Murder on the Orient Express. Agatha Christie

Masterman, will have to know.’

      ‘He probably knows already,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘If so try to get him to hold his tongue.’

      ‘That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher, and does what he calls “Keeps himself to himself.” He’s a low opinion of Americans and no opinion at all of any other nationality.’

      ‘Thank you, M. MacQueen.’

      The American left the carriage.

      ‘Well?’ demanded M. Bouc. ‘You believe what he says, this young man?’

      ‘He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true M. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy M. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion.’

      ‘So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime,’ said M. Bouc jovially.

      Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.

      ‘Me, I suspect everybody till the last minute,’ he said. ‘All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all.’

      ‘No,’ said Mr Bouc thoughtfully. ‘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.’