poirot wants to see you.

And you too, Signor Bianchi.

Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen.

Only God's forgiveness is important.

Ich mochte meine Prinzessin
benachrichtigen.

Signor Bianchi
and Dr. Constantine.

Mind the broken glass, gentlemen.

Pupils still slightly dilated.
Could've been drugged.

- Was drugged.
- With what?

There's a smell of valerian,
which is harmless,

but something must've been added.

- May I close his eyes now?
- I wish you would.

Why did he lose so much blood?

- Can I pull back the bedclothes?
- By all means.

Mr. Ratchett has been
frontally stabbed

ten, 11, 12 times.

- Oh, Dio.
- Mon pauvre.

If you must go whoop-whoop,
please go whoop-whoop

not to windward, but to leeward.
Help him, Pierre.

There is something in the pocket.

Permit me.

- His watch.
- The time of death.

I can definitely say
that death occurred

between midnight
and 2 in the morning.

That would fit.

I myself heard him cry out and ring for
the conductor at 20 minutes to 1.

When Pierre arrived, he apologized

and said he had been
having a cauchemar.

A nightmare.

Then I heard him
use his washbasin.

And that is the last thing known.

I beg of you, monsieur.
You cannot refuse.

But it is the duty
of the Yugoslavian police.

Oh, what, monsieur, to question
my passengers on my line? Never.

Now you must solve the mystery.

When we get to Brod, if we ever do,

we present the police with
a fait accompli.

We say that a murder has occurred.
There is the criminal.

I should like
the Pullman coach reserved

for the investigation's headquarters.

It will be at your disposal.

And a plan of the Calais coach
with the names and locations

- of all the people in it.
- Yes, it will be there.

And the passports of all
the passengers concerned.

Yes, you can even have mine.

I go to make a special
announcement now. Grazie.

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

to Mr. McQueen outside
number three and four.

I saw him walk back into his
compartment, number 15,

which he did not leave.

And after that,
did no one reemerge?

No, but there was one lady
who opened a door,

I don't know which, and walked

in the direction of the toilet

at the far end of the corridor,
next to the dining car.

- Did you see her return?
- No, monsieur.

It is possible
I was answering a bell.

That reminds me of a final point.

Much earlier, soon after 12:30,
you and I both heard Mr. Ratchett

ring his bell several times and then
apologize for having had a nightmare.

Ce n'est rien.
C'�tait un cauchemar.

Who rang the second bell while
you were answering Mr. Ratchett's?

The Princess Dragomiroff, monsieur.

She asked me to summon her maid.

Thank you, Pierre.
That is all for the moment.

He had the means to do it.
The passkey to Ratchett's room.

- And a knife borrowed from the chef.
- With whom he was in league.

Which he plunged repeatedly
and without motive into the body

of his suitably astonished victim.

Anyway, we know the door
was not only locked, but chained.

Mr. McQueen.

Since our last conversation,

I have learned the true identity
of your late employer.

You don't say.

Ratchett was, as you yourself
suspected, merely an alias.

He was, in fact, Cassetti.

The gangster who masterminded
the kidnapping and killing

of little Daisy Armstrong.

You had no idea of this?

Oh, no, sir.

If I had, I'd have cut off my right hand
so I couldn't type his lousy letters.

And I'd have killed him with my left.

You feel you could've done
the good deed yourself?

It seems like I'm kind of
incriminating myself.

I should be more inclined
to suspect you, Mr. McQueen,

if you displayed an inordinate sorrow
at your employer's decease.

Sorrow?

My dad, my father,
was the district attorney, yeah,

who handled the Armstrong case.

Mrs. Armstrong and her husband
came to our house twice

for advice about the ransom money.

She was gentle and frightened.

But not too frightened to take
an interest in a young man

who wanted to go on the stage.

She even said she'd write to...

She died before
she got around to that.

She was as helpful
to me as a...

Well, a mother.

Forgive a Freudian question.

- Do you love your mother?
- I did.

She died when I was 8.
An impressionable age.

- Why do you ask?
- We shared a compartment

on the first night of our journey.

You cried out to your mother
twice in your sleep.

Did I?

I still dream about her.

Go on. Tell me.
I'm emotionally retarded.

Tell me that's why
I never married.

I am not here to tell you anything,
Mr. McQueen. You are here to tell me.

Yeah, I'm sorry.
Yeah, there's just one thing.

How did you...

...figure out Ratchett's identity?

By a message found
in his compartment.

He'd have burnt that, though,
as I told you.

He did.

Yeah, he did.

- Then how did you decipher?
- With the help of a hatbox.

Thank you, Mr. McQueen.

He did it.
He murdered Cassetti.

He practically confessed as much.

No, the psychology is wrong.

A sensitive, motherless boy
conceives a passion for a lady

whom he admires above all
for her gentleness.

Now, could McQueen,
admiring the gentleness,

commit so foul a murder
without betraying the gentleness

of what we might call
his fairy godmother?

Godmother.

Now you have accidentally
said something valuable.

Come.

Mr. Beddoes, this is not
an inquisition, only an inquiry.

When you took Mr. Ratchett
his valerian drops

about 9:40 yesterday evening,
was he already in bed?

That is so, sir. Mr. Ratchett
always retired early on trains.

What were your duties before
leaving him for the night?

To place the valerian drops
within reach, sir.

- Beddoes.
- Sir?

Did you put this on my table
during dinner?

- No, sir.
- Then who the hell did?

I have no idea, sir.

May I ask what it is?

What it is, is none
of your damn business.

I wanna know how it got here.

- Will there be anything more, sir?
- There will.

Tell Mr. McQueen
I wanna see him, now.

Very well, sir.

At what time would you like
to be called in the morning, sir?

Not before 10.

Very good, sir.

- Was that usual?
- Oh, quite, sir, yes.

His breakfast was his amber moon.

He never rose
until it had had its full effect.

So you instructed Mr. McQueen

and then returned
to your own compartment,

the number one and two,

whose upper berth was occupied
by Signor Foscarelli.

Oh, yes, sir, the Italian person.

- Does he speak English?
- A kind of English, sir.

I think he learned it
in a place called Chicago.

Did you talk together much?

Oh, no, sir. I prefer to read.

Hey, what are you reading,
Mr. Beddoes?

Love's Captive,
by Mrs. Arabella Richardson.

Is it about sex?

No, it's about 10:30, Mr. Foscarelli.

I like that.
"It's about 10:30."

- And after that you went to sleep.
- Oh, no, sir.

Not until 4 in the morning.
Unfortunately, I had the toothache.

- And your companion?
- He snored incessantly.

- And your companion?
- He snored incessantly.

One final point. How did you come
to be employed by Mr. Ratchett?

Through Maibaums, sir,
the big agency in New York.

You'll find me on their books.

And before then?

I was in the army, sir,
as a private soldier.

- Where?
- Troon, sir.

- In the Far East?
- Oh, no, sir, in Scotland.

Oh, Scotland.

Oh, forgive me.
I am only an ignorant Belgian.

Oh, a Belgian, sir?
I always thought you were French.

Belgian.

Did you know that Mr. Ratchett
was of Italian extraction?

So that accounts for his hot temper.

His real name was Cassetti.

The name means nothing to you?

Do you remember
the Armstrong case?

No, sir. Oh, yes, yes.

The little girl.

Cassetti was responsible
for her murder.

- How does that strike you?
- I have often thought, sir,

that instead of our employers
requiring references from us,

we should require
references from them.

Thank you, Mr. Beddoes.

Oh, please don't get up, sir.
Will there be anything else?

No, that is all.

He did it. The butler did it.

He had constant access
to Ratchett.

He himself could have
poisoned the valerian

before bringing it to his master.

As for the psychological,

well, who knows what boils
and bubbles beneath that stiff shirt

to which his profession
has called him.

Did he not read Love's Captive?

At a time when you suggest he should
have been stabbing Mr. Ratchett?

I fear that help is at hand.

Even if it is only a working party
with picks and shovels,

we must make haste to complete
this inquiry before we reach Brod.

If it is an engine with a snowplow,
our troubles will really begin.

- Who's next?
- Mrs. Hubbard.

Oh, my God.

The whistle means
that help is near, Madame.

- And high time too.
- Time is what counts, Mrs. Hubbard,

if we are to complete this inquiry
before reaching Brod.

I will therefore make my questions

as brief as I hope you will make
your answers,

and the more often
you can confine yourself

to a simple yes or no, the better.

Well, don't waste time
yammering, begin.

Your full name
is Harriet Belinda Hubbard?

Yes. I was called Harriet after my...

By now, Mr. McQueen
has doubtless informed you

- of the true identity of Mr. Ratchett?
- Yes, that low-down, stinking...

Were you acquainted
with the Armstrongs?

No, of course not. They were
a very social family. Anyway...

Mrs. Hubbard, I overhead the whole
of your conversation with Pierre

about there being a man
in your room soon after 1:00

on the night of the murder.
Tell me one thing more.

Wasn't the door locked
on your side of the door

that communicated with Mr. Ratchett's
compartment when you went to bed?

Yes, so far as I know.
My second husband...

What do you mean,
as far as you know?

Could you not see
the bolt from the bed?

- No.
- Why?

It was masked by my makeup bag
on the hook above.

Pierre checked the bolt
after I rang my bell

and told him there had been a man
hiding in my compartment.

Yes, yes, we know all about that.

Oh, no, you don't.

I beg your pardon.

You don't know what I found this
morning on top of the magazine

I'd been reading to send myself asleep.

What?

Dio mio.

This is a button from the tunic
of a wagon-lit conductor.

Doctor, would you kindly inquire
whether Pierre has lost a tunic button?

Gladly.

Your handkerchief, Mrs. Hubbard.

Oh, that's not mine.
I have mine right here.

Oh, I thought the initial H...

H for Harriet, H for Hubbard,
but it's still not mine.

Mine are sensible things,
not expensive Paris frills.

What good's a hankie like that
to anybody?

One sneeze and it has to go
to the laundry.

Oh, Mrs. Hubbard,

you have afforded me a great deal
of help in this difficult case.

Thank you, if I may so express it,
for playing your part.

If you need me again, I'll be around.

Not one of Pierre's buttons
is missing,

and all his buttons are sewn on
with old thread.

As I suspected.

- I'm fright.
- Have no fear, mademoiselle.

They all come out looking
much more peaceful.

Only God can give peaceful.

- God dag, fr�ken Ohlsson.
- Nej, talar ni svenska.

Alas, mademoiselle,
that is the extent of my Swedish.

Forgive me if I am personal,

but most Scandinavians
of my acquaintance

are well-educated
in other languages.

And yet you have difficulty...

I... I was born backwards.

That is why I work in Africa
as missionary,

teaching little brown babies
more backward than myself.

But I... I see that you have spent
three months in America.

Were you not able to improve?

I was in... In a mis...
I... I... International group.

In... For getting money for
African mission from American rich.

I... I speak Swedish
to big audiences

in... In...
In Swedish-American institution

in Minneapolis and other big cities.

In ten weeks,

we make $14,000 and...
And 27 cents.

That's wonderful, wonderful.

Miss Ohlsson, how long have you
been interested in religion?

From five years.

In summer, in...
I had been sick as always.

And I sat in the grass in the garden.

And I... I saw Jesus in the sky,

mit many little children,

but all the children were brown.

So it was a sign for me

- to look after little brown babies.
- Yes.

Were your parents religious?

Ne, they had no respect for God.

No.

So it was not just a sign,

it was also a punishment.

Oh, there, there, there, there.

I'm sure that God will forgive you,
Miss Ohlsson,

and perhaps, which is more important,
so will your father and mother.

Now...

...here is the compartment
you share with...

Ja, and here is
my number seven bed.

Yes, your number seven.

Tell me about number eight.

Is filled with Miss Debenham,

a very nice young lady from Baghdad,

where she teach English shorthand
to children,

to forward children.

After the train left Vinkovci,
did she leave her berth?

Ne, she sleep just like me.

If you were fast asleep, how could
you be so sure she did not leave?

In Shimoga Mission,
I can hear snake breathe.

I would know.

Good. And did you leave your room?

Ne, not till morning, in my bed gown.

Is your bed gown white
with red animals?

Ne, is Jaeger.

And Miss Debenham's bed gown?

Den var em lila.

- Oh, like the French "lilas", "lilac".
- Ja.

- Just det lila, just det lila.
- Lila, lila.

Good. And why are you making
this trip, Miss Ohlsson?

Just as always, money,
money for mission.

Good. Good.

When this is all over, mademoiselle,

I promise that I shall make you
an emolument.

God will find you a reward.

Tack s� mycket. Tack. Tack.

Monsieur, she did it.

Merci, Pierre, and could you please
inform the Princess Dragomiroff

that Signor Bianchi and I will attend
on her and her maid

- shortly in her compartment?
- Oui, monsieur.

That is very proper.

Monsieur le Comte, this is
a Hungarian diplomatic passport.

It gives you and your wife
the right to refuse interrogation.

In the circumstances,
we waive that right.

You are most kind.

As you know,
Madame la Comtesse,

it is a joint passport which sets out
your husband's name and titles,

but requires no particulars
about yourself,

except your signature
and your maiden name.

Your maiden name
is clearly Grunwald.

That is correct, monsieur.
My family is of German extraction,

though I now hold
Hungarian citizenship.

Unfortunately, the first letter
of your married signature

has been almost obliterated
by a grease spot.

I must say, I find immigration officials
are often less than cleanly. They...

They sit in their little box,
eating a buttered roll with one hand

and stamping the spilt butter
into your passport with the other.

Precisely. Therefore,
I would be greatly obliged

if you could duplicate
the mutilated entry of your passport

there.

Elena Andrenyi n�e Grunwald.

Allowing for the difference in pens,
the duplication seems exact.

There would be little point, then,
in asking

whether this handkerchief is yours?

Since it contains neither of my initials,
no point whatsoever, monsieur.

And even less point in asking
the color of your dressing gown?

None, unless monsieur takes
a professional interest in apricot silk?

I take a professional interest
in crime, Madame.

Have you and your husband
ever visited America together?

No. We first met in Wiesbaden...

...much later.
- Later than what?

Later than the days of my youth,
when I was on post in Washington.

You lived in Washington?

Oh, what diplomat of promise has not?

You did not sleep well last night?

On the contrary, apart from one of
Mrs. Hubbard's customary outbursts,

I slept very soundly.

- And you, Madame?
- Oh, even more soundly.

We, neither of us, woke till after 8.

As is my custom on night trains,
I took Trional.

Diethyl-sulphone-dimethyl-methane.

One dilutes the white crystals
with water, it is a strong hypnotic.

He makes it sound like a poison.

As with most sleeping drafts,
if taken in sufficient quantities,

it is a poison.

- You are not accusing...
- You are not accused,

you are excused.

Thank you both for your help
and cooperation.

"Kennst du das Land,
wo die Zitronen bl�hen?

"Im dunklen Laub
die Gold-Orangen gl�hen,

"Ein sanfter Wind
vom Blauen Himmel weht,

"Die Myrte still
und hoch der Lorbeer steht

"Kennst du es wohl?"

Why have you stopped reading?

"Dahin! Dahin!
M�cht ich mit dir, o mein Gelieb... "

- Altezza.
- Signor Bianchi.

� permesso presentare
L'investigatore distinto,

Monsieur Hercule Poirot?

Hildegarde has read me many
of your cases in the newspapers,

but I have had to stop her.

Nowadays, they are the only form
of literature that keeps me awake.

And I need what I defiantly continue
to call my beauty sleep.

- You would care for a little cognac?
- Thank you, no.

Yes, please.

Now, you wish me to confess
to the murder of Mr.?

What's his name?

Au contraire, Madame la Princesse,
it is I who wish to make a confession.

You pay me the compliment
of having read about me,

I return the compliment

by admitting that
I have read about you.

Continue.

I have been accidentally reminded

that you were the godmother
of Mrs. Armstrong,

who was herself the mother
of the kidnapped child, Daisy.

How did you become Mrs. Armstrong's
godmother, Madame?

I was the friend and admirer
of her mother,

the great American actress,
Linda Arden.

Why did you bring these daggers
from the place?

Is that a quotation or a question?

A quotation. I saw her twice
as Lady Macbeth in London.

She was the greatest
tragic actress of her day.

Was? Surely she is still alive,
Madame?

Alive, but bedridden.

Did she not have a second daughter,
younger than Mrs. Armstrong?

There was,
but I do not recall her name.

When I paid a visit,
she was always away at school.

What became of
the younger daughter?

She married a Turk or some such.
We never spoke of it.

What was Mrs. Armstrong's
maiden name?

Mrs. Armstrong's
maiden name was

Greenwood.

May I tax your memory and,
indeed, your patience a little longer?

There are other names
in the Armstrong household

that I cannot recall.
Was there not a secretary?

Of course there was a secretary.

Her name, Madame?

Her name.

Oh, my memor...

She was a Miss Freebody.

Was there not a gallant chauffeur?

There was.

I never used him. I had my own.

Surely he was not
the only male servant?

I seem to remember one other there.

He was, I think you would say,

the colonel's Indian orderly.

And Mrs. Armstrong's
personal maid.

The one who was wrongly suspected
of complicity in the kidnapping

- and killed herself?
- I always travel

with my own personal maid.

There was no need to speak
with Mrs. Armstrong's.

Doubtless, Fr�ulein Schmidt
will remember her name.

Surely, Fr�ulein,
as one lady's maid to another,

you conversed
as equals below stairs.

Ja, ja, nat�rlich.

But ladies' maids were often called
only by their Christian names.

And what was hers?

Paulette.

Hildegarde.

You will be so kind
as to give me two aspirin.

And you will ask
the dining-car attendant

to bring me a glass of Russian tea,

and then you may retire
to your own compartment.

I will ring when I need you.

Ja wohl, meine Prinzessin.

Finally, there was the nurse.

I had no need

of a nurse.

That is an ordeal still to come.

You never smile,
Madame la Princesse.

My doctor has advised

against it.

Excuse me.

There is no need for us
to fatigue you further.

You have been of the utmost help.

Go back to the Pullman
and tell Pierre

to summon Colonel Arbuthnott
in five minutes.

- I want a word with the maid.
- Yes, Poirot.

Fr�ulein Schmidt, I wonder
if I might have a word with you

about a small matter
in the privacy of your compartment?

- I have to take these aspirins...
- We will leave the door ajar.

I observed how moved you were

at the mention
of Mrs. Armstrong's maid, Paulette.

She had a sweet nature, mein Herr.
We were deep friends.

Have you a photograph of her
in your possession?

Ja. I never travel without my photo box.
It helps to pass the evenings.

No, please, mein Herr.
I am strong.

Be calm.

This could be your salvation

and that of every passenger
in the Calais coach,

including your mistress.

When did you last open the suitcase?

After Belgrade. When Pierre
summoned me to the Prinzessin,

I took out a volume of Goethe, in case
she wished me to read her to sleep.

Too stout for Pierre.

And, yes, there is a button missing
from the tunic.

A button found by Mrs. Hubbard.

And a passkey in the trouser pocket.

Here is the photo, mein Herr.

And this pretty, innocent girl

threw herself from a window.

Use this, Fr�ulein.

I found it in the corridor
and thought it must be yours

- because it bears the initial H.
- No. No.

That is the handkerchief
not of a maid, but of a great lady.

Like your mistress?

It is her style, ja,
but not her handkerchief.

I know all her linen.

Besides,

the initial is wrong.

What is the princess's first name?

Natalia, mein Herr.
It is a Russian name.

Then I must keep it
until I find the rightful owner.

Might I also keep the photograph until
this evening? I promise to return it.

Ja. Ja. That does not worry me,
but this,

this does.

Am I to be accused
of hiding it in my suitcase?

Fr�ulein, I am as sure
you did not hide the uniform

as I am sure you are a good
and loyal friend to your mistress.

Not only a good maid,
but also a good cook.

Not merely a good cook,
but a companion, a comfort, a solace.

You see? You are a good cook,
are you not?

All my ladies have said so. I...

Auf Wiedersehen.

Animal crackers in my soup

Lions and tigers loop-the-loop

You opening a dress shop?

No.

We are closing an inquiry.
Where is Shimoga?

- I beg your pardon?
- Shimoga, where is it?

Well, it's a bit off my track.
I'm a Northwest Frontier man myself.

But Shimoga's down south,
in Mysore. Why?

Does it possess a mission?

How the hell should I know?
India's pustular with missions.

You are returning on leave
from India to England?

- Yes.
- Why overland?

Why not?

Because the sea route
by P and O is more usual.

I chose to come overland
for reasons of my own.

Colonel Arbuthnott,
in a murder inquiry,

no suspect's reasons
are exclusively his own.

I stopped for one night
to see Ur of the Chaldees,

and for three days in Baghdad
with the A.O.C.,

who happens to be
a friend of mine.

The English Miss Debenham
also has traveled from Baghdad.

It is possible the murder
was committed by a woman

or by a man and a woman
in collaboration.

From your acquaintanceship
with Miss Debenham,

would you have thought
that she was

capable physically or emotionally or?

- That's a bloody irregular question.
- I know, but I ask it.

Miss Debenham is not a woman.

- She's a lady.
- Which precludes her

from being a murderess?

Damn it,
the man was a perfect stranger.

- She'd never seen him before.
- You feel warmly in the matter.

I don't know what you're driving at.

Then let us be practical
and drive at facts.

Did you know Colonel Armstrong?

Not to speak to.

You see, his outfit and mine
wouldn't have mixed much.

I'm Indian army.
He was British army, serving in India.

Royal Scots.

- How did you know?
- It was in the papers

when he shot himself
after the kidnapping.

Rotten show.

Thought he'd been tougher than that.

After all, he got a D.S.O.
And an M.C. In France.

Distinguished Service Order.

Military Cross.

Mon colonel,

Ratchett was responsible
for five deaths:

The suicide
of the falsely accused maid.

The murder of the Armstrong child.

The death of Mrs. Armstrong,

while giving premature birth
to a stillborn baby.

And the ultimate suicide
of Colonel Armstrong,

in the face of multiple
and intolerable bereavements!

I would have understood his action

if, in addition to the D.S.O. And M.C.,
he had been awarded the V.C.

Which stands, as you may know,
for Victoria Cross

and is awarded for valor.

Then, in my opinion,

Ratchett deserved what he got.

Though I'd sooner have seen him
properly tried by jury.

Trial by 12 good men and true
is a sound system.

We believe the murder
was committed at 1:15.

What were you doing then?

I was yarning with young...
What's his name?

McQueen, in his compartment.

He was interested in the future
of India, a bit impractical.

He thought the British
ought to move out.

How long did you stay yarning
after that?

Till 1:30. It's...

It's what I call a three-pipe yarn.

Colonel Arbuthnott, you are the only
passenger in the Calais coach

who smokes a "pipe".

- So it would appear.
- Then this...

...must be your "pipe" cleaner.

- It's the same brand.
- It was found in an ashtray

by the dead man's bedside.

Then someone planted it there.
It's a used "pipe" cleaner.

Or are you suggesting
that I'm fool enough

to have entered Ratchett's cabin,
murdered him,

cleaned my "pipe" and dropped it
in the ashtray before leaving?

No, Colonel Arbuthnott.

Miss Debenham.

- Can I stay?
- No, Colonel Arbuthnott.

Please be seated.

Forgive me, Miss Debenham,
I must be brief.

You met Colonel Arbuthnott and fell
in love with each other in Baghdad.

Why must the English conceal
even their most impeccable emotions?

To answer your observations
in order,

of course, yes, yes,

and I don't know.

Then let me tell you what you do know,
that on the Bosporus Ferryboat

I overheard a part of your conversation
with the colonel.

Not now, not now. When it's all over.
When it's behind us, then.

When what was all over,
Miss Debenham?

And when what was behind you?

Was it some task
that had to be performed?

Some ordeal that
had to be endured?

Some dark deed
that had to be dispatched?

Mr. Poirot, I'm not at liberty
to answer any of those questions.

Not here on this train, perhaps.

But when the Yugoslav police take
over an unsolved murder case at Brod,

you will not remain at liberty
unless you answer the questions.

I can always call my lawyers
long-distance.

This is a private matter
between the colonel and myself.

Miss Debenham, in a murder case,
no matter is private

and evasion breeds suspicion,

so answer my question.
When what was all over?

When what was behind you?
Please answer the question.

You will remain here
until I get an answer from you.

Mon colonel, please, Monsieur Poirot
has expressly forbidden...

Poirot has no right, he's out of order.
This is a private matter.

Je vous en prie, mon colonel.

- Mon colonel.
- Out of my way.

So answer my question.
When what was all over?

When what was behind?
Answer my question.

Get your hands off
Miss Debenham.

I was not aware that I was keeping
my hands on Miss Debenham.

I asked her a simple question

- which she refused to answer.
- So I heard.

Then perhaps you can
answer it for her.

Can you give me your solemn oath,

as a foreigner,

that if the answer
has nothing to do with the murder,

you'll treat it confidentially?

I will.

Six months ago,
before I'd even met Miss Debenham,

- my memsahib...
- Come again?

My wife

expressed herself bored,
not only at living in India,

but at living with me.

And asked me to provide her
with a divorce.

In view of my position, commanding
officer, 12th Gurkhas, I refused.

Well, had I not,
I should have lost my command.

My wife returned to England,
where there is irrefutable evidence

that she has been persistently

unfaithful to me.

I have therefore instituted
divorce proceedings

in which she is cited
as the guilty party.

And when those proceedings
are behind us,

when those proceedings
are all over...

...I propose
to marry Miss Debenham.

Meanwhile,

it is of vital importance,
under English law, that our...

...behavior...

...should not provide evidence
for counter-proceedings

by my wife.

Does that answer your question?

Well...

...it is certainly an answer.

Doctor, is Pierre
sufficiently recovered?

- Fully.
- May we go?

You may, with my assurance that
our foreigners' lips shall be sealed.

Sorry if I hurt the lad.

Provocation.

They could have done it together. She
has hidden fires. She is very strong.

Why did you not ask her
if she had been to America?

Because I did not need to.

Pierre, le colonel
s'excuse de son geste.

Merci, monsieur.

Signor Foscarelli.

You are a naturalized
American subject?

- You bet.
- For how long?

Seven years. Mi ricordo del
giorno preciso quando...

Faccia di rispondere
alle domande.

Otherwise, he will detain you
longer than you would detain him.

You are a motorcar salesman.

You bet.
American automobiles to Italians.

Did you know Cassetti?

Not on your sweet life.
Era Mafioso.

He says he was Mafia.

- Really?
- Yes.

Who do you?
Who do you think killed him?

- Un altro Mafioso.
- He says another Mafia.

They are always killing each
other with a knife or with a gun...

Why did you bring
this dagger from the place?

Because I found it
in my makeup bag.

Ecco, what did I say?

Knives or guns. It's a vendetta
between two Mafiosi.

Give me the dagger.

When did you last open
your makeup bag?

Yesterday evening,
when I took everything out.

If you took everything out,
why did you need to reopen it?

Because I was putting
something back in.

You may set your mind at rest,
Mrs. Hubbard.

- The missing button.
- Precisely,

and I can assure you the owner
of the tunic is not now on the train.

Are you going back
to the dining car?

I'll say I am. Do you think
I could face my compartment

so soon after that?

Would you kindly ask
the chief attendant

to arrange the tables and chairs
so that Signor Bianchi,

Dr. Constantine and myself

can confront the passengers
with the solution of the murder?

I... I help with the risoluzione.

Yes, if you will briefly
answer two more questions.

Shoot.

On the night of the murder,

did Mr. Beddoes
leave the compartment?

No. No, he grunt like a pig
with the pain in his teeth.

And have you ever
been in private service?

No.

Thank you. That is all.

- Excuse me, sir.
- Yes.

Enfin, doctor?

This blood is human.

This dagger could,
in two different hands,

have inflicted all of the wounds.

And you know
who inflicted them?

Our last interrogation
will be something of a gamble.

But if it succeeds...

...we'll know.

Come in, come in.
Please be seated.

You are Cyrus B. Hardman,
a theatrical agent.

No.

I mean, I'm...
I'm not a theatrical agent.

That's a phony, issued to me
under license by Pinkerton's.

- The detective agency?
- Stamboul branch.

Ratchett asked them for an
American bodyguard, they sent me.

I... didn't do so hot.

Can you prove this was
the reason for your journey?

- It's Paulette.
- Paulette.

Paulette Michel.

Now I can stop pretending
to be anything.

Ladies and gentlemen,
may I have your attention, please.

May I respectfully suggest
that there should be no talking

while Monsieur Poirot addresses you.
If anyone wishes to make a statement,

he or she can do so
at the meeting's end.

Thank you.

Ladies and gentlemen, you are
all aware that a repulsive murderer

has himself been repulsively
and perhaps deservedly murdered.

How and why?

Here is the simple answer.

There is evidence
supporting the theory

that the murderer
was a stranger to us all.

Mrs. Hubbard was conscious
of a man in her compartment

soon after 1:15 a.m.

She later found near her bedside
the button of a wagon-lit conductor.

Fr�ulein Schmidt discovered,
planted in her suitcase,

the uniform of a conductor,

which could not possibly
have fitted Pierre,

and from which, in fact,
there was a button missing.

And in the trouser
pocket of the uniform

was a conductor's passkey.

Later still, Mrs. Hubbard discovered
this bloodstained dagger,

which Dr. Constantine confirms

could have been
the murderer's weapon.

The obvious implication
is that the murderer,

disguised as a conductor,
boarded the train at Belgrade,

made his way by means
of the convenient passkey

to Ratchett's compartment,
stabbed him to death,

planted the dagger
and the uniform,

and then departed, since the train
was now halted in a snowdrift.

Who was he?

I am inclined to agree
with Mr. Foscarelli,

who believes that he was
a rival member of the Mafia,

exacting private vengeance
for a vendetta

whose precise nature the Yugoslav
police will undoubtedly identify.

But...

...is that all?
- No. No, no, no, no.

...is that all?
- No. No, no, no, no.

No, it is not.

I said, here is the simple answer.

There is also a more...

...complex one.

But remember
my first solution when I...

When you've heard my second.

Let us, for the moment, assume
what is perfectly plausible,

that the mysterious
stranger did not exist.

The murder must then have been
committed by some person or persons

in the Calais coach and therefore
are present in this dining car.

Let us not, for the moment,
ask the question "how"

but the question "why",
which will tell us how.

I was not surprised
that every single one of you

should have heard of
the notorious Armstrong case.

But I confess to a mild surprise when
the first passenger I interrogated,

Mr. McQueen...

...admitted, under emotional stress,

that he had actually known
Mrs. Armstrong, albeit very slightly.

She was gentle and frightened.

But not too frightened to take
an interest in a young man

who wanted to go on the stage.

Was Mr. McQueen lying
when he denied ever having

known that Ratchett
was Cassetti?

Or did he become
Ratchett's secretary

as part of a deliberate plan to avenge
Mrs. Armstrong's death?

Only by interrogating
the other passengers

could I hope to see the light.

But when I began
to question them,

the light, as Macbeth
would have said, thickened.

When I told the Princess
Dragomiroff that I knew she was

Mrs. Armstrong's godmother,

her answers to my subsequent
questions smelled strongly

of inaccuracy and evasion.

Even I knew more from reading
the newspaper reports

than she from her frequent visits.

Was there not a chauffeur?

There was, monsieur, but I had
my own. I never used him.

Evasion. What was the name of
Mrs. Armstrong's personal maid?

I always travel with
my own maid, monsieur.

There was no need to speak
with Mrs. Armstrong's.

Evasion. I asked for particulars
of the manservant.

He was, I think, the colonel's Indian,
how you would say, orderly.

Inaccuracy.

Colonel Armstrong was an officer
of the British army in India.

He would have had a British
batman, like Private Beddoes,

to serve his personal needs.

Only officers of the Indian army,

like Colonel Arbuthnott,
have Indian orderlies.

I asked her the name of
Mrs. Armstrong's younger sister.

I do not recall her name.

Unbelievable evasion.

I asked her the name
of Mrs. Armstrong's secretary.

Yes, a Miss Freebody.

Non, c'est impossible �a.

The princess, it seems,
is playing the psychological game

of word association.

Freebody is the name
of the junior partner

of one of London's most famous
and most opulent ladies' stores

of the sort perhaps patronized
by the princess herself.

The name of the senior partner
is Debenham.

Debenham and Freebody.

Was the princess covering
up for our Miss Debenham,

who taught shorthand
in Baghdad?

Can she tell us the name
of Mrs. Armstrong's younger sister?

Then I will tell you her
Christian and her maiden name.

When I asked the Princess
Dragomiroff if she could tell me

the maiden name of her
goddaughter, Mrs. Armstrong,

she could not possibly,
as a godmother,

plead ignorance of this.
She replied...

Greenwood.

Grunwald is the German
for Greenwood.

The princess's hesitation
persuades me

that Grunwald was
the true maiden name

of her goddaughter,
Mrs. Armstrong.

And that the Countess Andrenyi

is Mrs. Armstrong's
surviving younger sister.

Her Christian name is Helena.

Not Elena. No, no, no.

But Helena.

And where did she lose
her Christian name's initial H?

She lost it under a convenient grease
spot in her husband's passport.

And why was the grease
spot purposely applied?

Because she and her
husband were afraid

that this handkerchief,
bearing the initial H...

...might lead me to suspect her
of complicity in the murder.

I swear before God and on my
word of honor as a gentleman,

that this handkerchief
does not belong to my wife.

No, no, no, no, no, no.
Not at...

No. No.
No. No. No.

It does not.

No. Nor does it belong
to Mrs. Harriet Belinda Hubbard.

Nor to Fr�ulein Hildegarde Schmidt,

whose finest quality is her loyalty.

The initial is wrong.

What is the princess's first name?

Natalia, mein Herr.
It is a Russian name.

In the Russian, or Cyrillic, alphabet,

their capital N

is written like our capital H.

Madame la Princess,

should this costly handkerchief
cease to remain an exhibit,

it will be returned to your
loyal maid for laundering.

Or is Hildegarde Schmidt
really your maid?

I have, perhaps, a nose for the aura
of fine food and laid a trap.

You are a good cook,
are you not?

All my ladies have said so. I...

If you are a lady's maid,

your ladies never have a chance
of discovering if you are a good cook.

As good a cook as
Hildegarde Schmidt must have been

to the Armstrong household.

Enfin.

Who do we now
have here in this car...

...that could have known
or could have been involved

with the Armstrong household?

We have, one, Mr. McQueen,

who became boyishly
devoted to Mrs. Armstrong

at the time of the kidnapping.

Two, the Princess Dragomiroff,

who was Mrs. Armstrong's
devoted godmother.

Three, the Countess Andrenyi,

who was Mrs. Armstrong's
devoted younger sister.

Four, the Count Andrenyi,

who is Helena's devoted husband

and Mrs. Armstrong's
devoted brother-in-law.

Five, Hildegarde Schmidt, who was
Mrs. Armstrong's devoted cook.

Five, Hildegarde Schmidt, who was
Mrs. Armstrong's devoted cook.

Six, Mary Debenham, who was
Mrs. Armstrong's devoted secretary.

Miss Debenham's inclusion
is pure conjecture.

I did not have to ask Miss Debenham

if she had ever lived in America,

because during her
interrogation, she said...

I can always call my lawyers
long-distance.

An Englishwoman who had never
lived in America would have said,

"I can always make a trunk call
to my solicitors."

Tout de m�me, I must thank
the pipe-smoking Colonel Arbuthnott,

for a remark which finally resolved
all my confusions about this...

This extraordinary case.

I prefer to set aside the fact

that he denied ever having spoken
to Colonel Armstrong in India.

And yet he remembered
in great detail

the decorations which
Colonel Armstrong had won

years earlier in France.

I prefer to remember his views
on the British jury system.

Trial by 12 good men and true
is a sound system.

The iron tongue of midnight

hath told 12.

Suddenly...

...the number 12 began to ring
in my head like a great bell.

Twelve.

Doctor, how many wounds
were there in Ratchett's body?

- Twelve.
- Mr. McQueen,

how many capital letters,
each inscribed by a different hand,

were contained in each
of the two threatening messages

you showed me on Ratchett's
correspondence file?

Twelve. Twelve.

Colonel Arbuthnott,
how many persons in a jury?

Twelve.

Pierre Paul Michel,

how many passengers
in the Calais coach,

excluding myself
and the murdered man?

Twelve, monsieur.

- Show me your wallet.
- No!

Mr. Hardman,
you may not speak.

Ratchett never asked you to be
his bodyguard, he asked me.

And I, perhaps to
my discredit, refused.

Before you joined Pinkerton's
as a private detective,

you were an ordinary policeman,
were you not?

A cop...

...who, as is customary with cops,

fell in love with

a pretty housemaid
on his beat.

Yes, and would have
married her...

...if...

Your daughter, Paulette,
never died of scarlet fever, did she?

No, she killed herself

when falsely accused
of complicity

in the kidnapping and killing

of little Daisy Armstrong.

They...

They could not have done it
without you, could they?

You.

The procurer of this disguise for
the mysterious member of the Mafia,

who never existed

any more than the owner
of this kimono existed

as a real character and not as a red
herring to confuse and deceive me.

Although I think
that I was not deceived.

I have, how shall I put it,

an eye for the...

For the figure
of a receding woman.

Countess, your cosmopolitan accent

showed an inherited ability...

...from your actress mother.

But God knows
from what implausible source

Miss Greta Ohlsson...

...learned her English vocabulary,
too ludicrous to be credited.

I was born backwards.

That is why I work in Africa
as missionary,

teaching little brown babies
more backwards than myself.

You coined words like "bed gown",

and yet you understand
words like "emolument".

I truly believe you did look after
little brown babies at your mission

in Shimoga, which is in India,
by the way, you know.

It's not Africa.

But I believe you
were covering up

for once, years earlier,
when you were in America,

having looked after a little
white baby called Daisy...

...whose death, though you
could do nothing to prevent it,

so preyed on your mind that you
sought refuge in a vision of Jesus.

And your future as a missionary,

looking after little brown babies,
was sealed.

You. You were lucky

only to be bound and gagged,

not crushed like the manservant.

- Mr. Beddoes.
- Sir.

You served with the
British army in Scotland.

Colonel Armstrong
was in the Royal Scots.

Would you kindly give Dr. Constantine
your deepest butler's bow?

Yes, there is an old contusion.

The result of a slight fracas
in the mess, sir,

with regard to the quality of a pudding
known as spotted dick.

Thank you, but I think
you've been spotted too.

Mr. Foscarelli is very knowledgeable
about automobiles.

I suspected that perhaps he had
once been Armstrong's chauffeur.

I asked if he had ever
been in private service.

No.

I think Mr. Foscarelli's
appalling English is more genuine

than Miss Ohlsson's,
but I think he meant yes.

- Think, monsieur?
- Think, think. Yes, think!

What else can be done on a train
isolated by a snowdrift?

If all these people are not
implicated in the crime,

then why have they all told me,
under interrogation,

stupid and often unnecessary lies?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

Doubtless, Monsieur Poirot,
because they did not expect you

to be on the train. They had no
time to concert their cover story.

I was hoping someone
other than myself would say that.

Ladies and gentlemen,

we now come
to my own reconstruction

of the night of the murder...

...or the night of the red herrings.

I only wish...

I only wish I could describe it...

...with the incomparable panache...

...the consummate verve,

the enthralling cadences,
the delicate gestures,

the evocative expressions of
America's greatest tragic actress,

Harriet Belinda.

Miss Linda Arden.

I've always heard she wanted
to play comedy parts,

but her husband
wouldn't have it.

Which husband?
Your second husband, Mr. Hubbard?

Which husband?
Your second husband, Mr. Hubbard?

Or your first husband,

Mr. Grunwald?

Linda Arden, the actress,
never played as difficult a role

as Mrs. Hubbard, the organizer
of this extraordinary revenge.

Dare I deduce that the great
Linda Arden has been cured

of her incurable disease
and is no longer bedridden?

It is I who should be committed
to a bed in a mental home.

It is I who need a cure
for being so slow

to notice the tricks
that were being played on me

with regard to the time
of the murder.

- Will there be anything more, sir?
- There will.

Tell Mr. McQueen
I wanna see him, now.

Very good, sir.

"And six beakers, stop.

"Only five, repeat,
five beakers were delivered.

"One, repeat, one badly chipped,

"which will be returned
on receipt of replacement

"to my Paris address.

"Signed, Ratchett."

OK, Hector, that's all.

Good night, Mr. Ratchett.

Good night, Hector.

Ce n'est rien.

C'etait un cauchemar.

Bien, Mr. Ratchett.

May you now have
pleasant dreams.

At 1:15 came Mrs. Hubbard's
announcement

that there was
a man in her room,

who had, for reasons which I dare
not even guess, shed a button.

The next morning,
the murder was discovered.

Dr. Constantine sets
the time of the murder

anywhere between
midnight and 2 a.m.

Now, I came to various conclusions.

The clumsy clich�
of the smashed watch

registering 1:15

had been done deliberately
to excite my disbelief.

And since Mr. McQueen
had overemphatically said

that Ratchett spoke
no languages,

I was being deliberately
maneuvered into believing

that Ratchett was already dead

when a voice cried out
from his room in French.

In other words,

I was being forced
into the theory

that the murder was
committed before 1:15.

A period for which every single
one of you had an unshakable alibi.

But...

...supposing that the crime
had not been committed earlier,

but later than 1:15...

...when all the noises and incidents

designed to confuse me
had died down.

And I had lapsed into sleep

because the train was now silent...

...and at peace.

Silent, yes.

At peace, no.

By 2:00, the murder was afoot.

Envisage it.

For my daughter.

My granddaughter.

In memory of Colonel Armstrong...

...a great soldier

and an even greater friend.

And for Mrs. Armstrong.

They took me into their home
and their hearts.

For their Daisy and mine.

Oh, God, forgive me.

For my...
My sister and my...

...niece.

Cassetti.

For the grief you brought
to my beloved wife.

Vigliacco.

Schweinehund.

For my beloved goddaughter.

For Mother Armstrong...

...from Hector.

For my gentleman.

To Paulette,

with love.

And with mine,

God rest the soul

of my dear, dead daughter.

I repeat...

...a repulsive murderer

has himself

been repulsively and, perhaps,

deservedly murdered.

But in which of the two ways
that I have suggested?

In the simpler way,
by the Mafioso

disguised as
a wagon-lit conductor?

Or in the more complex way
that I have just outlined...

...which involves many questions
and, of course...

...considerable scandal?

Signor Bianchi, it is for you,
as a director of the line,

to choose the solution that we shall
offer to the police at Brod.

Though I confess...

...I am in two minds.

Though I...

I think the police at Brod
would prefer

the simplicity of the first solution.

We have the uniform...

...to show the police.

If we have the uniform,

there must have
been a man in it.

So therefore,

I elect the first solution.

Here, here.

Hercule.

I thank you.

My friend.

Now I must go and wrestle
with my report to the police

and with my conscience.

Mama.

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