The beginning of my voyage.

     It was a freezing winter's morning in Syria. As I was waiting for my train to depart I spoke to Lieutenant Dubosc, a french army man. We conversed a little about the case I had investigated (which was the reason I had come this far all the way from London) and the honour of French army, which I had saved. After the change of subject, I have shared my plans for staying in Stamboul for a few days with Lieutenant. It's a city worth seeing, and La Sainte Sophie is magnificent, I have heard. We had chatted for a few more minutes, but it was time for the Express to leave the Station, so I climbed aboard the train. Dubosc had waved me goodbye, and the train moved lazily forward.

     Afterwards, the conductor showed me my sleeping compartment and the place, where he had placed my luggage. I learned from the conductor, that there aren't many people travelling this time of the year. In fact, I had only two travelling companions, both English. A young lady travelling from Baghdad and A Colonel from India. I wasn't pleased with the fact of an unfull night's sleep, as it was 5 o'clock in the morning, but what could I do? I ordered a bottle of Perrier and fell asleep.

And so began my voyage back to London.

My travelling companions.

     It was half past nine when I woke up. I like having coffee in the mornings, as it keeps me awake for the rest of the day, so I rushed into the dining-car. I ordered it and had a look around. Sitting at another table was a tall, dark woman with delicate skin. She was thin, and was wearing a dark travelling dress made of some thin material. Probably because the train was terribly overheated because of the cold outside. As I was busy staring at Miss Debenham and sipping coffee a tall man, lean of figure and brown skin walked into the dining-car. It was the Colonel from India I figured. The two of them had breakfast together, but they didn't talk very much. They shared a table at lunch as well, but they didn't stay as quiet as during breakfast. They discovered they had mutual friends an so their conversation went on.

     We arrived at Konya about half past eleven, so I decided to go out on the platform to stretch my legs. I wrapped myself up in a few coats, put my boots on and marched outside. It was terribly freezing! I heard some voices coming. I passed the engine and stopped in a place, where I could hear everything clearly. It was Colonel Arbuthnot speaking

" Mary - "

But she had interrupted him.

" Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us - then - "

There was something strange about it all... I could hardly recognize the cool and efficient voice of Miss Debenham... What is this all about I wonder ?

     The next day they barely exchanged a word or two. Perhaps they were arguing about something? Miss Debenham looked anxious and under her eyes, there were dark circles. It was about half past two in the afternoon when the train stopped. I stuck my head out the window to see what was going on outside. There was a crowd of men pointing at something underneath the dining-car. The conductor was passing the door of my compartment, so I jumped out to ask him what has occurred. He explained to me that something caught fire under the dining-car, but they were already working on putting the fire out. Then, Miss Debenham showed up. The conductor explained the situation to her, but she seemed pretty annoyed. She was worried about the delay, and not being able to catch the Orient Express. She didn't want to miss the connection, she said. It seemed pretty strange to me, as the Orient Express was leaving Stamboul everyday. 

     After all, we caught up some time during the journey and were only 5 minutes late in Haydapassar.

Next, I took a boat crossing the Bosphorus, but I did not like it at all, as the Bosphours was rough, and I was separated from my travelling companions. I'm pretty sure I will not see them ever again. When I arrived at the Galata Bridge I drove on straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

A sudden change of plans.

     At the Tokatlian I asked for a room with a bath at the hotel, then I asked, if there were any letters for me. There were 3, and an unexpected telegram. I opened it slowly, with no rush. It said:

" Development you predicted in Kassner case has come unexpectedly please return immediately. " 

I was quite disappointed with the need to change my plans, but duty is duty. I cancelled my room and asked the concierge about the time the Orient Express leaves. It was leaving at 9, and it was already ten minutes to eight, so I had some time to eat. I was ordering in the restaurant when I felt someone put his hand on my shoulder. It was the director of the company, Mr. Bouc. I told him I was called to London on some important business, and will be travelling on the Simplon-Orient. It turned out that we were going in the same direction.

     When Mr. Bouc has left me I had some time to look around the restaurant. There was about half a dozen people at the restaurant, but only two who caught my attention. One was an American, pleasant looking lad about the age of 30. But he was not the one who caught my attention. It was in fact, his companion. An old man the age between 60 and 70. His look displayed a rather benevolent personality, but his eyes showed something very opposite. When he glanced at me for a moment, I saw evil in the look, all very unnatural. It was like a wild beast was looking me straight in the eye, but on the outside, he looked of the most respectable.

     Afterwards I went to meet my friend in the lounge. The two men were waiting for their luggage to be brought downstairs. I asked my companion what he thought of the elder man. He told me he didn't much care for him, and that he made an unpleasant impression. Then, the concierge brought us bad news. The train was full, which is very rare in this time of the year, it's extraordinary. There's always plenty of space in the trains, but this day, every single first-class sleeping berth was engaged! It seemed very strange, I must say. To my luck, one of the passengers didn't turn up, so there was one second-class berth free for myself. It was the No. 7 berth. When the portier has shown me to the compartment I realised, that my travelling companion is the younger man travelling with the old man from Tokatlian, Mr. Ratchett his name was. The portier must have gotten a good tip for keeping the room for the young man only, as himself, and Mr. MacQueen were pretty annoyed by the fact of me sharing the compartment with him. However, a portier couldn't turn against the company director's orders. I re-entered the compartment and noticed that MacQueen had gotten over his annoyance. It was for one night only after all.

And so the Orient Express had started on it's three-days' journey across Europe.

A glance at the passengers.

     The following day I have risen early. I was a bit late entering the dining-car, so I had to eat breakfast practically alone. I spend the whole morning studying my notes of the case that was calling me back to London. After some time, Mr. Bouc invited me to his table. The table was very well positioned, it was the first to be served, I cannot say I didn't enjoy that. The food was extremely good, as for a train, which was a pleasant surprise for me. It was a pleasant change from the food in Syria, which didn't quite suit my stomach. There were 13 passengers in the dining-car at the moment. All classes and all nationalities. I began to study them closely.

     At the table opposite of ours three men were seated. One was a big, dark skinned Italian, who was picking his teeth. Opposite to the Italian, was a well-trained English servant, with a neat face which had no expression. Next to the servant was a big American, probably a commercial traveller.

     At a small table sat probably the ugliest old lady I have ever seen. It was kind of fascinating, as she seemed a very important character. Around her neck was a collar made of very big, real pearls, which must have been a very expensive one. On her hands was a countless number of rings. I learned from Mr. Bouc that the ugly lady was Princess Dragomiroff, a very rich Russian aristocrat.

     At a different table, sat a woman I thought I would never see again. Yes, it was Miss Debenham. Sitting next to her was a tall, probably middle-aged woman in a tweed skirt and a plaid blouse. Her hair was fading yellow, put in a large bun. She wore glasses. Her face was long and amiable. She was listening to a third, elderly woman with a kind face. She was speaking with a slow monotonous voice, telling all kinds of stories about her daughter.

     At a rather small table Colonel Arbuthnot sat alone. His eyes were turned upon Miss Debenham's hand. Why are they not sitting together if it could have been so easily done? Did she refuse? Surely, a girl with a living like hers to get has to be discreet with her companions.

     At the other side of the carriage a maid was sitting alone. She was middle-aged and her face was as expressionless as the English servant's. She was poorly dressed in black. She must have been German, I thought.

     After the maid came a couple leaning forward to each other and talking. The man wore English clothes, but I could easily tell that he did not come from England by the shape of his head and shoulders. He was too big to be English, I'm sure of it. He turned his head, so I could see his profile. He was indeed a very handsome man about thirty, with a big moustache. The woman sitting opposite to him, probably his wife wore a tight black coat and skirt white satin blouse, all very fashionable. She was very foreign looking. Pale skin, big dark eyes, dark hair. A very cute couple they made. I learned from Mr. Bouc that it was Hungarian embassy.

     There were only two more passengers in the dining-car. My fellow traveller, Mr MacQueen and his boss, Mr. Ratchett, who was sitting facing me. Once again i studied that kind looking face and eyes full of cruelty and evil. 

     After we had some coffee, Mr. Bouc invited me to his compartment for a conversation, when I finish my coffee. I agreed, of course, and ordered a liqueur. I heard the elderly American lady complaining. Then, Miss Debenham left, with Colonel Arbuthnot right behind her. Everybody had slowly departed from the dining-car by now, and there was only me, and the beast left.

     Ratchett, to my surprise, sat opposite to me, and started telling me about his enemies. He offered me a job - I was to take up his case. I refused. As I have said, I do not like that man's face.

Barriers breaking down.

     The Express arrived at Belgrade at a quarter to nine. It was due to depart at 9:15, so I decided to go out on the platform to stretch my legs. I spoke to the conductor who was stamping his feet and doing everything he could to keep himself warm. It was indeed freezing. He informed me that my baggage has been moved to compartment No. 1, which was Mr. Bouc's compartment. He told me that he moved to the coach from Athens, where his only companion would be a Greek doctor. Mr. Bouc informed me of the weather reports. There has not been so much snow here for years. I hope we won't run into a snow drift. That would be most awful, as we could be stuck in it for days, but let's be optimistic. I said goodbye to my friend and walked along the corridor to my compartment, which was in front of the dining-car.

     The people got more chatty. As I was walking down the corridor, I passed Arbuthnot standing in his door talking to MacQueen. The latter seemed very surprised when he spotted me. He thought I was getting off the train at Belgrade. After I clarified the situation to him I passed down the corridor. Two doors from my compartment the elderly American lady, Mrs. Hubbard was talking to the Swedish lady about aspirin, headaches and the cold. The Swedish woman departed, and there was only I and Mrs. Hubbard left. She was speaking to me about something I don't quite recall, (my, that lady cannot keep her mouth shut for more than five seconds) as Ratchett's servant came out of his compartment. Ratchett glanced at me for a moment. I could see the anger on his eyes. Then the door was shut. Mrs. Hubbard drew me aside and said she had a bad feeling about that man. She was afraid of Ratchett. She suspected him to be a murderer, or a train robber of some kind. Was she right? I myself didn't have a nice opinion about him either.

     As Mrs. Hubbard was telling me another tale of her daughter, MacQueen passed us inviting Colonel to his carriage for a chat, as it hasn't been made up for the night yet. I said goodnight to Mrs. Hubbard and left to rest.

The barriers had truly broke.

A disturbed night.

     I awakened. Something has awoke me. It was a loud groan, very close to a cry... It was coming from somewhere near, possibly Ratchett's carriage. At the same time I heard a bell. I switched on the light and realised that the train was still. We were probably at a station. The cry I heard has scared me. Had something bad happened I thought?

     I opened the door and watched the conductor hurrying to answer the bell from a crack. He knocked on Ratchett's door, but there was no answer. At the same time, another bell rang and light came from a door down the corridor. When the conductor knocked for the second time a voice from Ratchett's compartment spoke:

"Ce n'est rien. Je me suis trompé " (It's nothing, I've made a mistake)

The conductor hurried to the compartment where the light was showing. I was relieved, I thought something bad has happened, but fortunately, I was mistaken. It was 23 minutes to 1, so I decided to go back to sleep.

     I kept staring at the ceiling. The station outside was very quiet. Too quiet perhaps? My throat felt dry, but I realised, that I had forgotten to ask for my usual bottle of mineral water. I was just about to ring the bell to call the conductor, when I heard someone else's bell from afar. The conductor surely couldn't answer all bells at once, so I decided to wait patiently for him to answer the other ones. The bell kept ringing but there was no sign of the conductor. At last, I heard footsteps. It was finally him. I heard the voice of Mrs. Hubbard and the conductor. He was calming her down I understand. The poor old woman must have had a nightmare of some kind. When he was finished with her I pressed my finger on the bell.

The conductor came in right away. He started telling me about Mrs. Hubbard. She insisted there is a man in her compartment. Where? There's no way he would hide in a compartment this size. She must have had a nightmare, just as I thought.

     Unfortunately, my predictions came out to be true. We ran into a snow drift. God knows how long we'll be stuck in here. I doubt the Yugoslavian will be quick at helping us get out of it. I drank a glass of mineral water which was brought to me by the conductor. If not the noise of something heavy falling against the door I would be asleep. I jumped out of my bed and opened the door to see what happened. To my right walked a woman wrapped up in a scarlet kimono with embroidered dragons. At the other end of the corridor sat the conductor busy with something. I think I suffer from the nerves. I must have imagined the noise, or something very close to that. Bit of annoyed of myself I fell back asleep.

The crime.

     It was past nine o'clock. The train was still at standstill and there was snow everywhere around the train. I got dressed and wondered how long will it take for the train to move again. At a quarter to ten I headed to the dining-car. I could hear the laments and complaining from outside. I could clearly hear Mrs. Hubbard's voice. I can't say it surprised me. Everybody was worried, everybody had some urgent business and had to be in the place on time, which seemed quite impossible for me. Miss Debenham asked how long we'll be here with impatience in her voice. But this time there was no sign of the anxiety in it, the same that was there in the Taurus Express. It's like getting on the Orient Express the particular day was the only thing that mattered to her. While the others kept complaining, she seemed to be the only patient one.

     Some time has passed and I remained in the dining-car with the others. Princess Dragomiroff, her maid, the Hungarian couple and Ratchett with his valet were absent. They probably rathered to stay in their compartments accompanied by silence, than listetning to more stories of Mrs. Hubbard's daughter. 

     After a while I was called by Mr. Bouc to his compartment. I had a strange feeling that something bad has occurred, but I tried to keep those thoughts out of my mind. I followed the big, fair Wagon Lit conductor to the carriage. It was fairly spacious. My friend was sitting on a seat opposite to the corner. On the opposite side, facing him sat a small, dark man. Standing in front of me was the chef of the train and my own Wagon Lit conductor. Mr. Bouc welcomed me and I sat on the seat facing him. I looked at my friend's face, and suddenly was sure, that something out of order has occurred. His face was pale as chalk, so I asked what had happened. First, the snow, now, Ratchett was found dead lying in his bed. He was stabbed. 12 times to be precise. We were, in fact in a very difficult position. Passing through the countries we usually had the police of that country aboard, but here, in Yugoslavia... Mr. Bouc introduced me to Dr. Constantine, who had already examined the body. To his opinion, based on medical facts, the death occurred between midnight and 2 a.m.

     I figured, that Ratchett was probably last seen, or rather heard at about 20 minutes to one, but that is the last thing known.

The only way to know something more of the crime, is to search for clues.

An unexpected case.

     The window in Ratchett's room was wide open. One could think that the murderer escaped that way, but no. It couldn't be. If he escaped through the window, he would have left a trail, footsteps, something. But nothing like that was found outside. It was just a blind. Could the murderer be amongst us?

    Mr. Mitchel, the Wagon Lit conductor told us how the body was discovered. The servant knocked several times on Ratchett's door, but there was no answer, so he let him be. Half an hour ago the restaurant-car attendant came to ask if the man was taking dinner. Getting no response, he called the Wagon Lit conductor to open the door for him with his key, but there was a chain at the door. They broke off the chain and saw Ratchett lying in his bed dead, with blood all over his chest. With the door chained and closed from the inside it could have as well been a suicide. But surely, a man committing suicide would not stab himself in different places twelve times... It seemed very strange to me.

     The chef of the train claims it must have been a woman. The blows were delivered randomly, some with great strength, some were just scratches. It was like someone had shut their eyes and delivered each blow blindly.

" Women are like that " the chef of the train said. " When they are enraged, they have great strength "

It seemed as he was experienced in such situations...

I told my companions about the offer Ratchett has presented me with. If it was indeed some kind of a gangster or a gunman, he must have been an amateur.

     I guess it is best that I investigate the case, and we just present te murderer to the Yugo-Slavian police. We will avoid a monotonous investigation led by their police. I requested a plan of the Stanboul-Calais coach, all of the passports and tickets. The murderer is someone from the Stanboul-Calais coach for sure. There can't be any other option.

The murderer is with us-on the train now...

Evidence of Hector MacQueen - the secretary.

     I needed to have a word with MacQueen. He surely would give us valuable information. I told MacQueen about the murder of his employer. I noticed his eyes growing  brighter, besides that he showed no signs of a shock.

" So they got him after all " he said.

I didn't quite understand the meaning of that sentence, but before I could ask any questions, he asked who I was. I introduced myself as a representant of the Companie Internationale des Wagons Lits, a detective, to be precise. I had expected an effect, but none came. I learned from him, that he was his secretary for just over a year. They met in Persia, MaxQueen was here doing some business and went broke. Mr. Ratchett had just quarrelled with his secretary, which he fired the same day. Ratchett offered the job to MacQueen and he accepted it. Since then they have travelled about. He was more of a courier and a translator rather than a secretary, but it was a quite pleasant life for him.

     I also learned the full name of the victim, which was Samuel Edward Ratchett. He was an American citizen, but his city of origin was unknown. Ratchett never spoke to MacQueen about himself, so I had a very small piece of information on the victim. He also never mentioned any relations of his. MacQueen was pretty sure he left America to escape something, or someone. He was quite successful, until a few weeks ago. Then, he began to receive threatening letters. The secretary has brought me a few of those letter to examine. The first one said:

" Thought you'd doublecross us and get away with it, did you? Not on your life. We're out to GET you, Ratchett, and we WILL get you!"

There was of course no signature. The second letter said:

" We're going to take you for a ride, Ratchett. Some time soon. We're going to GET you, see? "

The style of these letter was quite monotonous. I figured that it had to take more than one person to write it. Each one of them was writing a single letter of a word at a time. The letters were also printed, so it was nearly impossible to identify the handwriting.

     MacQueen was pretty shocked when he heard about the offer his former employer had given me. He was already alarmed at that time. I asked the secretary how did Ratchett react when he received his first letter. He hesitated for a moment (interesting), and with a few pauses he told me that he passed it off with a laugh, but he could feel that underneath the quietness, he was probably afraid, and certainly alert. It lies in my nature to ask unexpected questions, some sounding riddiculous, but it's just my own psychological way of deducting things and evidence, so I asked him, if he liked his boss. He took a moment before answering. At last, he replied that in fact, he didn't like him at all. Although he was as he claimed on good terms with his former employer, he had distrusted him. To him, he seemed a cruel, dangerous man, probably with a very dark past. But on the other hand, he had no reasons to advance his opinion. 

     To me, Mr. MacQueen seemed a very honest character. Even though I suspect everyone until the last minute, I can't imagine this long-headed MacQueen stabbing his employer twelve times in an act of frenzy. It just does not accord with his psychology...

But on the other side, even the ones that seem the most innocent are capable of such terrible actions.

That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate-it suggests more the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted, a woman. 

Examination of the crime scene.

     Followed by Dr. Constantine I made my way into the compartment of the victim. I was told that the room was left untouched. The first thing I noticed, was the widely opened window. The cold was coming in from the outside and made the room feel very unpleasant. We all agreed that the opened window was just a blind left by the murderer. No one was able to get out that way, plus, there were no fingerprints on the frame. Even if there were any, it would tell us very little. There'd only be  fingerprints of the valet, or Ratchett himself.

     The victim was lying on his back. It wasn't looking very pretty. There were 12 wounds at total. Few of them were just barely scratches, but at least three were capable of doing deadly damage. The greek doctor stared at the body with a confused look on his face. He examined some wounds closely. It seemed that some of them must have been delivered some time after the death of Mr. Ratchett. Very strange, I thought.

In addition, the doctor discovered, that some of the blows were delivered by right hand, and the others-by the left hand. It leaves us with the hypothesis of two murderers. The first would come inside, stab Ratchett to death and leave, switching the light off. The second murderer would come in the dark and not noticing that his, or her enemy was already dead would stab the man a few more times. It seems nonsense to me, but the doctor agrees with my hypothesis. What other explanation could there be?

     The two blows that penetrated the muscle were most likely delivered by a man. Only a young, fit and strong woman could stab a man that deep. But what about the victim? Did he cry out? Call for help?  Did he try to defend himself? What did he do in all of this? I stuck my hand under his pillow, and as I expected, I found a fully loaded pistol he had shown me the other day. On the table beside the bed were all sorts of objects. There was an empty glass, his false teeth swimming in a glass, a bottle of mineral water, a flask and an ash-tray which contained the butt of a cigar, two burnt matches, and some fragments of charred paper, a letter most likely. The doctor examined the glass, and it turned out he had taken a sleeping draught. But why? He was alert, he kept a pistol under his pillow, was ready for anything, for anyone. Why would he take a sleeping drug then? Something doesn't seem right...

     I moved my eyes onto the two burnt matches. They were both of different shape. One was  flatter than the other. I searched the pockets of Ratchett's clothing and found a box of matches. The rounder one certainly belonged to him, but he did not have the other kind of matches, so it must have been lit by someone else. The murderer.

     I looked around the room. There was a woman's handkerchief lying on the floor. In the corner of it, was an embroidered initial "H". Then there is a woman concerned in all of this, my companion said. I dived onto the floor again, and this time picked up a pipe cleaner. It was another clue, as there were no signs that Ratchett was a pipe-smoker. Oh my, how lucky we were! In the breast pocket of his pyjama was a golden watch. It showed the time 1:15. Could that be the exact time of the crime? It's actually pretty strange that we found so many clues in one place. Too many clues I might say. Could this be just another blind, set up by the murderers? Did they try to frame each other? I do not know that, but I'm pretty sure, that I will soon find out.

I do not understand myself. I understand nothing at all, and, as you perceive, it worries me. 

The true identity of Mr. Ratchett.

     I was in need of an old-fashioned hat-box, so I asked the conductor to bring me the Swedish lady's and the lady's maid's hat-box. I needed the wire netting to be able to recover the burnt note from the ash-tray. I flattened the wires and carefully put the charred note onto one of them. Then, I put it over the flame of a spirit-stove. It is an old method of recovering burnt documents, but a pretty good one. The metal began to glow and we began to see words of fire. It was only a tiny scrap, so we could read only three, and a part of a fourth word. It said:
,, -member little Daisy Armstrong. ''
     Both me and Dr. Constantine went to rejoin Mr. Bouc in the dining-car. We had our meal (it is always good to fill up your stomach before you start thinking about something that seems rather impossible) and we cut to the chase. The reason for Ratchett's escape for America became clear clear to me, as soon as I read the burnt note destroyed by the murderer. His true identity was Cassetti.

,, Ah! quel animal! ''

The Armstrong kidnapping case.

     Colonel Armstrong was a grandson of a Wall Street millionaire. He married to the daughter of the probably most famous tragic actress at that time. They had a daughter-Daisy. She was the most precious thing in the world for them. When she was 3 years old, she was kidnapped and a very high ransom was demanded. Having paid the enormous sum of two hundred thousand dollars, the dead body of the poor child was discovered, having been dead for at least two weeks. At that time, Mrs. Armstrong was carrying another baby. She went through a terrible horror and gave birth to a dead infant and died soon after. Colonel Armstrong, who was broken-hearted after having lost his beloved family, shot himself a few days after. There was another death, the one of their French, or perhaps Swiss nursemaid. Being completely innocent, but disbelieved by the police, she threw herself from a window and died.
     Six months later the head of the gang responsible for the kidnapping, Cassetti was captured by police. Him, and his associate were trialed. He was acquitted on some inaccurracy, but the other was sentenced to electrocuiton. It became clear to me, that he changed his name and escaped America in order to avoid those, who were certain of his guilt. Somebody would get him sooner or later. The man gave me a bad first impression. I was 100% about the evil in him. I cannot say that I regret the death of such a terrible person, but it is my duty to find out who was responsible for all this mess.
     At this point, I am sure that the letter was certainly burned by the murderer, as it contained the word ,, Armstrong ", which was a clue to this mistery.  Perhaps, there are still members of the Armstrong family living. 
     We have one fact. At 23 minutes to 1 Ratchett was surely alive. I heard him speak to the conductor myself. We have, at least something to begin with.

So, let us begin gathering evidence.

The evidence.

Pierre Michel - the Wagon Lit conductor

- Ratchett retired to bed after dinner, before we left Belgrade

- The victim's valet and secretary visited afterwards

- Cassetti rang his bell at twenty to one

- Ratchett said, that he had made a mistake - ,, Je me suis trompé ''

- Soon after one o'clock he spoke to his friend on the next coach and returned when Mrs. Hubbard rang her bell

- Half an hour later he made a bed for Mr. MacQueen who was conversing with Colonel Arbuthnott

- After that, he sat in his seat watching the corridor until morning

- He saw a lady dressed in a scarlet kimono with dragons on it, going to the toilet

Hector MacQueen - the secretary

- Seemed astonished and angry with himself when he learned he was working for such a monster

- After leaving the dining-car he retired to his compartment and read

- Got out on the platform at Belgrade and soon got inside

- Talked to the English lady from the next compartment and conversed with Arbuthnot

- Went to Mr. Ratchett's

- Talked to Colonel Arbuthnot in his compartment, the Colonel left at about 2 o'clock

- Him and Colonel got out at Vincovci, didn't bolt the door

- They saw the conductor passing his compartment and at the same time a woman going in the opposite direction

- Saw a woman in the scarlet kimono

- Does not smoke a pipe
- His employer spoke only American (How did he answer the conductor in French, then?)

Edward Masterman - the valet

- Last seen his employer at about 9 o'clock

- The victim seemed upset by a letter

- Gave Ratchett his usual sleeping draught, but didn't see him drink it

- Has never been in America

- After he had left the victim's compartment, he called for Mr. MacQueen and returned to his compartment and read

- He shares his compartment with an Italian

- Did not sleep because of his toothache

- Does not smoke a pipe

Caroline Hubbard 

(one who can't keep her mouth shut)

- Claimed that the murderer was in her compartment

- Found a button off the conductor's tunic on a case beside the window (which belonged to neither of the conductors. I need to spare a thought on it)

- Asked the Swedish lady to bolt the door between her's and Ratchett's compartment

- The woman opened the door of Rattchet's by mistake, the victim was seen alive the last time at about a quarter to ten

- Was not acquainted with the Armstrong family

- Does not own the scarlet silk kimono

- The handkerchief does not belong to her

- She heard a woman's voice in the victim's compartment
- The weapon was found in her sponge-bag

Greta Ohlsson

- A trained nurse

- Opened Ratchett's door by mistake and got insulted

- Visited Mrs. Hubbard in search for aspirin, checked if the door between the compartment was bolted. Indeed, it was.

- Went back to her compartment and layed down awake for some time

- Shares a compartment with Miss Debenham

- Did not leave her compartment

- Does not own the scarlet silk dressing-gown

- Has never been in America

Princess Natalia Dragomiroff 

(the ugly one)

- She retired to bed straight after dinner, read until 11, but couldn't sleep

- At a quarter to 1 she called for her maid

- She has been to America many times

- She was the Godmother of Sonia Armstrong, Daisy's mother (No, it can't be her. She seems too weak to be able to stab a man 12 times, but...)

- She confirmed the existence of Sonia Armstrong's sister, but does not know where she is (or she just doesn't want to tell us)

- Does not own the scarlet kimono

   Count Adrenyi

- He was in Washington for a year

- Isn't connected with Armstrong family

- At about 11 his wife retired to her compartment

- His wife always takes a sleeping draught

- Does not smoke a pipe

Countess Elena Adrenyi (Goldenberg)

- Slept the whole night, took a sleeping draught

- There was a grease spot on the passport right beside the firs letter of her name (hmm, interesting)

- Did not accompany her husband to Washington

- Does not own the scarlet silk kimono
- The label on her suitcase was wet (perhaps removed and put on once again. Did she want to hide something?)

Colonel Arbuthnot

- First met Mary Debenham on this particular journey

- He was talking to MacQueen at a quarter past 1

- Returned to his compartment at a quarter to 2

- Got out of the train at Vincovci and returned a few minutes later

- He's a pipe-smoker

- He noticed the conductor passing by the compartment, and smelled some lady's perfume

- Has never been to America

- He noticed a man from No. 16 peering out and then closing his door quickly (a spy?)

- Did not know Colonel Armstrong personally (or did he just refuse to admit it?)
- The same type of pipe-cleaner was found in his baggage (was it him who dropped it?)

Cyrus Hardman - the detective

- He pretended to be a typewriting ribbon salesman, but he was truly a NY detective

- He received a letter from Mr. Ratchett at the Tokatlian Hotel which said:

   ,, Dear Sir,- You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the McNeil Detective Agency, Kindly report to my suite at four o'clock this afternoon. ''

- He was paid to be Ratchett's bodyguard of some kind

- The assailant described by the victim was a small dark man, with a womanish kind of voice (that, unfortunately doesn't apply to anyone on this train...) 

- Does not smoke a pipe

Antonio Foscarelli 

(the big Italian)

- An American subject

- Never came across any member of the Armstrong family

- Does not smoke a pipe

 Mary Debenham 

(the cool and sufficient one)

- She did not feel distressed about the committed murder (As she was my prime suspect, I decided to question her a bit differently. I didn't want to hear what I had already known, I wanted to look into her psychology)

-Saw the victim for the first time at dinner

- Said, that the scarlet dressing-gown was not hers (Not that she has no such thing, but that it belongs to someone else... Interesting)
- She refused to explain the words she spoke to Arbuthnot at Konya station: ,, Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us. "

 Hildegarde Schimdt - the lady's maid

- The scarlet kimono does not belong to her

- She saw the conductor going out of one of the carriages who nearly collided with her, but it was none of the conductors on the train. The one she saw, was small and dark, with a womanish voice (confirming the description of Ratchett's enemy, which Hardman told us about. But where is he now?)

- Has never been to America

- There was hesitation in her voice when she told us, that she did not know who was the owner of the expensive handkerchief (I'm sure she knew exactly whom it belonged to, but why lie?)
- The Wagon Lit conductor's tunic was found in her luggage
- Admitted she was a good cook (Being a maid for years you don't really get a chance to cook. I need to think that over again later)

So, my friends. What can we make of all that? 

Some questions without answers.

     I have made myself a list of the things, that needed explanation Here it is:

1. Who is the owner of the handkerchief with the initial H.? - being pressured, Princess Dragomiroff admitted, that the handkerchief belonged to her
2. Was the pipe-cleaner dropped by Colonel Arbuthnot, or by someone else?
3. Who wore the scarlet kimono?
4. Who wore the Wagon Lit conductor's uniform? - It is certainly someone from the outside
5. Why do the hands of the watch point to 1:15?
6. Was the murder committed at that time? - certainly not
7. Was it later?
8. Was it earlier?
9. Can we be sure that the victim was stabbed by more than one person? - It seems most logical, yes
10. What could be the other explanation of the wounds?

     Some questions were answered, some were not. The only thing we can do about it is think. We might come up with an idea, or deduct something by analysing the psychology of the suspects.

Let us all three close our eyes and think...

Lies, lies and even more lies...

     At this time of the year the trains are almost completely empty. Could it be coincidence that so many people  decided to travel at this particular day? And could it be coincidence that the murder happened on the congested coach? I say it is no coincidence, but which, and how many passengers took part in the murder? 12, I presume. Why? Because the victim was stabbed 12 times. The thing we need to know now, is who, of the 13 passengers, was truly innocent. But another question comes up: Why would those people want to take part in a murder of a man, who was a complete stranger to them? I have only one explanation to that: They have lied during the questioning and hid the fact of being related to the Armstrong kidnapping case.

Who do we really have on the train with us?

Deduction.

     Based on the evidence, I deducted the identity of the passengers.


Countess Adrenyi - Helena Goldenberg - the younger daughter of Linda Arden and sister to Sonia Armstrong.


Colonel Arbuthnot - A close friend of Colonel Armstrong


Mary Debenham - Was companion governess in the Armstrong Residence at the time of the kidnapping


Antonio Foscarelli - Was the driver of the Armstrong family


Greta Ohlsson - Was the nurse in charge of Daisy Armstrong


Edward Masterman - Was Colonel Armstrong's batman in the war and his servant in NY afterwards


Cyrus Hardman - Was in love with the servant which threw herself from a window


Caroline Hubbard - Linda Arden - Famous actress and the mother of Sonia Armstrong and Helena Goldenberg


Princess Dragomiroff - A close friend of Linda Arden and the Godmother to Sonia Armstrong


Pierre Michel - Father of the nursemaid who committed suicide


Hector MacQueen - Was in partnership with the Armstrong family


Hildegarde Schmidt - Was the cook in Armstrong household


     It came out, I was perfectly right about them, they admitted it themselves.

There are two possible solutions of this case...

The solutions.

     I ordered everybody to gather in the dining-car. The time came for me to present the solution to them. Actually, two distinct solutions. The first one was:

     Mr. Ratchett, who was aware of his one particular enemy gave his description to Mr. Hardman. He was to be a small dark man with a womanish kind of voice. He most likely joined the train at Belgrade, or more likely at Vincovci by the door left unbolted by Colonel Arbuthnot and Mr. MacQueen. Over his ordinary clothes, he wore the conductor's uniform and was provided with the key unlocking every door on the train, so he could easily go into any of the compartments despite them being locked. He stabbed Ratchett, put the weapon in Mrs. Hubbard's sponge-bag, not realising he had lost a button, put the uniform into one of the valises in an empty compartment and left before the train took off again. 

     My companions did not agree at all with the solution above, so I presented them the alternative one.

     Everything was planned way beforehand. The small, dark man with a womanish voice was a fictional character who could apply as well to a man or a woman from outside, who could be blamed for the crime without having an alibi. The idea of stabbing perfectly fit the situation. It was a  silent method and a dagger could be used by anyone, strong or weak. All twelve murderers entered Ratchett's compartment one by one through the communicating door in Mrs. Hubbard's compartment. None of the murderers knew which blow had actually killed Cassetti, but with so many blows, at least one must had done deadly damage. The letter which Ratchett received from the actual murderers was burnt, as it contained the key word - Armstrong, without which none of the passengers could have been suspected. When they realised that a part of their plan was impossible, because of the train running into a snow-drift they left us two 'clues' in Ratchett's compartment to confuse our investigation even more so. One incriminating Colonel Arbuthnot who had the strongest alibi, and the other pointing to Princess Dragomiroff who had an alibi provided by her maid and seemed too weak to stab Cassetti. The Wagon Lit conductor, Mr. Michell must have been involved in the murder, but that gave us 13 persons, not 12. I came to the conclusion that the innocent person would be the one who was to be a prime suspect, someone closest to the Armstrongs, which was Countess Adrenyi, so her husband must have taken her place.

     Justice finally found the monster which Cassetti was. We agreed to present the Yugo-Slavian police with the first option, to avoid ruining the lives, that those people still have to live.

Having placed my solution before you, I have the honour to retire from the case. Farewell, dear friends...