All language subtitles for Murder on the Orient Express (1974) REMUX.eng

Your ticket, please.
Oh, yes.

Welcome aboard, Miss Debenham.
Thank you.

Bosphorus Ferry will shortly
depart from Istanbul Sirkeci Station,

connecting with the Orient Express.

Here's your ticket, Monsieur Poirot.
I'm afraid you've got another hour.

Well, 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, er... The church of Santa Sofia
is absolutely magnificent.

You have seen it?
No.

Come on.

Move. Come on.

Get up. Come on.

Chop-chop.

Er, 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 Bosphorus is always calm.

You have crossed by the ferry?
No.

Welcome, Colonel Arbu... Arbu...
Arbut...

Arbuthnot.

The Bosphorus 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.

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?
No!

The skewers are of better quality
than the kebab.

The bottle is more distinguished
than its wine.

And the... the café?

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,

but also my personal friend.

Signor Bianchi, Monsieur Poirot...

Ah, coraggio, my friend. We'll arrange
something. Andiamo! We must go.

The Orient Express will depart
from Platform One at 9:00pm.

For Uzunköprü, Sofia, Belgrade,

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

Basel, Paris, Calais,
with connections for London.

Bonsoir, Pierre.

Madame la Princesse, mes ho mm ages!
Numéro quatorze.

fräulein Schmidt, willkommen!
Guten Tag.

Bett nummer sechs.

Danke schön.
Bitte schön.

Orient Express departs
from Platform One at 9:00pm.

Ah, 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...

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.

Lucky Buddha, Madame.

Thank God, my St Christopher.
St Christopher.

My friend has been urgently called
to London

on a matter of international importance.

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, gentlemen,
but Mr. Ratchett has reservations,

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

Ah. 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. Hard man.

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.

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

No place for my make-up 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. Er...
I think there's... there's a mistake.

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

Monsieur Poirot has to come in here.
Voilà, 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 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?

Er... 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 Hard man. Call me Dick.

Foscarelli. Call me Gino.
How are you?

Beddoes.

Mr. Beddoes.

Ah, 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, er...
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 at all."
That just isn't so.

First there's this ten-per cent tip.
I think Miss Ohlsson has a headache.

Would you forgive us if we went
to the compartment?

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.
Ah, I have heard.

Pardon me, sir. I wonder
if you could oblige me with a light.

Yes, certainly.

Thank you. My name is Ratchett.

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

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. Perrot...

Poirot.
How's that?

Poirot.
Oh, Perrot. 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.
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.

No? 10,000?

15,000.

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.

Ah, 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!

Ah, my dear friend,
do not concern yourself.

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?

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.

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.

Goodnight, Mr. Beddoes.
Ah, pardon.

Who is it?

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

Come in.

Thank you, Pierre. Goodnight.

Goodnight, 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.

Ah, tiens, tiens, tiens.

La belle Comtesse.

Ce n'est rien.
C'était un cauchemar.

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

C'est le silence de mort.

A 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 in
this compartment. I sensed it.

What's more, I know who he was

because I nearly walked through
his door.

"Madame," said Mr. Ratchett, "if this was
20 years ago, I'd have said come in."

Twenty years ago? Ha!
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.

Dare 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.

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 möchte
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, eleven, twelve 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 two in the morning.

That would fit.

I myself heard him cry out
and ring for the conductor at 12:40.

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 coach with the names
and locations of all the people in it.

Yes, it will be there.

And the passports
of all passengers concerned.

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.

It is not good time. It is bad time.
God's laws have been bust.

Thou shalt not kill.

And wh-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.

The man must've entered my compartment
to gain access to Mr. Ratchett.

I can think of no other reason, madame.

Pierre, your passkey.

Voilà, 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, I should be grateful for anything
you can tell me. What, for example...

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

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, er...
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-I-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-I-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.

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 Cassetti,
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 cancelation 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 people to retire
to their compartment?

Show me on the diagram.

About 1:30, I remember seeing
the English colonel

say goodnight 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 re-emerge?

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 apologize for having had
a nightmare.

Ce n'est rien.
C'était 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 learnt 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?

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 have 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 eight.
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, er...

figure out Ratchett's identity?

By a message found in his compartment.

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

Mm. 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?

Ah! 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 want to know how it got here.

Will there be anything more, sir?
There will.

Tell Mr. McQueen I wanna see him, now.
Very well, sir.

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

Not before ten.
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 learnt 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. Not until four in the morning.

Unfortunately, I had the toothache.

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 think that instead of our employers
requiring references from us,

we should require references from them.

Thank you, Mr. Beddoes.

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 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? Hmm?

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 if we are
to complete this inquiry

before reaching Brod.

I will therefore make
my questions brief

and you can confine yourself
to a simple yes or no.

Don't waste time yammering.

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...

Were you acquainted with the Armstrongs?

No, of course not. They were a...

I overheard the whole
of your conversation with Pierre

about there being a man in your room

soon after one o'clock
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?

Yes, so far as I know. My second...
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 make-up bag
on the hook above.

Pierre checked the bolt

after I 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?

Oh, dio mio.

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

Doctor, would you kindly enquire
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.

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, fröken 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...

med 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?

Nej, 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?

Nej, 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?

Nej, not till morning, in my bed-gown.

Is your bed-gown white with red animals?

Nej, is Jaeger.

And Miss Debenham's bed-gown?

Den var I Lila.

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

Just Lila, just Lila.
Right.

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 så mycket. 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 in her compartment?

Oui, monsieur.

Ah! 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 sit in their 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 née Grunwald.

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

There would be little point 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 eight.

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.

Why have you stopped reading?

Altezza.
Signor Bianchi.

È permesso present are
I'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 Free body.

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 and killed herself?

I always travel
with my own personal maid.

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

Doubtless, fräulein Schmidt
will remember her name.

Surely, fräulein,
as one lady's maid to another,

you conversed as equals below stairs.
Ja, ja, natürlich.

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.

Jawohl, 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 and tell Pierre to summon
Colonel Arbuthnot in five minutes.

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

fräulein Schmidt!

Might I have a word with you
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, fräulein.

I found it and thought it must be yours,
because it bears the initial H.

No, 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?

fräulein, 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

Are you opening a dress shop?

No. We are closing an inquiry.
Where is Shimoga?

I beg your pardon?
Shimoga, where is it?

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&O is more usual.

I chose to come overland
for reasons of my own.

Colonel Arbuthnot, 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 AOC,

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?

The man was a 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 have been
tougher than that.

After all, he got a DSO
and an MC 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 DSO and MC,

he had been awarded the VC.

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 what I call a three-pipe yarn.

Colonel Arbuthnot, 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 "peep" cleaner.

Or are you suggesting
that I'm fool enough

to have entered Ratchett's cabin,
murdered him, cleaned my "peep"

and dropped it in the ashtray
before leaving?

No, Colonel Arbuthnot.

Miss Debenham!

Er... can I stay?
No, Colonel Arbuthnot.

Please be seated.

Forgive me, Miss Debenham.
I must be brief.

You met Colonel Arbuthnot 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 Bosphorus Ferryboat

I overheard 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 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.

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.

When what was all over? When what was
behind you? Please answer!

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

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.
Out of my way.

When what was all over?
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...
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?

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 fire. 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.

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?

Er... 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 make-up 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 make-up bag?

Yesterday evening.
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.

Scusi.
Sì.

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, huh?

Our last interrogation will be
something of a gamble.

But if it succeeds...

we'll know.

Ah, come in, come in.
Please be seated.

You are Cyrus B Hard man,
a theatrical agent.

No. I mean, I'm...
I'm not a theatrical agent.

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

Ah, 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 1:15am.

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

fräulein 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. 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 now 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, er, like Private Beddoes, huh,

to serve his personal needs.

Only officers of the Indian Army,
like Colonel Arbuthnot,

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 Free body.

Non, c'est impossible ça.

The princess, it seems, is playing the
psychological game of word association.

Free body 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 Free body.

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 does not belong to my wife.

No, no, no, no, no, no. Not at...
No. No. No. It does not.

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

Nor to fräulein 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 Princesse, 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.

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 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 même, I must thank
the pipe-smoking Colonel Arbuthnot

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.

Twelve.

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
in Ratchett's correspondence file?

Er... er... 12.12.

Colonel Arbuthnot,
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!

Votre portefeuille.
Mr. Hard man, 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 Pinkertons
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 anymore
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 the Armstrongs' chauffeur.

I asked if he had 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, 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 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, er... the night of the red herrings.

I... 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 heard she wanted to play comedy
parts, but her husband wouldn't have it.

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 want to 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.

Goodnight, Mr. Ratchett.
Goodnight, 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 2:00am.

Now, I came to various conclusions.

The clumsy cliché 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 two o'clock, 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.

Hear, hear.

Hercule. I thank you.

My friend.

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

Mama?