Агата Кристи – Murder on the Orient Express / Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе» (страница 2)

The next day, at about half-past two in the afternoon the train stopped. Something had caught fire under the dining-car. It was soon put out, and the damage was repaired. Mary Debenham got very nervous not because of the fire, but because of the possible delay.

“If there is an hour or two of delay, we won't be able to cross the Bosphorus in time to catch the Orient Express on the other side at nine o'clock,” she exclaimed anxiously.

Fortunately, ten minutes later the train started again and arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late.

The Bosphorus was stormy, and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. On the boat, he and his travelling companions were separated, and he did not see them again.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

Chapter II

The Tokatlian Hotel

At the hotel there were three letters waiting for him and a telegram. The telegram was quite unexpected. He was asked to return to London immediately.

Poirot asked the receptionist to reserve a sleeping-car accommodation in the Orient Express for him. Then he glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight. “I have time to dine?”

“But of course, Monsieur.”

The little Belgian nodded. He 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.

“What an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.

The speaker was a short stout elderly man. He was smiling delightedly.

Poiret stood up.

“M. Bouc!”

“M. Poirot!”

M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Sleeping-cars International Company, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.

“So far from home, my dear,” said M. Bouc.

“A little affair in Syria.”

“Ah! And you return home – when?”

“To-night.”

“Splendid! I, too. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I understand?”

“Yes. I wanted to stay here some days, but I have received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”

“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Affaires, affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, old man!”

“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed remarkably.

M. Bouc laughed.

“We will meet later,” he said.

Hercule Poirot ate his soup trying to keep his famous moustache out of it. While waiting for the next course, he glanced round him. There were few people in the restaurant, and of those few only two interested Hercule Poirot.

They sat at a table not far away. The younger was a pleasant – looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. But the little detective's attention was attracted by his companion.

That man was much older – between sixty and seventy. His face with his smiling mouth might produce an impression of kindness, but his eyes, small and deep-set, were cunning. When he looked at Poirot for a second, there was a strange malice, an unnatural tension in his glance. His voice, when he addressed his young companion, had a strange, soft, dangerous quality.

When Poirot joined his friend in the lounge, those two men were just leaving the hotel. Poirot watched them, and after they went out, he asked M. Bouc, “What do you think of those two?”

“They are Americans,” his friend said.

“Surely they are Americans. What do you think of their personalities?”

“The young man seemed quite pleasant.”

“And the other?”

“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not like him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”

Hercule Poirot was silent for a moment.

“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as if a wild animal had passed me by.”

“And yet he looked altogether most respectable.”

“Exactly! The body – the cage – is everything of the most respectable – but through the bars, the wild animal looks out. I had 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 receptionist came up to them. He brought unexpected and unpleasant news to Hercule Poirot: there was not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.

M. Bouc was very much surpised, but he promised to help.

“There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which the conductor keeps vacant!” He smiled; then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time to go.”

But when they arrived at the station, the sleeping-car conductor informed M. Bouc that the No. 16 had been already taken.

“But what's the matter?” asked 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 decided to travel to-night.”

“So annoying,” said M. Bouc.

“Don't worry, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”

“Has everyone arrived?” M. Bouc turned once more to the conductor.

“There is one passenger,” said the man slowly, with hesitation, “who has not yet arrived.”

“What compartment?”

“No. 7 berth, a second class.”

“Who is it?”

“An Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A Mr. Harris.”

“It's a good omen,” said Poirot merrily, “like the made-up Missis Harris from a novel by Dickens. Mr. Harris, he will not arrive.”

M. Bouc told the conductor to put Poirot's luggage in No. 7.

“If this M. Harris arrives, we will settle the matter one way or another.”

When Poirot reached the compartment indicated, he found the tall young American of the Tokatlian there.

He frowned as Poirot entered.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you've made a mistake.”

“You are Mr. Harris?” asked Poirot.

“No, my name is MacQueen. I —”