Murder on the Orient Express / Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе». Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 —”
“There is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here,” said the sleeping-car conductor apologetically.
Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. No doubt, the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the exclusive use of the other traveller.
However, even the most generous of tips lose their effect when a Director of the Company is on board and gives his orders.
“The train's remarkably full,” said the young man. He had evidently got over his annoyance and decided to take the matter philosophically.
The No. 7 was the upper berth.
“I say, Sir,” said MacQueen. “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. “It is for one night only. At Belgrade —”
“Oh! I see. You're getting out at Belgrade —”
“Not exactly. You see —”
There was a sudden jerk, and then the long lighted platform glided slowly past them.
The Orient Express had begun its journey across Europe.
Chapter III
Poirot Refuses a Case
On the following day, M. Hercule Poirot rose early, had breakfast almost alone, and spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He saw little of his travelling companion.
When he entered the dining-car at lunch time, M. Bouc, who was already seated, invited