Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind of local affair in purple silk. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing gowns for?”
    â€œWell, you see, Madame, someone in a scarlet kimono entered either your or Mr. Ratchett’s compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when all the doors are shut to know which compartment is which.”
    â€œWell, no one in a scarlet dressing gown came into my compartment.”
    â€œThen she must have gone into M. Ratchett’s.”
    Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly:
    â€œThat wouldn’t surprise me any.”
    Poirot leaned forward.
    â€œSo you heard a woman’s voice next door?”
    â€œI don’t know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don’t really. But—well—as a matter of fact, I did. ”
    â€œBut when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Ratchett snoring.”
    â€œWell that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—” Mrs. Hubbard got rather pink. “It isn’t a very nice thing to speak about.”
    â€œWhat time was it when you heard a woman’s voice?”
    â€œI can’t tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, ‘Well that’s the kind of man he is. Well, I’m not surprised,’ and then I went to sleep again, and I’m sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn’t dragged it out of me.”
    â€œWas it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?”
    â€œWhy, that’s like what you said just now! He wouldn’t have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?”
    â€œ Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame.”
    â€œI guess even you get kinder muddled now and then. I just can’t get over it being that monster Cassetti. What my daughter will say—”
    Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to restore the contents of her handbag and he then shepherded her towards the door.
    At the last moment he said:
    â€œYou have dropped your handkerchief, Madame.”
    Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.
    â€œThat’s not mine, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got mine right here.”
    â€œ Pardon. I thought as it had the initial H on it—”
    â€œWell, now, that’s curious, but it’s certainly not mine. Mine are marked C.M.H., and they’re sensible things—not expensive Paris fallals. What good is a handkerchief like that to anybody’s nose?”
    Neither of the three men seemed to have an answer to this question, and Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly.

Five
T HE E VIDENCE OF THE S WEDISH L ADY
    M . Bouc was handling the button Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.
    â€œThis button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that, after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?” he said. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. “What have you to say, my friend?”
    â€œThat button, it suggests possibilities,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Let us interview next the Swedish lady before we discuss the evidence we have heard.”
    He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him.
    â€œAh! here we are. Greta Ohlsson, age forty-nine.” M. Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the yellowish-grey bun of hair and the long mild sheep-like face was ushered in. She peered shortsightedly at Poirot through her glasses, but was quite calm.
    It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so that the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her thequestions to which he already knew the answers—her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.
    She was, she