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In: Crime, Thrillers and Mystery·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #66446.
The story opens aboard the Plymouth Express, where a nervous Lieutenant Simpson discovers a concealed obstacle under his seat and, moments later, a scream forces the train to halt. The ensuing newspaper report reveals a murdered woman, identified as the Honorable Mrs. Rupert Carrington, née Flossie Halliday, found stabbed after being chloroformed. Poirot, summoned by Halliday, the victim’s wealthy American father, is drawn into a tangled investigation involving a missing jewel case, a mysterious stranger in the carriage, and a series of contradictory alibis. The narrative unfolds through dialogue and meticulous questioning, setting up a classic whodunit that hinges on the interplay of clues, motives, and the cramped confines of a railway compartment.
Christie’s prose captures the clipped, observant tone of a 1930s detective tale, blending Poirot’s methodical reasoning with brisk, witty exchanges. The period details, train travel, telegrams, and aristocratic anxieties, anchor the mystery in an era of elegant intrigue. Readers who relish tightly plotted puzzles, atmospheric settings, and the cerebral charm of Hercule Poirot will find this short‑story collection a satisfying foray into Christie’s celebrated detective universe.
The opening · free to read
Alec Simpson, R. N., stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him.
“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”
“Thank you, sir.” The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.
Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.
Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!
He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.
At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored to shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out halfway into the carriage.
“Why the devil wont it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat....
A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication-cord.
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