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Agatha Christie MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS
speak anything but good American. I’m no linguist myself, but I know what I call Shopping and Hotel—snappy bits in French and German and Italian.”
His voice was a little louder than usual. It was as though he were slightly uneasy over the search in spite of his expressed willingness.
Poirot emerged. “Nothing,” he said. “Not even a compromising bequest!”
MacQueen sighed. “Well, that’s a load off my mind,” he said humorously.
They moved on to the last compartment. The examination of the luggage of the big Italian and
of the valet yielded no result.
The three men stood at the end of the coach looking at each other.
“What next?” said M. Bouc.
“We will go back to the dining-car,” said Poirot. “We know now all that we can know. We
have the evidence of the passengers, the evidence of their baggage, the evidence of our eyes. ... We can expect no further help. It must be our part now to use our brains.”
He felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. It was empty.
“I will join you in a moment,” he said. “I shall need the cigarettes. This is a very difficult, a very curious, affair. Who wore that scarlet kimono? Where is it now? I wish I knew. There is something in this case—some factor—that escapes me! It is difficult because it has been made difficult. But we will discuss it. Pardon me a moment.”
He went hurriedly along the corridor to his own compartment. He had, he knew, a further supply of cigarettes in one of his valises.
He got it down and snapped back the lock.
Then he sat back on his heels and stared.
Neatly folded on the top of the case was a thin scarlet silk kimono embroidered with dragons. “So,” he murmured. “It is like that. A defiance. Very well, I take it up.”
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