Murder on the Orient Express. Агата Кристи
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‘They could not have been delivered by a woman?’
‘A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion, but it is in my opinion highly unlikely.’
Poirot was silent a moment or two.
The other said anxiously.
‘You understand my point?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Poirot. ‘The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength, he was feeble, it was a woman, it was a right-handed person, it was a left-handed person—Ah! c’est rigolo, tout ça!’
He spoke with sudden anger.
‘And the victim—what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?’
He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the automatic pistol which Ratchett had shown him the day before.
‘Fully loaded, you see,’ he said.
They looked round them. Ratchett’s day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. On the small table formed by the lid of the washing basin were various objects—false teeth in a glass of water; another glass, empty; a bottle of mineral water, a large flask and an ash-tray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.
The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.
‘Here is the explanation of the victim’s inertia,’ he said quietly.
‘Drugged?’
‘Yes.’
Poirot nodded. He picked up the two matches and scrutinized them carefully.
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