All language subtitles for Murder.on.the.Orient.Express.1974.RESTORED.1080p.BluRay.H264.AAC-RARBG

Madam. Madam.

- Madam.
- Madam.

- 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.'

Ah. Here's your ticket,
Monsieur Poirot.

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

Then please do not wait.

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

Ha-ha! Oh.

Er...my general's orders were
to ensure your safe departure.

He also wished me
to thank you again

for saving the honour
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 wrack, huh?

- Hm.
- Yes.

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

Mm.

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 crossing
should be pleasant.

The Bosphorus is always calm.

You have crossed by the ferry?

No.

Allahu Akbar!

Allahu Akbar!

Welcome, Colonel Arboo...

...Arboo...Arboo...

Arbuthnot.

'The Bosphorus ferry

'will shortly depart from
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!

Ah!
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Bianchi!

How are you, my friend?

Ah, good to see you.

You have saved me from apoplexy.
Sit down.

Ah, thank you.
You have not dined well.

Ah, 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 travelling 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 Bianchi.

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, I...

Ah, corragio, my friend.
We'll arrange something.

Andiamo!
We must go. Come on.

'The Orient Express will depart
from Platform 1 at 9:00pm

'for Uzonköprü, Sofia,

'Belgrade, Zagreb,

'Brod, Trieste,

'Venice, Milan,

'Lausanne, Basel,

'Paris, Calais,

'with connections for London.'

'Uzonköprü,

'Sofia, Belgrade,

'Zagreb, Brod, Trieste, Venice, Milan,

'Lausanne, Bâle, Paris et Calais...'

Bonsoir, Pierre.

Madame la Princesse,
mes hommages.

Numero quatorze.

- Fräulein Schmidt. Willkommen.
- Guten Tag.

- Nummer sechs.
- Danke schön.

Bitte schön.

'Orient Express will depart
from Platform 1 at 9:00pm.'

'Belgrade. Zagreb.

'Venice. Milan.

'Paris. Calais.'

Ah, Mrs Hubbard. It's always
an honour to greet you.

You have your favourite
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...the famous...

Precisely, and he is also
a personal friend of mine.

Please be so good as...
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?
Madame, lucky Buddha.

Please!

Thank God, my St Christopher.
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 I have already...
- Hector.

Excuse me, excuse me,
gentlemen.

But, uh...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 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.

Well, my second husband,
Mr Hubbard, would've 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 me.

Excuse me.

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

Pardon.

No, I...I think there's...
there's a mistake.

Er...je...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.

Voilà, monsieur. All is arranged.

Yours is the upper berth,
the number four.

We start in one minute.

I apologise 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, eh?

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 Hardman.
Call me Dick.

Foscarelli. Call me Gino.

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.

Ah, yes, I know. We are both envious
of the husband, eh?

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, er... What do you call it?
The currency of...

My second husband 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 per cent tip...

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.

Ah, I have heard.

- Pardon me, sir.
- Mm?

I wonder if you could oblige me
with a light?

- Ah, certainly.
- Thank you.

My name is Ratchett.

Do I have the pleasure of speaking
to Mr Hercule Per-oh?

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, sit down.

For a moment.

Just for a moment.
Thank you very much.

- Well, Mr Per-oh...
- Er...

- What?
- Poirot.

- How's that?
- Poirot.

Oh! Per-oh. 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 Per-oh, I'm a rich man.

Naturally, men in my position have,
er...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 Per-oh.

My secretary can show you
two letters on file.

And I...

can show you this.

I sleep on it.

Mr Per-oh...

...$5,000.

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, er...

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.

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.

- Ah, Monsieur Poirot.
- Pierre!

Could I have some clean towels?

- Yes, monsieur.
- And who are my new neighbours?

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.

Er...ah, 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.

Tiens, tiens, tiens,
tiens, tiens, tiens, tiens.

La belle Comtesse.

Ce n'est rien.
C'était un cauchemar.

Ah, bien, Monsieur Ratchett.

May you now have
pleasant dreams.

C'est le silence de mort.

Ah, 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 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."

20 years ago? Ha!
Why, I'd only have been 15.

If there should be a re-occurrence,

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...in the dining car, monsieur.

Fetch them at once.

Well, can't you tap
the telephone wires?

- Or fire a rocket?
- 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...
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.

Ah.

And you too, Signor Bianchi.

Forgive me,
ladies and gentlemen.

Only God's forgiveness
is important.

Signor Bianchi and Dr Constantine.

Mind the broken glass, gentlemen.

Pupils still slightly dilated.

Could've been drugged.
Was drugged.

With what?

Ah, 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.

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.
- Hmm...

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 20 minutes to one.

When Pierre arrived, he apologised

and said he had been having
a cauchemar,

a nightmare...

...and 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. Yes, bring all the passports
to Mr 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 why was I not notified at once,
Signor...Mr Bianchi?

- I was his nearest associate.
- Mr McQueen...

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.

Voilà, monsieur.

And, er...will you discreetly
procure me a lady's hatbox,

one of the big old-fashioned kind,

perhaps from
the Princess Dragomiroff's maid?

Mm, give me five minutes,
Doctor.

Ah, 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...?

Let's get just a couple of things
straight first, Mr...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...he was
collecting Gorgan pottery,

with considerable success,

and I was trying to collect
oil concessions, you know,

with so little success
that...that I went bankrupt

and he offered me the job
and I took it.

- And since then?
- Well, we've travelled 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, er...he never talked
about his background.

- Why, do you think?
- Well, I used to...to...

Well, I began to...to believe
that he had left America

to escape something 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, er...like these.

"I kill killers."

Mm-hm.

"Prepare to die."
How brief.

But, in a sense,
how complicated.

Last night, I noticed you despatching
a telegram from Belgrade Station.

That's right. Er...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?

Mm, 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 that...
- 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.

Ah.

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 moustaches.

- What has that to do with moustaches?
- To melt the wax.

Observe. Memorise.
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.

Ah, who does not?

You remember the name of the child?

Certamente. It was Daisy.

- D...
- D...

- ...A...
- ...A-I...

S-Y space A-R...

M-S.

Daisy Armstrong.

Ah.
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 Guards, shot himself,

and Mrs Armstrong's personal maid,

who came wrongly
under suspicion of complicity,

threw herself from a 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, er...
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 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.

Mm.
Ah, 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
apologise 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 learned the true identity
of your late employer.

You...you don't say?

Mm.

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..
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, er...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...
the District Attorney, yeah,

who handled the Armstrong case.

Mrs Armstrong and her husband
came to our house twice

for...for advice
about the ransom money.

She was gentle and frightened.

But not...not too frightened
to take a...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, er...well, a mother.

Forgive a Freudian question.

Do, er... do you love your mother?

Er...I did.

She died when I was, er... eight,
an impressionable age.

Why...why do you ask?

We shared a compartment
on the first night of our journey.

You cried out, "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...there's just,
er... one thing.

How did you, er...figure out,
um...Ratchett's identity?

By a message found in his compartment.

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

Mm, he did.

Oh. Yeah, he did.

Er...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, I...
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 want to see him now.

Very well, sir.

At 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, er...Mr McQueen

and then returned
to your own compartment,

the number one and two,

whose upper berth was occupied
by, er...Signor Foscarelli?

Oh, yes, sir, the Italian person.

Er... does he speak English?

A kind of English, sir.

I think he learnt it
in a place called Chicago.

Do 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?

No, sir, not until four in the morning.
Unfortunately, I had the toothache.

Ah, and your companion?

- He snored incessantly.
- Ah.

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! Ha-ha-ha-ha!

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?

Ah, so that accounts for his hot temper.

His real name was Cassetti.
The name means nothing to you?

You remember the Armstrong case?

No, sir. Oh. Yes, yes.

Er...the little girl.

Cassetti was responsible
for her murder.

How does that strike you?

I've 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", hm?

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

I fear that help is at hand.

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

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

If it is an engine with a snowplough,
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 enquiry
before reaching Brod.

I will make my questions as brief
as I hope you will make your answers,

and the more often you confine yourself
to a simple yes or no, the better.

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...

Were you acquainted
with the Armstrongs?

Of course not.
They were a very social family...

Mrs Hubbard, 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 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 make-up 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 Wagons-Lits conductor. Ah...

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, er...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 hanky 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 frightened.
- 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.

Oh?

That is why I work in Africa
as missionary,

teaching little brown babies
more backward than myself.

Mm. Hm.

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

Were you not able to improve?

I was in a mis...

international group

for getting money
for African mission

from American rich.

Erm...I...I speak Swedish,

er...to big audiences

in...in Swedish-American
institution in Minneapolis

and other big cities.

In ten weeks we make, erm...

14,000 dollars and 27 cents.

- Wonderful.
- Wonderful.

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

From five years.

In summer,
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?

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.

No, no, no.

Now.

Here is the compartment
you share with...

Ja, here is
my number seven bed.

Yes, your number seven.
Tell me about number eight.

Is filled with, er...
Miss, er...Debenham,

a very nice young lady from Baghdad,

where she teach English shorthand
to children,

to forward children.

Er...after the train left Vinkovci,

did she leave her berth?

Nej, er...
she sleep just like me.

Ah, if you were fast asleep,

how can you be so sure
she did not leave?

In Shimoga Mission,
I can hear snake breathe.

- Hm. Hm.
- I would know.

Good.
And did you leave your room?

Nej, not till morning
in my bed gown.

Er...is your bed gown
white with red animals?

Nej, is Jaeger.

A-ha, and Miss Debenham's
bed gown?

Den var em lila.

- Like the French lilas, lilac?
- Ja, just det lila.

Ah, good.

And why are you making this trip,
Miss Ohlsson?

Er...just as always,
money, money for mission.

Mm, 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, 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.

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 marriage signature

has been almost obliterated
by a grease spot.

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

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

née 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 colour 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 sulfone dimethyl methane.

One dilutes the white crystals
with water.

It is a strong hypnotic.

Ha-ha! He makes it
sound like a poison.

As with most sleeping draughts,

if taken in sufficient quantities,
it is a poison.

- You are not accusing...
- Ah-ah! You are not accused.

You are excused.

Thank you both for your help
and co-operation.

Kennst due das Land,
wo die Zitronen blühen?

Im dunklen Laub
die Gold-Orangen glühen,

Ein sanfter Wind
vom Blauen Himmel weht,

Die Myrtle still und hoch
der Lorbeer steht...

...Kennst du es wohl?

Why have you stopped reading?

Dahin! Dahin!

Möcht ich mit dir,
O mein Gelieb...

- Altezza.
- Signor Bianchi.

Èpermesso presentare
l'investigatore distinto...

Monsieur Hercule Poirot.

Ah, 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.

Oh.

You would care for a little cognac?

- Thank you, no.
- Yes, please.

Now, you wish me to confess

to the murder
of Mr Whatshisname?

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 memory...

She was a Miss Freebody.

Hm.
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.

Hm. 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 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, Countess.

There is no need for us
to fatigue you further.

You have been of the utmost help.

Go back and tell Pierre to summon
Colonel Arbuthnot in five minutes.

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

Fräulein Schmidt.

I wonder if I may 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.

Hmm...

And this pretty innocent girl

threw herself from a window?

Ah, use this, Fräulein.

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, er...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... ♪

You opening a dress shop?

No.

We are closing an enquiry.
Where is Shimoga?

- I beg your pardon?
- Shimoga. Where is it?

It's a bit off my track.
I'm a North-West 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 from 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 enquiry,

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 travelled from Baghdad.

It is possible the murder
was committed by a woman

or by a...a man and a woman
in collaboration.

From your acquaintanceship
with Miss Debenham,

would you have thought
that she was, er...capable

physically or emotionally?

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.

Hm. 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 valour.

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.

Hm.

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, er...1:30. It's...

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

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

who smokes a "peep".

So it would appear.

Then this must, er...
be your "peep" cleaner.

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 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?

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!
- Get out of my way.

So answer my question.
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.
- ...which she refused to answer.

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, er...at living with me,

and, er...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, er...our...

...behaviour should
not provide evidence

for counter-proceedings by my wife.

Does that answer your question?

Hm.

Well, er...

...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've done it together.

She has hidden fire.
She is very strong.

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

Because I did not need to.

Pierre, le colonel
s'excuse de son geste.

Merci, monsieur.

Signor Foscarelli.

You are a naturalised
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.

Ah, he says he was Mafia.

- Really?
- Vero.

Who do you, er...
who do you think killed him?

Un altro Mafioso.

He says another Mafia.

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

Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa...

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,
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,
er...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, er...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, er...have you ever
been in private service?

No.

Ah. 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 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.
- Thanks.

You are Cyrus B Hardman,
a theatrical agent.

No.

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

That's a phony,

issued to me under licence
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 am.

She later found near her bedside

the button
of a Wagons-Lits 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, er...
here is the simple answer.

There is also a more... complex one.

But remember
my first solution when uh...

when you've heard my second.

Let us for the moment assume
what is perfectly possible,

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 at 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, er...
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

smelt 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've had a British batman,
like, er...Private Beddoes,

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 Freebody.

Non, c'est impossible ça!

The Princess, it seems, is playing
the psychological game

of word association.

Ha-ha! Freebody is the name
of the junior partner

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

of the sort perhaps patronised
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.

The 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 honour as a gentleman,

that this handkerchief
does not belong to my wife.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

No, no.
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.

Ah, 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...

Whom 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 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 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 twelve good men and true
is a sound system.

The iron tongue of midnight
hath told... twelve.

Suddenly, the number twelve
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?

Er...twelve. Twelve.

Colonel Arbuthnot,
how many persons in a jury?

Twelve.

Hm.

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 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?

Eh?

A, er...cop.

Mm, who, as is customary with cops,
fell in love

with a pretty housemaid
on his beat.

Hm...

Yes, and would have married her,
if, er...

Hm...

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, er...

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 I was not deceived.

I have...
How shall I put it?

...an eye 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.

Hm?

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.

It's not Africa, huh?

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 coshed 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 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, 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, er...

Mm...

I only wish I could describe it
with the, er...

...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?

Or your first husband, Mr Grunwald?

Linda Arden, the actress,

never played
as difficult a role as Mrs Hubbard,

the organiser
of this extraordinary revenge.

Dare I deduce
that the great Linda Arden

has been cured of her incurable disease
and is no longer bedridden, hm?

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.

- Good night, Mr Ratchett.
- Good night, Hector.

Ce n'est rien.

C'était un cauchemar.

Ah, 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.

Hm...

And since Mr McQueen
had over-emphatically said

that Ratchett spoke no languages,

I was being deliberately
manoeuvred 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 unshakeable 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, er... 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.

God forgive me.

For my...my sister and my niece.

Cassetti, for the grief you brought
to my beloved wife.

Vigliacco.

Schweinhund.

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 Wagons-Lits 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, er...

...I think the police at Brod
would, er...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, er...with my conscience.

Mama?