Murder on the Orient Express

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 recognized 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! The train is due in at 6.55 and one has to cross the Bosphorus and catch the Simplon Orient Express 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 Haydapassar 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.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_e753e5a5-06cb-500f-aade-63f09958384e)

The Tokatlian Hotel (#ulink_e753e5a5-06cb-500f-aade-63f09958384e)

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.’

‘Voilàce qui est embêtant,’ murmured Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock.

‘I shall have to go on tonight,’ 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.’

‘Trés 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.