Murder on the Orient Express. Агата Кристи

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      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.