Murder on the Orient Express

“Astonishing secrets, shivering suspense, one detective; journey on the Orient Express where everyone is a suspect.”

Watch the original version of Murder on the Orient Express


“In life, some stumble upon a journey, others craft it meticulously – but for me, it found me in the most intriguing of circumstances.”

These were the thoughts of the distinguished detective, Hercule Poirot, as he sat in the gilded waiting lounge of the Istanbul’s Sirkeci Station. The year was 1935, and the crisp winter air heralded the advent of an arduous season. Yet, Poirot was unfazed by the cold external environment – his mind was aflame with thoughts simmering from his most recent case. A glance at the antique brass clock confirmed it was time to board the legendary Orient Express.

Chapter 1: “The Luxury of the Orient Express”

The moment Poirot stepped into the ornate vestibule of the Orient Express, he knew he was being transported into a realm of unparalleled luxury. Every detail, down to the polished brass fixtures, screamed opulence. The train was a gleaming behemoth, hurtling across the frosty European landscape, unyielding against the onslaught of the winter snow.

Poirot found himself sharing the train journey with an eclectic mix of individuals. Each passenger was a world in themselves, boasting unique quirks and airs of mystery. Sharing the car with him was the Italian car salesman Antonio Foscarelli, the Swedish missionary Greta Ohlsson, the British Indian Army Colonel Arbuthnot, and the enigmatic Russian Princess Dragomiroff. Joining them was an American socialite, Mrs. Hubbard, and the quiet secretary, Mary Debenham.

The evening wore on, and as the passengers settled into their luxurious compartments, they each observed the others while refraining from revealing too much about themselves. Poirot, however, was deft in his observation, picking up subtle signs of their characters as he moved around, taking mental notes.

As Poirot reclined in his cabin, the Orient Express seemed to echo the pulse of the universe outside. The wheels rhythmically tapped a melody on the metal tracks, resonating with the ticking of the carriage clock. The wind whistled outside, painting a serene atmosphere as it mingled with the distant calls of the wilderness.

But this was just the calm before the storm. Unbeknownst to the passengers, the Express was hurtling towards a dense snowdrift, the first domino in the grand scheme of the events that were about to unfold. The passengers, engrossed in their lives, had no idea of the chilling fate that awaited them.

The train thundered on, oblivious to Poirot’s subtle sense of unease. An experienced detective, he had learned to trust his intuition, and right now, it was whispering warnings of a daunting storm. Yet surrounded by the tranquil innocence of the snowy landscape outside and the opulent calm inside the train, it was tough to imagine the threats that lay ahead.

The snow intensified, matching Poirot’s growing apprehension. The picturesque scenery began to transform into a vast, foreboding expanse of whiteness, consuming everything in its path. As the snowflakes danced and swirled in the savage winds, time seemed to spiral into an ominous stillness. The Orient Express plowed ahead, a mechanical beast daring to defy the raging storm, its relentless hissing and chugging echoing through the silent wilderness.

While the train fought against the savage demands of nature, the passengers inside, sat ensconced in their soft-lit carriages, were blissfully ignorant of the relentless battle between man’s creation and nature’s fury. They engaged in their activities, living, breathing, and existing, unaware of the looming trial by fire – or, in this case, ice – that was about to test them.

The day ended, and the passengers retreated to their respective cabins. As darkness enveloped the Orient Express, it was as if the train was negotiating a pact with the night. The endless landscape of snow outside mirrored the darkness within the train, where a sinister plot was beginning to take shape in the shadows.

The night promised solace, a respite from the day’s events. But deep within the bowels of the train, an ominous chain of events was about to be set in motion. For Poirot, the journey had just begun; the game was afoot…

Chapter 2: “A Disturbance in the Night”

An enigmatic hush had fallen over the Orient Express, its luxurious ambiance gently blanketed by the soothing rhythm of the rails, the sleeper car humming a soft lullaby to the passengers it cradled. The lone Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, lay ensconced in his plush sleeping compartment, his mind still agile despite the late hour. True to his reputation, his instinct for detection was not quelled by darkness or sleep.

The moon, slung low in the night sky, cast elongated shadows over the plush interiors of the sleeping carriage, the soft illumination creating an ethereal tapestry of light and darkness. Poirot, a light sleeper, lay in the quasi-darkness, his senses curiously alert to the enigmatic symphony that was the night.

A sudden discord pierced the orchestra of train-noises – a shriek, raw and primal, a chilling testament to fear and terror. Poirot’s eyes snapped open, his mind instantly alert. He was a seasoned sleuth who had heard many such cries in his career, each a precursor to a tangled web of deceit, crime, and mystery. This cry was an eerie echo of those, yet it was imbued with a unique resonance that prickled the back of his neck.

Belgian winters could be ruthless, but Poirot had been through worse. Setting personal discomfort aside, he briskly cast his heavy coat around him, heading towards the origin of the disruption. The narrow corridor outside mirrored the chill of the winter beyond the windows, its coldness amplifying the sense of unease that had begun to seep into the atmosphere.

As he navigated the corridor, the Orient Express seemed to hold its breath, the habitual hum of its machinery replaced with an unsettling hush. The detective found himself before the compartment from which the scream had originated.

Inside, an American businessman, Samuel Ratchett, lay shivering, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead despite the freezing temperature. His eyes were wild, flickering with dread. Poirot’s keen gaze took in every detail, filing them away for future reference. Ratchett claimed to have heard suspicious noises outside his compartment, culminating in the scream that had brought Poirot to his door.

However, a thorough search of the immediate vicinity revealed no sign of any intrusion. Passengers roused from their slumber seemed genuinely bewildered, their expressions reflecting annoyance rather than guilt. Keeping his doubts to himself, Poirot reassured Ratchett, promising to alert him if any further disturbances occurred.

Retreating to his compartment, Poirot mulled over the incident. The cry, the supposed intruder, Ratchett’s terror – all pieces of a puzzle that had no visible picture. Was Ratchett genuinely frightened, or was this an elaborate act? If it was, what did he stand to gain? The questions swirled around in Poirot’s mind, complicating the seemingly straightforward incident.

Despite the thawing of the immediate crisis, a bone-chilling unease lingered in the air. The night settled once more upon the train, yet it had lost its tranquility. Unbeknownst to the sleep-laden passengers of the Orient Express, the shadows had begun whispering tales of a mystery that was yet to unfold.

As the first sign of dawn brushed the contours of the horizon, Hercule Poirot found sleep elusive. The detective knew that the night’s disturbance was merely the overture to a symphony of crime and intrigue that had selected the Orient Express as its grand stage. As the train thundered ahead, unafraid of what lay in its path, Poirot steeled himself for what he instinctively knew was coming – murder.

Chapter 3: “The Morning After”

With the first light of morning slicing through the frosty panes of glass, the ivory landscape outside was a frozen tableau, the undulating hills and forests blanketed by an unforgiving layer of snow. The whirl of the train wheels against the steel tracks had subsided to an eerie silence; the great Orient Express was frozen in place, halted by a snowdrift of magnificent proportions.

Hercule Poirot, always an early riser, was sipping his dark roasted coffee in the dining car, absorbing the grandeur of the scenery beyond the window, punctuated only by the crisp whiteness of the world outside. His tranquil reverie was disrupted by a crew member rushing through the carriage, his face flushed with a mix of cold and trepidation.

Poirot, with an uncanny acuity for sensing distress, took note of the man’s hurried footsteps echoing through the silent carriage. As a world-renowned detective, he was finely tuned to the human orchestra’s subtle shifts. He watched as the conductor darted into his sleeping quarter. Curiosity piqued, Poirot abandoned his breakfast and ventured towards his carriage.

Upon entering, he was met with a scene from a gruesome tableau. Ratchett, the American businessman from the adjacent compartment, lay still on his berth, a ghastly pallor replacing his usually ruddy complexion. The man was dead, undoubtedly a victim of foul play.

Poirot’s heart pounded, not with fear, but excitement. It was a gruesome setting, but the detective within him could not deny the thrill it afforded. He marveled at the chaos within the orderly luxury of the train – the overturned table, the shattered glass, and the ominous, jagged wound on Ratchett’s chest – all screaming out a tale of deadly struggle.

Even amidst such disarray, Poirot’s gaze was drawn to a peculiar detail: a delicate, lady’s handkerchief, lying incongruously next to the brutish corpse. A ‘H,’ finely embroidered in the corner, was the only hint towards its ownership. Tucking the clue carefully into his pocket, Poirot turned his attention to the puncture wound; a clean cut, the sort inflicted by a knife. The plot was certainly thickening.

Meanwhile, the word had spread about the murder, and the once jovial train was now permeated with an air of tension. Whispers and hushed conversations filled the corridors as the shock set in. Who amongst them could be capable of such a heinous crime?

Poirot got to work. Each passenger would have to be questioned, each alibi dissected under his scrutinizing gaze. As he began his exhaustive interviews, he realized something- he was not just dealing with a simple murder. The shadow of a much larger conspiracy was beginning to unfold. It appeared Ratchett had been harboring more secrets than anyone could have anticipated.

Just as the chill of the snow had seeped into the Orient Express, an icy dread began to infiltrate the hearts of its passengers. Somewhere among them, a killer was hiding. And it was up to Hercule Poirot to bring them to light.

As the day worn on, the train sat immobile, locked in the snow’s embrace as Hercule Poirot delved further into the mystery. The first snowflakes of the evening began to drift down, adding an extra layer of chill to the daunting situation. The murder on the Orient Express had only just begun.

Chapter 4: “Deductions and Discrepancies”

In the seclusion of his cabin, Poirot contemplated the disturbing events. Every pistoning clack of the stalled train seemed to beat a sinister rhythm that echoed the enveloping stillness outside. The snow, hitherto a beautiful backdrop, now seemed more akin to an icy, unyielding jailhouse; it encapsulated the train, and paradoxically, the claustrophobia within the hitherto luxurious confines heightened.

The palpable tension of the morning seemed to have somewhat dissipated, replaced by a gravid silence and an undercurrent of anxiety. The passengers, an assortment of characters, each with their distinct personalities and quirks, were now potential suspects in a grim murder investigation.

Poirot was a seasoned detective, a master of human psychology. But this case was different – trapped amidst a snowstorm, within a metal beast that was going nowhere, and with a murderer potentially lurking within their midst. The derailment of his train journey had been complemented by the derailment of a life. His keen mind started to assemble the pieces of this complex puzzle.

The first point of discrepancy that caught Poirot’s eye was the bizarre nature of the crime scene. The victim’s cabin had been left in a state of purposeful disarray. Was it an attempt to lead the investigation astray, perhaps, or a struggle defending against the attack? Poirot pondered, his gaze sharpening.

Next was the victim himself. Ratchett, an American businessman with an air of arrogance that seemed to accompany wealth. But there was a darkness that lurked behind his eyes, a hidden past perhaps. The key, Poirot knew, lay in uncovering this past.

Poirot’s mind drifted back to the night of the murder. The scream that had woken him, the haunting uneasy silence that followed, the sight of the snow-covered tracks outside when he looked out from his window – elements that all seemed incongruous with the garish brutality of the murder.

An unusual aspect that surprised Poirot was the timing of the murder. The murderer had struck when the train was motionless, trapped in the snow, with no possible escape route. It was either the action of a desperate individual or a meticulously planned maneuver.

As Poirot began to delve deeper, interviewing each passenger, he observed something peculiar. Every passenger’s account of their whereabouts and actions on the night of the murder clashed with each other, and none could be independently verified. It was as if they were all hiding something, or worse, all involved.

Hercule Poirot, acutely aware of the ticking clock, knew he had to be swift. The murderer was trapped aboard with them, and every moment wasted could potentially lead to another crime. He trusted no one, analyzed every piece of information, dissected every alibi, and carefully studied every reaction.

Every passenger was a potential suspect, and yet, none seemed guilty. It was a perplexing paradox, one that Poirot thrived upon. With his seasoned intellect and keen sense of observation, he would chip away at the ice of deception and arrive at the truth.

The story was far from over; the whirlpool of deception was only just beginning to churn. The truth was elusive, just out of reach. But Hercule Poirot was determined. He knew that the darkest secrets often lay hidden deep within the human psyche; it only required the right trigger to be unearthed. And he would be that trigger.

As the chapter wrapped up, Poirot, with a steely determination in his eyes, re-emphasized his vow to unveil the truth. The web of lies, misdirections, and fatal secrets would be untangled, and justice would be served. The truth that lay beneath the cold facade of lies on the Orient Express would soon be revealed. The murder had been committed, and its perpetrator would not escape the acute gaze of the world’s greatest detective, Hercule Poirot.

Chapter 5: “Unveiling Connections”

The morning sun had lost its battle to the relentless snow. A white blanket stretched out, an unbroken canvas of silence and stillness that enveloped the stranded Orient Express. Inside, the atmosphere could not have been more contrasting. It buzzed with an undercurrent of unease and apprehension, each passenger lost in their private whirlwind of thoughts after the untimely and gruesome death of fellow passenger.

The detective, Hercule Poirot, moved through the narrow, plush corridor of the train, unruffled and poker-faced. His formidable intellect was at work, piecing together the mosaic of information he had managed to gather so far. His enigmatic eyes, which missed no detail, however insignificant, were the only visible sign of his inner tumult.

The victim, Ratchett, had not been a man of fine reputation. His real name, as Poirot had recently discovered, was Cassetti, a man notorious for his involvement in the Armstrong case, a kidnapping and murder that had sent shockwaves through society years ago. This revelation served as a significant link in the mysterious puzzle. The fact that Ratchett had made enemies during his inglorious past wasn’t surprising.

While he mused over the newfound information, the elegant Princess Dragomiroff beckoned him into her compartment. Her aristocratic facade barely concealed her agitation. She confessed to Poirot that the monogrammed handkerchief, a potential evidence found in the deceased’s room, was hers. But, she hadn’t lost it, a claim she supported by showing him her identical handkerchief, studded with precious stones. The mystery had deepened further. The plot had stretched its terrifying tentacles into the heart of high society, adding another layer to the uncanny case.

Delving into the gray zones of the story, Poirot interviewed the vague, evasive Countess Andrenyi. He noticed her passport, partly defaced, an attempt to conceal her identity. It was perplexing. After much pressuring, she confessed she was indeed Sonia Armstrong’s younger sister, the woman whose child had been kidnapped and murdered by Cassetti. The countess, however, vehemently denied any involvement in Cassetti’s murder.

Through subtle and seamless conversations with the other passengers, Poirot managed to establish connections to the deceased. The refined Englishman, Arbuthnot, was, in reality, Colonel Armstrong’s best friend. The mysterious governess, Mary Debenham, had been the Armstrong family’s governess during the fateful event. Even the Italian car dealer, Foscarelli, had a link to the Armstrong household; he had been their chauffeur.

As the snowbound day waned, Poirot’s mind was a cauldron of theories, each more puzzling than the previous one. Each passenger had a connection to the victim, a motive for the crime, yet he was far from the truth. He needed hard evidence, not mere conjectures.

In a twist of fate, the severity of the snowstorm decreased, and the train strained to move onward, echoing the forward momentum of Poirot’s investigation. The plot, like the snowbound landscape, was gradually unveiling itself, presenting an intricate puzzle with numerous possible outcomes.

That night, as Poirot walked towards his compartment, the train humming with an ominous energy, he felt a glimmer of realization. The case had started to make sense. The threads were coming together, hinting at a conspiracy that surpassed conventional logic. The fact that everyone on the train had some connection to the Armstrong case was more than just a coincidence.

As the train trundled through the clearing weather, Poirot looked out at the passing scenery, his mind making sense of the chaos, forming patterns out of randomness. The connections were deeper than he had initially thought, hinting at a chilling plot where everyone was both a suspect and a victim.

The thin line he’d been tracing between coincidence and conspiracy had started to blur, giving rise to a new theory. If his gut feeling was right, it would lead to an astonishing climax that would shake the very foundation of what we understand by crime and justice.

As the train struggled against the fading winter, Poirot knew the truth was within reach. The following day, he was determined to make sense of the tangled web, the interconnected threads that tied the passengers to the victim.

The chapter had seen the revelation of unexpected connections, adding more complexity to the plot, creating an engaging and perplexing narrative that would only intensify in the chapters to come.

Chapter 6: “Divided Suspicions”

The mood aboard the Orient Express, once an emblem of luxury and peace, had transformed into a crucible of suspicion and anxiety. Each passenger shrouded in a cloak of unease, their eyes hiding stories unknown, locked behind the veil of trust they used to display. Poirot, ever the astute observer, was aware of this shift. He had seen the spark of fear that had ignited in each person’s eyes when the victim’s body had been discovered. The once convivial dining car now echoed with hushed whispers and sidelong glances, a dark ballet danced in a theatre of paranoia.

The day began with Poirot meticulously interviewing each passenger. He delved into the minutiae of their lives, scrutinizing the tiniest discrepancies and subtly revealing hidden depths. His method was precise, his questions piercing—he seemed to hold each suspect in a vice of observation and psychology, turning them in the harsh light of suspicion.

He had questioned the Countess first—a delicate woman whose stately elegance was now clouded with apprehensive eyes. She held herself together with a frail dignity, her voice a whisper in the wind. Yet, beneath the surface tremor of her voice, Poirot detected an undercurrent of fear. His suspicions grew, and hers was a tale he would revisit.

Next was the Colonel, a stern man whose military background offered him some semblance of calm amid the chaos. His rigidity, however, was a double-edged sword; it provided him an alibi, yet his aloofness painted a target on his back. Poirot found the imperviously steadfast demeanor intriguing, something to explore in-depth later.

Poirot then turned his gaze towards the austere businessman from New York. MacQueen’s fluctuating emotions made him an interesting puzzle. His initial dismissiveness had transitioned into nervous defensiveness, the cracks in his facade widening with each question posed by Poirot.

The interviews continued through the day. At each moment, Poirot’s uncanny knack for detection shed light on the tangled web of relationships and secrets onboard. No stone was left unturned, no detail deemed insignificant. Poirot dissected the passengers’ lives, their stories painted in vivid colors on the canvas of his mind. Each passenger was now a piece of the complex puzzle, and it was left to Poirot to put it together.

As the sun dipped below the frozen horizons, the suspicion turned palpable. Passengers retreated to their cabins, their conversations reduced to hushed whispers. The train, once bustling with activity, was now a floating island of apprehension, its tranquility shattered.

Yet, amid this stifling atmosphere, Poirot remained steadfast. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts – spinning facts, motives, and inconsistencies. The mystery was unraveling, the threads slowly loosening under his sharp scrutiny.

As midnight approached, Poirot retired to his cabin. His mind, still brimming with the day’s revelations, was far from rest. The cabin’s quietude was punctuated by the soft whispers of the wind outside, almost as if the universe itself were deliberating on the case. His final thought before sleep claimed him was a reflection of the day – ‘The game was afoot. The killer was close. It was a matter of time.’

Chapter 6 marked the crux in Poirot’s investigation, a critical juncture where the line between innocence and guilt blurred, and the mystery deepened. It showcased the spectrum of human emotions – fear, anxiety, and defiance – all confined within the inescapable confines of the train. It was a reflection of Poirot’s brilliance – his observations, deductions, and relentless pursuit of truth. Above all, it was a testament to the intriguing complexity of human relationships, the secrets we keep, and the facades we wear. It left readers on the edge of their seats, gripping them with suspense, and compelling them to turn the page.

Chapter 7: “Cracks in the Ice”

The icy wintry dawn spilt crimson light inside the barred windows of the stranded Orient Express. The day was pregnant with an unspoken heaviness, a cold reality that was slowly seeping inside the warm cabins, chilling the artificial comfort to the bone.

Hercule Poirot, with his eyes as sharp as the icy shards outside, knew the pressure of the confined space was mounting. Claustrophobia, like an unwanted guest, was colossal, palpable – filling the compartments, the aisles, the air itself. It was as if they were all caught in a monstrous snow globe, a twisted reality where a predator lurked amongst them, caged in with its prey.

Poirot was, however, a man who thrived under pressure. Seated comfortably in the dining car, once a room of jovial discourse, now bore the somber air of a courtroom. The unfolding drama did not perturb him; rather it stoked the flames of his curiosity. The passengers, each a potential suspect, sat in rapt attention as Poirot began presenting what he’d unearthed.

“I have found,” he said, “that each one of you shares a connection with the victim. Each of you had a reason, a motive. Some of you more subtle than others.”

Whispers sprouted amongst the passengers. Wide-eyed glances were exchanged. Poirot held them in the palm of his hand, his voice, a siren’s song, captivating and full of haunting dread.

As he unveiled each secret, each thread of the intricate web that tethered the passengers to the victim, Poirot felt the tension rise like the mercury in a thermometer. The exotic dancer who held a secret love for the victim, the businessman whose fortune was nearly bankrupted by the deceased, the timid governess who held a grudge for an old disgrace – everyone had a reason for murder.

With every revelation, their collective facade of innocence shattered, revealing the nervous, desperate faces beneath. The game of pretending was over, and the stakes were raised.

One climactic testimony was a poignant confession from an elderly lady who was the late victim’s estranged cousin. “Yes! I loathed him! He swindled my family’s fortune, left us in penury,” she admitted, her voice shaking. The confession hit like a tidal wave. The cabin fell silent, the only sound was the howling wind’s symphony with the creaking train.

Poirot, amidst the ensuing shock, maintained an air of calm. And then, he unveiled his masterstroke. “While each one of you had a motive, only one of you acted upon it. The rest of you, unknowingly, have been pawns in a clever game.”

Panic ensued. Accusations filled the air as the icy dread of the truth started setting in. The victim’s murder was not a crime of passion but a premeditated act of cold-blooded revenge. It was the perfect crime, if not for their unfortunate interlude within the icy wilderness, and one man’s relentless pursuit of truth – Hercule Poirot.

The cracks were now visible in the ice, the trust was shattered, and the mighty Orient Express was reduced to a battlefield where everyone, in desperation or in fear, was an enemy. As the day faded into the dark, the train was filled with a sense of grim anticipation. The climax was near, and the final act of this thrilling drama was about to begin.

The icy grip of the murder tightened. Poirot knew, once the truth was out, nothing would be the same. But justice waits for no one — not for the snow, not for the murder, and certainly not for the murderer. As the storm roared outside the rigid train, the detective was ready to reveal the killer, promising to turn the tide on the murderer’s perfect crime.

Chapter 8: “The Reveal”

On the still-immobile Express, the tension was almost tangible. The polished discourse of the passengers had given way to strained silence and stolen glances. Poirot, however, remained composed. His piercing eyes, usually twinkling with warm humor, were now ice-cold and determined, reflecting the gravity of his task.

His hands, slightly trembling, held the evidence – a torn piece of fabric, a mysteriously annotated book, the cryptic last words of the victim. Every object narrated a part of the tale, but it was Poirot’s genius that had stitched it together.

With an air of solemnity, he gathered the passengers in the dining car. With a penetrating gaze, he surveyed the room—the Russian princess, the American businessman, the Swedish missionary, and the rest of the motley crew. They were now all tangled in this sinuous web of deceit and death.

“In the course of this investigation,” Poirot began, “I have discovered two possibilities: one, a stranger who had somehow managed to board the train and escape after committing the crime, and two, the killer is among us.”

The room erupted in hushed gasps and whispers. The effect was immediate and profound, but Poirot waited for silence before continuing.

“In ruling out the first possibility,” he continued, “it was clear due to the snowdrift outside, leaving no footprints or signs of external entry. Which brings us to the most troubling conclusion—the killer is in this carriage.”

Outrage, denial, and fear rippled through the room. Words of protest and disbelief met Poirot’s calm demeanor. A young woman wailed, an older man shouted in incredulity, but Poirot was immovable against the tide.

Poirot laid out his findings, his voice steady and measured, yet laced with an underlying urgency. The clues, once disjointed and obscure, started to fit together like pieces in a puzzle under his explanation. The cryptic words, the odd behaviors, the seemingly minor inconsistencies—all pointed towards one chilling conclusion.

“It was when I discovered, quite by accident, the connection our unfortunate companion had with my past case. The Armstrong case.” He let the statement hang in the air, the name eliciting recognition and horror from some passengers, confusion from others.

“This train,” Poirot continued, “is carrying individuals who were directly or indirectly affected by the tragic Armstrong case. A case that revolved around a painful injustice, a case that left many seeking retribution, a case that motivated our killer.”

The revelation tore through the carriage like a bolt of lightning. Poirot revealed a list of names, each passenger’s true identity—and their link to the Armstrong case. The grand facade of random strangers on a journey fell apart, revealing a meticulously planned reunion of connected souls.

Poirot finally leveled his gaze at one passenger—the killer. He recounted the events of the murder night, unraveling the plot with surgical precision. The alibi, the motive, the execution—it all pointed towards one person.

“As to the identity of our killer,” Poirot paused, his gaze meeting the killer’s eyes, “it is none other than you.”

The silence that followed was paralyzing. The shock was too immense, the revelation too unthinkable. But amidst the deafening silence and disbelieving gasps, the resolution was clear. Justice, at last, was served on the Orient Express.

Poirot’s reveal was a climax as unexpected as it was dramatic. A journey that began with strangers on a train had ended with a chilling murder and a shocking unmasking. The passengers, once co-travelers, were now witnesses to a crime that would bind them forever. And Hercule Poirot, the world-renowned detective, once again unflinchingly unraveled the truth in the most extraordinary circumstances.

In the cold and silent confines of the snowbound Orient Express, Poirot had unearthed a tale of retribution, intrigue, deception, and, ultimately, justice. The repercussions of this revealing journey would echo long after the last snowflakes fell and the train eventually moved on. It was indeed an unforgettable chapter in the thrilling saga that was Hercule Poirot’s life, verifying yet again that evil could never escape his watchful eye.

Some scenes from the movie Murder on the Orient Express written by A.I.

Scene 1



The hustle and bustle of Istanbul Station in 1935. Hercule POIROT, a well-dressed, portly gentleman with an impressive mustache, waits to board the Orient Express.


Istanbul, 1935. A period of relative peace in a world soon to be cast into chaos. But even peace has room for a little…mystery.


(looking at watch)

Patience, Hercule. You are a detective, not a rabbit.

Poirot boards the train, making his way to his first-class cabin.


Poirot steps into a world of luxury and elegance, with velvet seats and polished wood. The CONDUCTOR, a stern-looking man with piercing eyes, welcomes him.


Welcome, Monsieur Poirot. Your cabin awaits.


Poirot observes the cabin, taking in every detail. He seems satisfied. Meanwhile, the other passengers board the train, a diverse group with stories etched on their faces.


On this journey, every passenger carries a story. For some, a beginning. For others, an end.

Poirot steps out of his cabin, watching the passengers settle in.


Scene 2


As the TRAIN WHISTLES softly in the background, passengers sleep. Suddenly a CRY pierces the silence.


Poirot, in his sleep, stirs, his eyes snapping open. His gaze sharp, alert. He looks at his pocket watch. It’s 1 A.M.


The train SHUDDERS slightly, its lights flickering as it pushes through the night.


Poirot, in a robe, steps out of his car, curiosity painted on his face. He makes his way through the narrow corridor.


Poirot knocks on the DOOR from which he believes the cry originated. No answer. He tries the handle. It’s unlocked.


The room is empty, just a bed, neatly made, a coat hanging up and a suitcase under the bed.


Poirot looks puzzled but retreats back to his sleeping car, the mystery hanging in the air like a thick fog.


Poirot sighs, makes himself a cup of tea, thinking. His gaze wanders outside, where darkness and falling snowflakes paint an eerie picture.


Scene 3


The snowy landscape outside the window creates a serene backdrop as tensions rise within the Orient Express, now halted due to a snowdrift. Passengers are perplexed, more so when news of a MURDER spreads.

SERGEANT HARDMAN (50s, burly, stern looking) walks over to HERCULE POIROT (60s, eccentric, astute).

SERGEANT HARDMAN: Stuck in the middle of nowhere with a murderer on board. Brilliant.

Poirot looks at him, a flicker of irritation flashes across his eyes.

HERCULE POIROT: Murder is never brilliant, Sergeant.

Suddenly, MARY DEBENHAM (30s, elegant, composed), approaches them, her face pale as snow.

MARY DEBENHAM: They found him in my car. He was…

She trails off, unable to finish her sentence. But Poirot understands.

HERCULE POIROT: Dead. Oui, Mademoiselle.

She nods, steeling herself.

MARY DEBENHAM: What will happen now?

Poirot pats his pocket, producing a small notepad. His expression turns determined.

HERCULE POIROT: Now, Mademoiselle, we find the truth.



Poirot approaches the victim’s body, the train’s grim silence amplifies the ominous feeling. He kneels down, his eyes narrowed, the investigation is underway.


Scene 4


The luxurious train is stranded in the snowy wilderness. All is eerily quiet. The passengers are scattered throughout the cars, eyes darting suspiciously. An echo of unease is palpable.


At a solitary table, HERCULE POIROT, a distinguished Belgian detective, carefully scans the room. His sharp eyes are piercing, missing nothing.


(looking at a pocket watch)

Deductions and discrepancies… The devil is in the details.

He rises, smoothing his meticulously brushed mustache, and approaches a YOUNG LADY, twitching nervously.


(smiling gently)

Mademoiselle, may I join you?



Ah, yes, Monsieur Poirot…

He sits, his gaze never leaving her.


(tilting his head)

A cup of tea at this hour? It’s curious…

The young lady tenses. Poirot’s eyes glint with intrigue.


Poirot pores over a train ticket, a cigarette case, a scarf. His eyes narrow.



The ticket, bought last minute… The scarf, not matching her attire… The initials on the case, not hers. Mysterious elements that don’t add up.

An assistant, BATES, knocks on the door.



Sir, we’ve found something else…

They exit the compartment, Poirot’s mind racing, the mystery deepening.


Scene 5


Poirot, serious and focused, thumbs through a dossier of documents. The dossier includes newspaper clippings, photos, and handwritten notes. He looks up towards his fellow passengers, his gaze as piercing as the cold outside.



“Each face hides more than it shows…”

He glances at MRS. HUBBARD, an American socialite. She chats animatedly with COUNT ANDRENYI, a secretive Hungarian nobleman. Poirot’s gaze lands on a newspaper clipping titled ‘Armstrong Case Unsolved.’ He delves deep into thought.



“Are these mere coincidences?”

Suddenly, he’s interrupted by DR. CONSTANTINE, slightly nervous.


Mr. Poirot, might I have a word?

They move to a quieter corner of the car.


I examined the victim again…the wounds… They match with the Armstrong case.

Poirot, slightly taken aback, taps his fingers in thought.


Interesting, Dr. Constantine. It seems the past has a curious way of catching up.

Poirot glances at the passengers again, this time with renewed interest. The camera captures each face – the anxious, the unsuspecting, and the guilty. Each face a piece of the puzzle worth unraveling.



Scene 6


The room is lit dimly, casting long shadows on the passengers. TENSION fills the air. Faces are filled with ANXIETY and DOUBT. POIROT sits strategically, observing.



“Divisions have already been created, suspicions run riot.”

He looks at MRS. HUBBARD, an American widow, who fidgets with her napkin.


(to Mrs. Hubbard)

“I must ask, where were you when, erm…when the incident occurred?”



“In my carriage, of course! I was asleep!”

Poirot calmly sips his tea while MRS. HUBBARD, visibly shaken, glances at the other passengers. DR. CONSTANTINE, a calm Russian doctor, shifts nervously.


(to Dr. Constantine)

“What about you, Dr. Constantine?”


(slightly taken aback)

“I was…” He looks around nervously. “I can’t recall exactly.”

Poirot’s gaze shifts to the PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF, an elderly Russian aristocrat.


(shifting his gaze)

“And you, Princess Dragomiroff?”


(in a composed manner)

“I was in my carriage as well, Mr. Poirot.”

Poirot takes a moment, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He glances around the room, studying everyone’s reactions.



“We all have secrets, don’t we?”

As he makes this statement, the room falls silent, the tension reaching its peak. The dining car, once filled with light conversations and laughter, now mirrors the cold and icy landscape outside.

Scene 7


The atmosphere on the train is ELECTRIC. Intrigue and suspicion hang heavy in the air. The PASSENGERS shuffle uncomfortably in their seats, eyes darting with anticipation.

POIROT (60s, with a moustache as immaculate as his reasoning) stands at the center, exuding an aura of calm that cuts through the tension.


Ladies and Gentlemen, we are on the precipice of unveiling the truth.

He scans the crowd, pausing on each passenger to see their reaction.


FLASHBACKS of the previous chapters, showcasing the inconsistencies and connections Poirot has found: the SCREAM, the BODY, the PAST, the MOTIVES.



Each one of you is tethered to this heinous crime, either by intent or circumstance.

He looks at MRS. HUBBARD (50s, wealthy American, anxious).


Or by an unfortunate secret…

Mrs. Hubbard pales. Poirot turns to PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF (70s, Russian aristocrat, aloof).


And secrets, when unsheathed, often bear the cruel sting of truth.

She stiffens. The passengers exchange uneasy glances.


The ice around us mirrors our current predicament, but fear not, for the cracks have begun to show.

Poirot’s gaze intensifies, falling upon RATCHETT (40s, the victim, slick American businessman).


And, like Mr. Ratchett, secrets too, do not survive the cold for long.


Author: AI