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By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in uniform conversing, with a sm 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 zingly cold, and this job of seeing 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 about. T had been rumours, of course, as t always were in such cases. The General’s—his General’s—temper had grown worse and worse. And then t had come this Belgian stranger— the way from England, it seemed. T had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished icer 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 emotiony, his 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 ? To have come so far— To which the stranger (by M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the phrase—But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my ? 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 been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with the zeal and ardour befitting a young icer 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 t a few days, I think? Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have visited. It would be a pity to pass through— comme ça. He snapped his fingers descriptively. Nothing presses—I sh remain t as a tourist for a few days. La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine, said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had 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— five minutes more! Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once more into speech. T 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 sed 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 t is much s. 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. , 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 somew. Two men below her window were talking French. One was a French icer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches. She smiled faintly. She had 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 take ly. 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 . 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, . Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand? M. Poirot assented. T are not many people travelling, I imagine? he said. No, Monsieur. I have two other passengers—both English. A Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad. Monsieur requires anything? Monsieur demanded a sm bottle of Perrier. Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train. T were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission sfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep. When he awoke it was half-past nine he sied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot cee. T was one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to by the conductor. She was t, slim and dark—perhaps twenty-eight years of age. T was a kind of cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she ced to the attendant to bring her more cee which bespoke a kledge of the world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosp 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 ease wver she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate por 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 ced jolie femme. another person entered the restaurant car. This was a t 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 k, breakfast isn’t always a chatty meal. I should hope not. But I don’t bite. The Colonel sat down. Boy, he ced in peremptory fashion. He gave an for eggs and cee. 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. some damned foreigner. True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty. They exchanged a few brief remarks and 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 occasiony asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad w, it became clear, she had been in a post as governess. In the course of conversation they discovered some mutual s, which had the immediate effect of making them more ly 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 ping 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 this, he said. Hush, . Hush. Oh! it’s 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 c 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 , 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 sy 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 . 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 van. Arbuthnot was speaking. Mary— The girl interrupted him. Not . Not . When it’s 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. T 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 ping? It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire under the dining-car. Nothing . It is put out. They are repairing the damage. T 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 t is an hour or two of delay we sh 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 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. T were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected. He ed it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words stood out clearly. Development you predicted in Kassner case has come unexpectedly. return . Voilà ce qui est embêtant, muttered Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock. I sh have to go on to-night, he said to the concierge. At what time does the Simplon Orient ? At nine o’clock, Monsieur. Can you me a sleeper? Assuredly, Monsieur. T 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 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 and crossed the h to the restaurant. As he was giving his 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 , mon cher, said M. Bouc. A little affair in Syria. Ah! and you return —when? To-night. Splendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, w I have affairs. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I presume? Yes. I have just asked them to me a sleeper. It was my intention to remain some days, but I have. received a telegram recing me to England on important business. Ah! sighed M. Bouc. Les affaires—les affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree adays, mon vieux! Some little s I have had, perhaps. Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signy. 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. T were about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen t were 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— seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. the eyes belied this assumption. They were sm, deep-set and crafty. Not that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze ped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second t 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 in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. he ed the glass door and said: Quite ready , 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 , 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 altoher 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. T is much evil in the world. At that moment the door ed and the concierge came towards them. He looked concerned and apoloic. It is extraordinary, Monsieur, he said to Poirot. T 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 t is some party of journalists—of politicians—? I don’t k, 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 . We will arrange something. T 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 ced 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. the world elects to travel to-night! the same you must find room for this gentleman . He is a 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 t sow man of middle age. But yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are full—full—everyw. But what passes itself? demanded M. Bouc angrily. T is a conference somew? It is a party? No, Monsieur. It is . It just happens that many people have elected to travel tonight. M. Bouc made a ing sound of annoyance. At Belgrade, he said, t will be the slip coach from Athens. T will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach. But we do not reach Belgrade until to-morrow evening. The is for to-night. T is no second-class berth ? T is a second-class berth, Monsieur— Well, then— But it is a lady’s berth. t 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 , said Poirot. I must travel in an ordinary carriage. Not at . Not at . He turned once more to the conductor. Everyone has arrived? It is true, said the man, that t is one passenger who has not yet arrived. He spoke slowly, with hesitation. But speak then! 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 recing him to London. He had seen little of his travelling companion. M. Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned his to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down and found himself in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels. The food, too, was unusuy good. It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc owed 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 . around us are people, of classes, of nationalities, of ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought toher. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, perhaps to see each other again. And yet, said Poirot, suppose an accident— Ah, no, my — From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But theless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, these are linked toher—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. T were thirteen people seated t and, as M. Bouc had said, of 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 t 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 ly. Sure, he said. That whatta I say a de time. The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed. Poirot’s eye passed on. Agatha Christie ™ MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 18 At a sm 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 sm and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it. She was speaking 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 sh 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 Dragomir, said M. Bouc in a low tone. She is a Russian. Her husband realised his before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan. Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomir. 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 t 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 . —and so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said, ‘you just can’t apply American methods in this country. It’s natural to the folks to be indolent,’ she said. ‘They just haven’t got any hustle in them—’ But the same you’d to k what our college t is doing. They’ve got a fine staff of teachers. I guess t’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 sm one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting toher. 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 has to be discreet. His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the w, 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 toher. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was not English. Though 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, sm chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. Poor creature, she’s a Swede. As far as I can make out she’s a kind of missionary. A teaching one. A nice creature, but doesn’t talk much English. She was most interested in what I told her about my daughter. Poirot, by , knew about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter. Everyone on the train who could understand English did! How she and her husband were on the staff of a big American college in Smyrna, and how this was Mrs. Hubbard’s first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and their slipshod ways and the condition of their roads. The door next to them ed and the thin pale manservant stepped out. Inside, Poirot caught a glimpse of Mr. Ratchett sitting up in bed. He saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening with anger. Then the door was shut. Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little wide. You k, I’m dead scared of that man. Oh! not the valet—the other. His master. Master, indeed! T’s something wrong about that man. My daughter always says I’m very intuitive. ‘When Mamma s a hunch, she’s dead right,’ that’s what my daughter says. And I’ve got a hunch about that man. He’s next door to me and I don’t like it. I put my grips against the communicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Duo you k, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that man turned out to be a murderer—one of these train robbers you read about. I daresay I’m foolish, but t it is. I’m absolutely scared to death of the man! My daughter said I’d have an easy journey, but somehow I don’t feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel as if anything might happen—anything at . And how that nice young fellow can bear to be his secretary, I can’t think. Colonel Arbuthnot and MacQueen were coming towards them down the corridor. Come into my carriage, MacQueen was saying. It isn’t made up for the night yet. what I want to right about your policy in India is this— The two men passed and went on down the corridor to MacQueen’s carriage. Mrs. Hubbard said good night to Poirot. I guess I’ll go right to bed and read, she said. Good night. Good night, Madame. Poirot passed into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Ratchett’s. He undressed and got into bed, read for about half an hour and then turned out the light. He awoke some hours later, awoke with a start. He knew what it was that had wakened him— a loud groan, almost a cry, somew close at hand. At the same moment the ting of a bell sounded sharply. Poirot sat up and switched on the light. He noticed that the train was at a standstill— presumably at a station. That cry had startled him. He remembered that it was Ratchett who had the next compartment. He got out of bed and ed the door just as the Wagon Lit conductor came hurrying along the corridor and knocked on Ratchett’s door. Poirot kept his door a crack and watched. The conductor tapped a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down. The conductor glanced over his shoulder. At the same moment a voice from within the next compartment ced out: Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé. Bien, Monsieur. The conductor scurried again, to knock at the door w the light was showing. Poirot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched the light. He glanced at his watch. It was just twenty-three minutes to one. Agatha Christie ™ MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS 23 5 THE CRIME He found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing he missed the motion of the train. If it was a station outside, it was curiously quiet. By contrast the noises on the train seemed unusuy loud. He could hear Ratchett moving about next door—a as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound of the tap running, a splashing noise, then another as the basin shut to again. Footsteps passed up the corridor outside, the shuffling footsteps of someone in bedroom slippers. Hercule Poirot lay awake staring at the ceiling. Why was the station outside so silent? His throat felt dry. He had forgotten to ask for his usual bottle of mineral water. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. He would ring for the conductor and ask for some mineral water. His finger went out to the bell, but he paused as in the stillness he heard a ting. The man couldn’t answer every bell at once. Ting. ... Ting. ... Ting. ... It sounded again and again. W was the man? Somebody was ting impatient. Ti-i-i-ing! Whoever it was, was keeping a finger solidly on the push-button. Suddenly with a rush, his footsteps echoing up the aisle, the man came. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot’s own. Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential, apoloic; and a woman’s, insistent and voluble. Mrs. Hubbard! Poirot smiled to himself. The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time. Its proportions were ninety per cent of Mrs. Hubbard’s to a soothing ten per cent of the conductor’s. Finy the matter seemed to be adjusted. Poirot heard distinctly a Bonne nuit, Madame, and a closing door. He pressed his own finger on the bell. The conductor arrived promptly. He looked hot and worried. De l’eau minérale, s’il vous Plaît. Bien, Monsieur. Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot’s eye led him to unburden himself. La dame américaine— Yes? He wiped his forehead. Imagine to yourself the time I have had with her! She insists—but insists—that t is a man in her compartment! Figure to yourself, Monsieur. In a space of this size. He swept a hand round. W would he conceal himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists. She woke up, and t was a man t. And how, I ask, did he out and the door bolted behind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though t were not enough to worry us already. This s— S? But yes, Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The train has stopped. We have run into a sdrift. Heaven ks how long we sh be . I remember once being sed up for seven days. [Small logotype (EMA)]( ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media Group. ІMG appreciates your comments and inquiries. 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