Chapter 1
AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS
It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.
By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in uniform conversing, with a small man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward-curled moustache.
It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General’s—his General’s—temper had grown worse and worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed. There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General, Lieutenant Dubosc’s own particular General, had suddenly looked ten years younger.
Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger. “You have saved us, mon cher,” said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke. “You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—”
To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the phrase—“But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the General had made another fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and with more mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had embraced each other heartily and the conversation had ended.
As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.
“To-day is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be in Stamboul.”
It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations on the platform, before the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.
“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.
“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”
“Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through—comme ça.” He snapped his fingers descriptively. “Nothing presses—I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days.”
“La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had never seen it.
A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five—only five minutes more!
Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once more into speech.
“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.
“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.
“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”
“That happens?”
“It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.”
“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.
“Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.”
“In Germany, too, I have heard.”
“Eh bien,” said Lieutenant Dubosc hastily as another pause seemed to be about to occur. “Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in Constantinople.”
“Yes,” said M. Poirot, and went on desperately, “La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very fine.”
“Magnificent, I believe.”
Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car compartments was pushed aside and a young woman looked out.
Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday. Neither in the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment, she got up and peered out.
This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poorly lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in Arabic going on somewhere. Two men below her window were talking French. One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches. She smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up. It must be very cold outside. That was why they heated the train so terribly. She tried to force the window down lower, but it would not go.
The Wagon Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train was about to depart, he said. Monsieur had better mount. The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had! In spite of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort of little man one could never take seriously.
Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech. He had thought it out beforehand and had kept it till the last minute. It was a very beautiful, polished speech.
Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind. ...
“En voiture, Monsieur,” said the Wagon Lit conductor. With an air of infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute. The train, with a terrific jerk, moved slowly forward.
“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full how cold he was.
“Voilà, Monsieur!” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of Monsieur, I have put it here.”
His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.
“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand?”
M. Poirot assented. “There are not many people travelling, I imagine?” he said.
“No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers—both English. A Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad. Monsieur requires anything?”
Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.
Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot coffee.
There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark—perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.
M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying her without appearing to do so.
She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black head with its neat waves of hair, and her eyes—cool, impersonal and grey. But she was, he decided, just a little too efficient to be what he called “jolie femme.”
Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a tall man of between forty and fifty, lean of figure, brown of skin, with hair slightly grizzled round the temples.
“The Colonel from India,” said Poirot to himself.
The newcomer gave a little bow to the girl. “Morning, Miss Debenham.”
“Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot.”
The Colonel was standing with a hand on the chair opposite her.
“Any objections?” he asked.
“Of course not. Sit down.”
“Well, you know, breakfast isn’t always a chatty meal.”
“I should hope not. But I don’t bite.”
The Colonel sat down. “Boy,” he called in peremptory fashion.
He gave an order for eggs and coffee.
His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on indifferently. Poirot, reading the English mind correctly, knew that he had said to himself. “Only some damned foreigner.”
True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty. They exchanged a few brief remarks and presently the girl rose and went back to her compartment.
At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they both completely ignored the third passenger. Their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnot talked of the Punjab and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where, it became clear, she had been in a post as governess. In the course of conversation they discovered some mutual friends, which had the immediate effect of making them more friendly and less stiff. They discussed old Tommy Somebody and old Reggie Someone Else. The Colonel inquired whether she was going straight through to England or whether she was stopping in Stamboul.
“No, I’m going straight on.”
“Isn’t that rather a pity?”
“I came out this way two years ago and spent three days in Stamboul then.”
“Oh! I see. Well, I may say I’m very glad you are going right through, because I am.”
He made a kind of clumsy little bow, flushing a little as he did so.
“He is susceptible, our Colonel,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself with some amusement. “The train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!”
Miss Debenham said evenly that that would be very nice. Her manner was slightly repressive.
The Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her back to her compartment. Later they passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus. As they looked down towards the Cilician Gates, standing in the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. Poirot was standing near them and heard her murmur:
“It’s so beautiful! I wish—I wish—”
“Yes?”
“I wish I could enjoy it!”
Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw seemed a little sterner and grimmer.
“I wish to Heaven you were out of all this,” he said.
“Hush, please. Hush.”
“Oh! it’s all right.” He shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot’s direction. Then he went on: “But I don’t like the idea of your being a governess—at the beck and call of tyrannical mothers and their tiresome brats.”
She laughed with just a hint of uncontrol in the sound.
“Oh! you mustn’t think that. The downtrodden governess is quite an exploded myth. I can assure you that it’s the parents who are afraid of being bullied by me.”
They said no more. Arbuthnot was, perhaps, ashamed of his outburst.
“Rather an odd little comedy that I watch here,” said Poirot to himself thoughtfully.
He was to remember that thought of his later.
They arrived at Konya that night about half-past eleven. The two English travellers got out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the snowy platform.
M. Poirot was content to watch the teeming activity of the station through a window pane. After about ten minutes, however, he decided that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad thing after all. He made careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers and encasing his neat boots in goloshes. Thus attired, he descended gingerly to the platform and began to pace its length. He walked out beyond the engine.
It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct figures standing in the shadow of a traffic van. Arbuthnot was speaking.
“Mary—”
The girl interrupted him.
“Not now. Not now. When it’s all over. When it’s behind us—then—”
Discreetly M. Poirot turned away. He wondered. ...
He would hardly have recognised the cool, efficient voice of Miss Debenham. ...
“Curious,” he said to himself.
The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled. They spoke little to each other. The girl, he thought, looked anxious. There were dark circles under her eyes.
It was about half-past two in the afternoon when the train came to a halt. Heads were poked out of windows. A little knot of men were clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing at something under the dining-car.
Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who was hurrying past. The man answered, and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham who was standing just behind him.
“What is the matter?” she asked rather breathlessly in French. “Why are we stopping?”
“It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.”
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as something completely unimportant.
“Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!”
“The time?”
“Yes, this will delay us.”
“It is possible—yes,” agreed Poirot.
“But we can’t afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus and catch the Simplon Orient Express on the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two of delay we shall miss the connection.”
“It is possible, yes,” he admitted.
He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling.
“Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, it does. I—I must catch that train.”
She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join Colonel Arbuthnot.
Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train started again. It arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey.
The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. He was separated from his travelling companions on the boat and did not see them again.
On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.
AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS
It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.
By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in uniform conversing, with a small man muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward-curled moustache.
It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General’s—his General’s—temper had grown worse and worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed. There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General, Lieutenant Dubosc’s own particular General, had suddenly looked ten years younger.
Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger. “You have saved us, mon cher,” said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke. “You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—”
To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the phrase—“But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the General had made another fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and with more mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had embraced each other heartily and the conversation had ended.
As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.
“To-day is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be in Stamboul.”
It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations on the platform, before the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.
“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.
“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”
“Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through—comme ça.” He snapped his fingers descriptively. “Nothing presses—I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days.”
“La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had never seen it.
A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five—only five minutes more!
Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once more into speech.
“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.
“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.
“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”
“That happens?”
“It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.”
“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.
“Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.”
“In Germany, too, I have heard.”
“Eh bien,” said Lieutenant Dubosc hastily as another pause seemed to be about to occur. “Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in Constantinople.”
“Yes,” said M. Poirot, and went on desperately, “La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very fine.”
“Magnificent, I believe.”
Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car compartments was pushed aside and a young woman looked out.
Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday. Neither in the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she slept properly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment, she got up and peered out.
This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poorly lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in Arabic going on somewhere. Two men below her window were talking French. One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches. She smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up. It must be very cold outside. That was why they heated the train so terribly. She tried to force the window down lower, but it would not go.
The Wagon Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train was about to depart, he said. Monsieur had better mount. The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had! In spite of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort of little man one could never take seriously.
Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech. He had thought it out beforehand and had kept it till the last minute. It was a very beautiful, polished speech.
Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind. ...
“En voiture, Monsieur,” said the Wagon Lit conductor. With an air of infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed after him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute. The train, with a terrific jerk, moved slowly forward.
“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full how cold he was.
“Voilà, Monsieur!” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of Monsieur, I have put it here.”
His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.
“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand?”
M. Poirot assented. “There are not many people travelling, I imagine?” he said.
“No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers—both English. A Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad. Monsieur requires anything?”
Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.
Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot coffee.
There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark—perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.
M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying her without appearing to do so.
She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black head with its neat waves of hair, and her eyes—cool, impersonal and grey. But she was, he decided, just a little too efficient to be what he called “jolie femme.”
Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a tall man of between forty and fifty, lean of figure, brown of skin, with hair slightly grizzled round the temples.
“The Colonel from India,” said Poirot to himself.
The newcomer gave a little bow to the girl. “Morning, Miss Debenham.”
“Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot.”
The Colonel was standing with a hand on the chair opposite her.
“Any objections?” he asked.
“Of course not. Sit down.”
“Well, you know, breakfast isn’t always a chatty meal.”
“I should hope not. But I don’t bite.”
The Colonel sat down. “Boy,” he called in peremptory fashion.
He gave an order for eggs and coffee.
His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on indifferently. Poirot, reading the English mind correctly, knew that he had said to himself. “Only some damned foreigner.”
True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty. They exchanged a few brief remarks and presently the girl rose and went back to her compartment.
At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they both completely ignored the third passenger. Their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnot talked of the Punjab and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where, it became clear, she had been in a post as governess. In the course of conversation they discovered some mutual friends, which had the immediate effect of making them more friendly and less stiff. They discussed old Tommy Somebody and old Reggie Someone Else. The Colonel inquired whether she was going straight through to England or whether she was stopping in Stamboul.
“No, I’m going straight on.”
“Isn’t that rather a pity?”
“I came out this way two years ago and spent three days in Stamboul then.”
“Oh! I see. Well, I may say I’m very glad you are going right through, because I am.”
He made a kind of clumsy little bow, flushing a little as he did so.
“He is susceptible, our Colonel,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself with some amusement. “The train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!”
Miss Debenham said evenly that that would be very nice. Her manner was slightly repressive.
The Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her back to her compartment. Later they passed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus. As they looked down towards the Cilician Gates, standing in the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. Poirot was standing near them and heard her murmur:
“It’s so beautiful! I wish—I wish—”
“Yes?”
“I wish I could enjoy it!”
Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw seemed a little sterner and grimmer.
“I wish to Heaven you were out of all this,” he said.
“Hush, please. Hush.”
“Oh! it’s all right.” He shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot’s direction. Then he went on: “But I don’t like the idea of your being a governess—at the beck and call of tyrannical mothers and their tiresome brats.”
She laughed with just a hint of uncontrol in the sound.
“Oh! you mustn’t think that. The downtrodden governess is quite an exploded myth. I can assure you that it’s the parents who are afraid of being bullied by me.”
They said no more. Arbuthnot was, perhaps, ashamed of his outburst.
“Rather an odd little comedy that I watch here,” said Poirot to himself thoughtfully.
He was to remember that thought of his later.
They arrived at Konya that night about half-past eleven. The two English travellers got out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the snowy platform.
M. Poirot was content to watch the teeming activity of the station through a window pane. After about ten minutes, however, he decided that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad thing after all. He made careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers and encasing his neat boots in goloshes. Thus attired, he descended gingerly to the platform and began to pace its length. He walked out beyond the engine.
It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct figures standing in the shadow of a traffic van. Arbuthnot was speaking.
“Mary—”
The girl interrupted him.
“Not now. Not now. When it’s all over. When it’s behind us—then—”
Discreetly M. Poirot turned away. He wondered. ...
He would hardly have recognised the cool, efficient voice of Miss Debenham. ...
“Curious,” he said to himself.
The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled. They spoke little to each other. The girl, he thought, looked anxious. There were dark circles under her eyes.
It was about half-past two in the afternoon when the train came to a halt. Heads were poked out of windows. A little knot of men were clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing at something under the dining-car.
Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who was hurrying past. The man answered, and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham who was standing just behind him.
“What is the matter?” she asked rather breathlessly in French. “Why are we stopping?”
“It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.”
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as something completely unimportant.
“Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!”
“The time?”
“Yes, this will delay us.”
“It is possible—yes,” agreed Poirot.
“But we can’t afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55, and one has to cross the Bosphorus and catch the Simplon Orient Express on the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two of delay we shall miss the connection.”
“It is possible, yes,” he admitted.
He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling.
“Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, it does. I—I must catch that train.”
She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join Colonel Arbuthnot.
Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train started again. It arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey.
The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. He was separated from his travelling companions on the boat and did not see them again.
On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.
-------------------
At the Tokatlian, Hercule Poirot asked for a room with bath. Then he stepped over to the concierge’s desk and inquired for letters.
There were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.
He opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words stood out clearly.
Development you predicted in Kassner case has come unexpectedly. Please return immediately.
“Voilà ce qui est embêtant,” muttered Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock. “I shall have to go on to-night,” he said to the concierge. “At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?”
“At nine o’clock, Monsieur.”
“Can you get me a sleeper?”
“Assuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year. The trains are almost empty. First-class or second?”
“First.”
“Très bien, Monsieur. How far are you going?”
“To London.”
“Bien, Monsieur. I will get you a ticket to London and reserve your sleeping-car accommodation in the Stamboul-Calais coach.”
Poirot glanced at the clock again. It was ten minutes to eight. “I have time to dine?”
“But assuredly, Monsieur.”
The little Belgian nodded. He went over and cancelled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
As he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Ah, mon vieux, but this is an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.
The speaker was a short stout elderly man, his hair cut en brosse. He was smiling delightedly.
Poiret sprang up.
“M. Bouc!”
“M. Poirot!”
M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.
“You find yourself far from home, mon cher,” said M. Bouc.
“A little affair in Syria.”
“Ah! and you return home—when?”
“To-night.”
“Splendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I have affairs. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I presume?”
“Yes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It was my intention to remain here some days, but I have. received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”
“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Les affaires—les affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!”
“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signally.
M. Bouc laughed.
“We will meet later,” he said.
Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.
That difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him whilst waiting for the next course. There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.
These two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective’s attention.
He was a man perhaps of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth—all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity in the glance.
Then he rose.
“Pay the bill, Hector,” he said.
His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.
When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. Presently he opened the glass door and said:
“Quite ready now, Mr. Ratchett.”
The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “What do you think of those two?”
“They are Americans,” said M. Bouc.
“Assuredly they are Americans. I meant what did you think of their personalities?”
“The young man seemed quite agreeable.”
“And the other?”
“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”
Hercule Poirot was a moment in replying.
“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as though a wild animal—an animal savage, but savage! you understand—had passed me by.”
“And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable.”
“Précisément! The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”
“You are fanciful, mon vieux,” said M. Bouc.
“It may be so. But I could not rid myself of the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”
“That respectable American gentleman?”
“That respectable American gentleman.”
“Well,” said M. Bouc cheerfully, “it may be so. There is much evil in the world.”
At that moment the door opened and the concierge came towards them. He looked concerned and apologetic.
“It is extraordinary, Monsieur,” he said to Poirot. “There is not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.”
“Comment?” cried M. Bouc. “At this time of year? Ah, without doubt there is some party of journalists—of politicians—?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the concierge, turning to him respectfully. “But that’s how it is.”
“Well, well.” M. Bouc turned to Poirot. “Have no fear, my friend. We will arrange something. There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which is not engaged. The conductor sees to that!” He smiled, then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time we started.”
At the station M. Bouc was greeted with respectful empressement by the brown-uniformed Wagon Lit conductor.
“Good evening, Monsieur. Your compartment is the No. 1.”
He called to the porters and they wheeled their load halfway along the carriage on which the tin plates proclaimed its destination:
ISTANBUL TRIESTE CALAIS
“You are full up to-night, I hear?”
“It is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel to-night!”
“All the same you must find room for this gentleman here. He is a friend of mine. He can have the No. 16.”
“It is taken, Monsieur.”
“What? The No. 16?”
A glance of understanding passed between them, and the conductor smiled. He was a tall sallow man of middle age.
“But yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are full—full—everywhere.”
“But what passes itself?” demanded M. Bouc angrily. “There is a conference somewhere? It is a party?”
“No, Monsieur. It is only chance. It just happens that many people have elected to travel to-night.”
M. Bouc made a clicking sound of annoyance.
“At Belgrade,” he said, “there will be the slip coach from Athens. There will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach. But we do not reach Belgrade until to-morrow evening. The problem is for to-night. There is no second-class berth free?”
“There is a second-class berth, Monsieur—”
“Well, then—”
“But it is a lady’s berth. there is already a German woman in the compartment—a lady’s maid.”
“Là- là, that is awkward,” said M. Bouc.
“Do not distress yourself, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”
“Not at all. Not at all.” He turned once more to the conductor. “Everyone has arrived?”
“It is true,” said the man, “that there is one passenger who has not yet arrived.” He spoke slowly, with hesitation.
“But speak then!”
“No. 7 berth—a second-class. The gentleman has not yet come, and it is four minutes to nine.”
“Who is it?”
“An Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A M. Harris.”
“A name of good omen,” said Poirot. “I read my Dickens. M. Harris he will not arrive.”
“Put Monsieur’s luggage in No. 7,” said M. Bouc. “If this M. Harris arrives we will tell him that he is too late—that berths cannot be retained so long—we will arrange the matter one way or another. What do I care for a M. Harris?”
“As Monsieur pleases,” said the conductor. He spoke to Poirot’s porter, directing him where to go. Then he stood aside from the steps to let Poirot enter the train.
“Tout à fait au bout, Monsieur,” he called. “The end compartment but one.”
Poirot passed along the corridor, a somewhat slow progress, since most of the people travelling were standing outside their carriages.
His polite “Pardons” were uttered with the regularity of clockwork. At last he reached the compartment indicated. Inside it, reaching up to a suitcase, was the tall young American of the Tokatlian.
He frowned as Poirot entered.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.” Then, laboriously in French: “Je crois qua vous avez un erreur.”
Poirot replied in English. “You are Mr. Harris?”
“No, my name is MacQueen. I—”
But at that moment the voice of the Wagon Lit conductor spoke from over Poirot’s shoulder—an apologetic, rather breathless voice.
“There is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here.”
He was hauling up the corridor window as he spoke and began to lift in Poirot’s luggage.
Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. Doubtless the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the sole use of the other traveller. However, even the most munificent of tips lose their effect when a Director of the Company is on board and issues his orders.
The conductor emerged from the compartment, having swung the suitcases up onto the racks.
“Voilà, Monsieur,” he said. “All is arranged. Yours is the upper berth, the No. 7. We start in one minute.”
He hurried off down the corridor. Poirot re-entered the compartment.
“A phenomenon I have seldom seen,” he said cheerfully. “A Wagon Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!”
His fellow traveller smiled. He had evidently got over his annoyance—had probably decided that it was no good to take the matter otherwise than philosophically. “The train’s remarkably full,” he said.
A whistle blew, there was a long melancholy cry from the engine. Both men stepped out into the corridor. Outside a voice shouted, “En voiture!”
“We’re off,” said MacQueen.
But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.
“I say, sir,” said the young man suddenly. “If you’d rather have the lower berth—easier and all that—well, that’s all right by me.”
A likeable young fellow.
“No, no,” protested Poirot. “I would not deprive you—”
“That’s all right—”
“You are too amiable—”
Polite protests on both sides.
“It is for one night only,” explained Poirot. “At Belgrade—”
“Oh! I see. You’re getting out at Belgrade—”
“Not exactly. You see—”
There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the window, looking out at the long lighted platform as it slid slowly past them.
The Orient Express had started on its three-day journey across Europe.
There were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.
He opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words stood out clearly.
Development you predicted in Kassner case has come unexpectedly. Please return immediately.
“Voilà ce qui est embêtant,” muttered Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock. “I shall have to go on to-night,” he said to the concierge. “At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?”
“At nine o’clock, Monsieur.”
“Can you get me a sleeper?”
“Assuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year. The trains are almost empty. First-class or second?”
“First.”
“Très bien, Monsieur. How far are you going?”
“To London.”
“Bien, Monsieur. I will get you a ticket to London and reserve your sleeping-car accommodation in the Stamboul-Calais coach.”
Poirot glanced at the clock again. It was ten minutes to eight. “I have time to dine?”
“But assuredly, Monsieur.”
The little Belgian nodded. He went over and cancelled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
As he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Ah, mon vieux, but this is an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.
The speaker was a short stout elderly man, his hair cut en brosse. He was smiling delightedly.
Poiret sprang up.
“M. Bouc!”
“M. Poirot!”
M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.
“You find yourself far from home, mon cher,” said M. Bouc.
“A little affair in Syria.”
“Ah! and you return home—when?”
“To-night.”
“Splendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I have affairs. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I presume?”
“Yes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It was my intention to remain here some days, but I have. received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”
“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Les affaires—les affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!”
“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signally.
M. Bouc laughed.
“We will meet later,” he said.
Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.
That difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him whilst waiting for the next course. There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.
These two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective’s attention.
He was a man perhaps of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth—all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity in the glance.
Then he rose.
“Pay the bill, Hector,” he said.
His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.
When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. Presently he opened the glass door and said:
“Quite ready now, Mr. Ratchett.”
The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “What do you think of those two?”
“They are Americans,” said M. Bouc.
“Assuredly they are Americans. I meant what did you think of their personalities?”
“The young man seemed quite agreeable.”
“And the other?”
“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”
Hercule Poirot was a moment in replying.
“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as though a wild animal—an animal savage, but savage! you understand—had passed me by.”
“And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable.”
“Précisément! The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”
“You are fanciful, mon vieux,” said M. Bouc.
“It may be so. But I could not rid myself of the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”
“That respectable American gentleman?”
“That respectable American gentleman.”
“Well,” said M. Bouc cheerfully, “it may be so. There is much evil in the world.”
At that moment the door opened and the concierge came towards them. He looked concerned and apologetic.
“It is extraordinary, Monsieur,” he said to Poirot. “There is not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.”
“Comment?” cried M. Bouc. “At this time of year? Ah, without doubt there is some party of journalists—of politicians—?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the concierge, turning to him respectfully. “But that’s how it is.”
“Well, well.” M. Bouc turned to Poirot. “Have no fear, my friend. We will arrange something. There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which is not engaged. The conductor sees to that!” He smiled, then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time we started.”
At the station M. Bouc was greeted with respectful empressement by the brown-uniformed Wagon Lit conductor.
“Good evening, Monsieur. Your compartment is the No. 1.”
He called to the porters and they wheeled their load halfway along the carriage on which the tin plates proclaimed its destination:
ISTANBUL TRIESTE CALAIS
“You are full up to-night, I hear?”
“It is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel to-night!”
“All the same you must find room for this gentleman here. He is a friend of mine. He can have the No. 16.”
“It is taken, Monsieur.”
“What? The No. 16?”
A glance of understanding passed between them, and the conductor smiled. He was a tall sallow man of middle age.
“But yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are full—full—everywhere.”
“But what passes itself?” demanded M. Bouc angrily. “There is a conference somewhere? It is a party?”
“No, Monsieur. It is only chance. It just happens that many people have elected to travel to-night.”
M. Bouc made a clicking sound of annoyance.
“At Belgrade,” he said, “there will be the slip coach from Athens. There will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach. But we do not reach Belgrade until to-morrow evening. The problem is for to-night. There is no second-class berth free?”
“There is a second-class berth, Monsieur—”
“Well, then—”
“But it is a lady’s berth. there is already a German woman in the compartment—a lady’s maid.”
“Là- là, that is awkward,” said M. Bouc.
“Do not distress yourself, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”
“Not at all. Not at all.” He turned once more to the conductor. “Everyone has arrived?”
“It is true,” said the man, “that there is one passenger who has not yet arrived.” He spoke slowly, with hesitation.
“But speak then!”
“No. 7 berth—a second-class. The gentleman has not yet come, and it is four minutes to nine.”
“Who is it?”
“An Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A M. Harris.”
“A name of good omen,” said Poirot. “I read my Dickens. M. Harris he will not arrive.”
“Put Monsieur’s luggage in No. 7,” said M. Bouc. “If this M. Harris arrives we will tell him that he is too late—that berths cannot be retained so long—we will arrange the matter one way or another. What do I care for a M. Harris?”
“As Monsieur pleases,” said the conductor. He spoke to Poirot’s porter, directing him where to go. Then he stood aside from the steps to let Poirot enter the train.
“Tout à fait au bout, Monsieur,” he called. “The end compartment but one.”
Poirot passed along the corridor, a somewhat slow progress, since most of the people travelling were standing outside their carriages.
His polite “Pardons” were uttered with the regularity of clockwork. At last he reached the compartment indicated. Inside it, reaching up to a suitcase, was the tall young American of the Tokatlian.
He frowned as Poirot entered.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.” Then, laboriously in French: “Je crois qua vous avez un erreur.”
Poirot replied in English. “You are Mr. Harris?”
“No, my name is MacQueen. I—”
But at that moment the voice of the Wagon Lit conductor spoke from over Poirot’s shoulder—an apologetic, rather breathless voice.
“There is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here.”
He was hauling up the corridor window as he spoke and began to lift in Poirot’s luggage.
Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. Doubtless the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the sole use of the other traveller. However, even the most munificent of tips lose their effect when a Director of the Company is on board and issues his orders.
The conductor emerged from the compartment, having swung the suitcases up onto the racks.
“Voilà, Monsieur,” he said. “All is arranged. Yours is the upper berth, the No. 7. We start in one minute.”
He hurried off down the corridor. Poirot re-entered the compartment.
“A phenomenon I have seldom seen,” he said cheerfully. “A Wagon Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!”
His fellow traveller smiled. He had evidently got over his annoyance—had probably decided that it was no good to take the matter otherwise than philosophically. “The train’s remarkably full,” he said.
A whistle blew, there was a long melancholy cry from the engine. Both men stepped out into the corridor. Outside a voice shouted, “En voiture!”
“We’re off,” said MacQueen.
But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.
“I say, sir,” said the young man suddenly. “If you’d rather have the lower berth—easier and all that—well, that’s all right by me.”
A likeable young fellow.
“No, no,” protested Poirot. “I would not deprive you—”
“That’s all right—”
“You are too amiable—”
Polite protests on both sides.
“It is for one night only,” explained Poirot. “At Belgrade—”
“Oh! I see. You’re getting out at Belgrade—”
“Not exactly. You see—”
There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the window, looking out at the long lighted platform as it slid slowly past them.
The Orient Express had started on its three-day journey across Europe.
-----------------------------
M. Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car on the following day. He had risen early, had breakfasted almost alone, and had spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He had seen little of his travelling companion.
M. Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned his friend to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down and soon found himself in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels. The food, too, was unusually good.
It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc allowed his attention to wander to matters other than nourishment. He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.
“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had but the pen of a Balzac! I would depict this scene.” He waved a hand.
“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.
“Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet—it lends itself to romance, my friend. All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never perhaps to see each other again.”
“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident—”
“Ah, no, my friend—”
“From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together—by death.”
“Some more wine,” said M. Bouc, hastily pouring it out. “You are morbid, mon cher. It is, perhaps the digestion.”
“It is true,” agreed Poirot, “that the food in Syria was not perhaps quite suited to my stomach.”
He sipped his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people seated there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.
At the table opposite them were three men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded and placed there by the unerring judgment of the restaurant attendants. A big swarthy Italian was picking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him a spare neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a loud suit—possibly a commercial traveller.
“You’ve got to put it over big,” he was saying in a loud, nasal voice.
The Italian removed his toothpick to gesticulate with it freely.
“Sure,” he said. “That whatta I say alla de time.”
The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed.
Poirot’s eye passed on.
At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction—it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.
She was speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a clear, courteous, but completely autocratic tone.
“You will be sufficiently amiable to place in my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening—also some boiled fish.”
The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done.
She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot’s and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.
“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husband realised all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan.”
Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.
“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes herself felt. You agree?”
Poirot agreed.
At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged, in a plaid blouse and tweed skirt. She had a mass of faded yellow hair unbecomingly arranged in a large bun, wore glasses, and had a long mild amiable face rather like a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.
“—and so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said, ‘you just can’t apply American methods in this country. It’s natural to the folks here to be indolent,’ she said. ‘They just haven’t got any hustle in them—’ But all the same you’d be surprised to know what our college there is doing. They’ve got a fine staff of teachers. I guess there’s nothing like education. We’ve got to apply our Western ideals and teach the East to recognise them. My daughter says—”
The train plunged into a tunnel. The calm, monotonous voice was drowned.
At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed. Why?
Perhaps, Poirot thought, Mary Debenham had demurred. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl with her living to get has to be discreet.
His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, he thought. Probably the German lady’s-maid.
Beyond her were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was not English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Poirot, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of thirty-odd with a big fair moustache.
The woman opposite him was a mere girl—twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large brown eyes, jet black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.
“Elle est jolie—et chic,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife—eh?”
M. Bouc nodded. “Hungarian Embassy, I believe,” he said. “A handsome couple.”
There were only two more lunchers—Poirot’s fellow traveller MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and for the second time Poirot studied that unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.
Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend’s expression.
“It is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.
Poirot nodded.
As his coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot he had finished some time ago.
“I return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along presently and converse with me.”
“With pleasure.”
Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady’s voice rose shrill and plaintive.
“My daughter said: ‘Take a book of food tickets and you’ll have no trouble—no trouble at all.’ Now, that isn’t so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle of mineral water—and a queer sort of water too. They didn’t have any Evian or Vichy, which seems queer to me.”
“It is—they must—how do you say?—serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.
“Well, it seems queer to me.” She looked distastefully at the heap of small change on the table in front of her. “Look at all this peculiar stuff he’s given me. Dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish, it looks like! My daughter said—”
Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering up her despised money the American woman followed suit, followed by the other one like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.
Ratchett spoke to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but instead of following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.
“Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft—faintly nasal. “My name is Ratchett.”
Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.
“I think,” he went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”
Poirot bowed again. “You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”
The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.
“In my country,” he said, “we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows went up a trifle.
“My clientèle, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases.”
“Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.” He repeated again in his soft, persuasive voice, “Big money.”
Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said: “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur—er—Ratchett?”
“Mr. Poirot, I am a rich man—a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”
“Only one enemy?”
“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.
“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually resolve itself into one enemy only.”
Ratchett seemed relieved by—Poirot’s answer. He said quickly:
“Why, yes, I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies—it doesn’t matter. What does matter is my safety.”
“Safety?”
“My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now I’m a man who can take pretty good care of himself.” From the pocket of his coat his hand brought a small automatic into sight for a moment. He continued grimly. “I don’t think I’m the kind of man to be caught napping. But, as I look at it, I might as well make assurance doubly sure. I fancy you’re the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And remember—big money.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. His face was completely expressionless. The other could have had no clue as to what thoughts were passing in that mind.
“I regret, Monsieur,” he said at length, “that I cannot oblige you.”
The other looked at him shrewdly. “Name your figure, then,” he said.
Poirot shook his head.
“You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as—interest me.”
“You’ve got a pretty good nerve,” said Ratchett. “Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?”
“It will not.”
“If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it. I know what a thing’s worth to me.”
“I, also, M. Ratchett.”
“What’s wrong with my proposition?”
Poirot rose. “If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said.
And with that he left the restaurant car.
M. Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned his friend to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down and soon found himself in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels. The food, too, was unusually good.
It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc allowed his attention to wander to matters other than nourishment. He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.
“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had but the pen of a Balzac! I would depict this scene.” He waved a hand.
“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.
“Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet—it lends itself to romance, my friend. All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never perhaps to see each other again.”
“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident—”
“Ah, no, my friend—”
“From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together—by death.”
“Some more wine,” said M. Bouc, hastily pouring it out. “You are morbid, mon cher. It is, perhaps the digestion.”
“It is true,” agreed Poirot, “that the food in Syria was not perhaps quite suited to my stomach.”
He sipped his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people seated there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.
At the table opposite them were three men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded and placed there by the unerring judgment of the restaurant attendants. A big swarthy Italian was picking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him a spare neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a loud suit—possibly a commercial traveller.
“You’ve got to put it over big,” he was saying in a loud, nasal voice.
The Italian removed his toothpick to gesticulate with it freely.
“Sure,” he said. “That whatta I say alla de time.”
The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed.
Poirot’s eye passed on.
At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction—it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.
She was speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a clear, courteous, but completely autocratic tone.
“You will be sufficiently amiable to place in my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening—also some boiled fish.”
The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done.
She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot’s and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.
“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husband realised all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan.”
Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.
“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes herself felt. You agree?”
Poirot agreed.
At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged, in a plaid blouse and tweed skirt. She had a mass of faded yellow hair unbecomingly arranged in a large bun, wore glasses, and had a long mild amiable face rather like a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.
“—and so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said, ‘you just can’t apply American methods in this country. It’s natural to the folks here to be indolent,’ she said. ‘They just haven’t got any hustle in them—’ But all the same you’d be surprised to know what our college there is doing. They’ve got a fine staff of teachers. I guess there’s nothing like education. We’ve got to apply our Western ideals and teach the East to recognise them. My daughter says—”
The train plunged into a tunnel. The calm, monotonous voice was drowned.
At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed. Why?
Perhaps, Poirot thought, Mary Debenham had demurred. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl with her living to get has to be discreet.
His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, he thought. Probably the German lady’s-maid.
Beyond her were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was not English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Poirot, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of thirty-odd with a big fair moustache.
The woman opposite him was a mere girl—twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large brown eyes, jet black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.
“Elle est jolie—et chic,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife—eh?”
M. Bouc nodded. “Hungarian Embassy, I believe,” he said. “A handsome couple.”
There were only two more lunchers—Poirot’s fellow traveller MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and for the second time Poirot studied that unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.
Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend’s expression.
“It is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.
Poirot nodded.
As his coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot he had finished some time ago.
“I return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along presently and converse with me.”
“With pleasure.”
Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady’s voice rose shrill and plaintive.
“My daughter said: ‘Take a book of food tickets and you’ll have no trouble—no trouble at all.’ Now, that isn’t so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle of mineral water—and a queer sort of water too. They didn’t have any Evian or Vichy, which seems queer to me.”
“It is—they must—how do you say?—serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.
“Well, it seems queer to me.” She looked distastefully at the heap of small change on the table in front of her. “Look at all this peculiar stuff he’s given me. Dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish, it looks like! My daughter said—”
Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering up her despised money the American woman followed suit, followed by the other one like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.
Ratchett spoke to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but instead of following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.
“Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft—faintly nasal. “My name is Ratchett.”
Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.
“I think,” he went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”
Poirot bowed again. “You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”
The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.
“In my country,” he said, “we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows went up a trifle.
“My clientèle, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases.”
“Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.” He repeated again in his soft, persuasive voice, “Big money.”
Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said: “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur—er—Ratchett?”
“Mr. Poirot, I am a rich man—a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”
“Only one enemy?”
“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.
“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually resolve itself into one enemy only.”
Ratchett seemed relieved by—Poirot’s answer. He said quickly:
“Why, yes, I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies—it doesn’t matter. What does matter is my safety.”
“Safety?”
“My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now I’m a man who can take pretty good care of himself.” From the pocket of his coat his hand brought a small automatic into sight for a moment. He continued grimly. “I don’t think I’m the kind of man to be caught napping. But, as I look at it, I might as well make assurance doubly sure. I fancy you’re the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And remember—big money.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. His face was completely expressionless. The other could have had no clue as to what thoughts were passing in that mind.
“I regret, Monsieur,” he said at length, “that I cannot oblige you.”
The other looked at him shrewdly. “Name your figure, then,” he said.
Poirot shook his head.
“You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as—interest me.”
“You’ve got a pretty good nerve,” said Ratchett. “Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?”
“It will not.”
“If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it. I know what a thing’s worth to me.”
“I, also, M. Ratchett.”
“What’s wrong with my proposition?”
Poirot rose. “If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said.
And with that he left the restaurant car.
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