Murder on the Orient Express / Убийство в «Восточном экспрессе». Агата КристиЧитать онлайн книгу.
life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Of course, I can take pretty good care of myself.” He took out a small automatic from his pocket for a moment. He continued grimly. “But I want to be double confident. I think you're the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And remember – big money.”
Poirot was thoughtful for some minutes.
“I regret, Monsieur,” he said at last, “that I cannot oblige you.”
Ratchett tried to tempt him with twenty thousand dollars payment.
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.”
“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 left the restaurant car.
Chapter IV
A Cry in the Night
That evening the Simplon Orient Express stood at Belgrade station for half an hour (from 8.45 to 9.15). Poirot decided to walk along the platform. But it was so cold that he soon walked back to his compartment. The conductor told him that his luggage had been moved to the compartment No. 1, the compartment of M. Bouc, who had moved into the carriage from Athens which had just been put on.
M. Bouc explained Poirot when he came to see him in his compartment that the new arrangement was more convenient.
“You are going through to England, so it is better that you should stay in the through carriage to Calais. I am very well here. It is most peaceful. There is only one other passenger in this carriage – one little Greek doctor.”
M. Bouc worried that the train might be held up because of the unusually heavy snowfall.
At 9.15 the train pulled out of the station, and soon afterwards Poirot said good night to his friend and went back into his own carriage which was in front next to the dining-car.
In the corridor he saw Colonel Arbuthnot talking to MacQueen. When MacQueen saw Poirot, he broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised.
“You said you were getting off at Belgrade,” he said.
Poirot smiled. “You misunderstood me. I remember now, the train started from Stamboul just as we were talking about it.”
“But your luggage is gone.”
“It has been moved into another compartment.”
Poirot passed on down the corridor, and MacQueen continued his conversation with Arbuthnot.
Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly American, Mrs. Hubbard, was talking to the sheep-like Swedish lady. Mrs. Hubbard nodded amicably to Poirot.
“I hope you'll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“It's just the cold. I'll make myself a cup of tea.”
“Have you got some aspirin? Are you sure now? I've got plenty. Well, good night, my dear.”
She turned to Poirot as the other woman departed.
“A nice creature, but doesn't talk much English. She's a Swede. As I understand, she's a kind of missionary. She was most interested in what I told her about my daughter.”
Everyone on the train who could understand English knew all about Mrs. Hubbard's daughter by now, and that this was Mrs. Hubbard's first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and the condition of their roads.
The door next to them opened and the thin pale manservant went out. Inside Poirot saw Mr. Ratchett sitting up in bed. When he saw Poirot, his face darkened with anger. Then the door was closed.
Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little aside.
“You know, I'm absolutely scared to death of that man. Not the valet – his master. There's something wrong about that man. He's next door to me and I don't like it. My daughter always says I'm very intuitive. I put my grips against the communicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Do you know, I wouldn't be surprised if that man turned out to be a murderer – one of these train robbers. It may be foolish, but I feel as if anything might happen – anything at all.”
Colonel Arbuthnot and MacQueen passed them, talking, and went on down the corridor to MacQueen's compartment.
“I guess I'll go right to bed and read,” Mrs. Hubbard said to Poirot. “Good night.”
“Good night, Madame.”
Poirot went into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Ratchett's. He read for about half an hour and then turned out the light, and fell asleep.
Some hours later he suddenly awoke. He knew what had wakened him – a loud groan, almost a cry, somewhere very close. At the same moment a bell rang loudly.
Poirot switched on the light. He thought they were at some station because the train was at a standstill.
That cry had alarmed him. He remembered that Ratchett was in the next compartment. Just as he opened the door of his own compartment, the sleeping-car conductor came running and knocked on Ratchett's door. Poirot kept his door slightly open and watched. The conductor knocked 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 man's voice from inside Ratchett's compartment said in French that it had been a mistake, and nothing was needed.
The conductor ran to knock at the door where the light was showing.
Poirot felt relieved and returned to bed. He glanced at his watch. It was twenty-three minutes to one.
Chapter V
The Crime
Poirot turned off the light but couldn't sleep. The train still didn't move. If it was a station outside, it was curiously quiet. And inside the train the noises seemed unusually loud. He could hear Ratchett moving about next door – the sound of the washbasin pulled down, the sound of the tap water running, a splashing noise, then the sound of the basin shut again. Footsteps of someone in bedroom slippers passed up the corridor outside.
Poirot felt thirsty and decided to ring for the conductor and ask for some mineral water. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. His finger went out to the bell, but another bell rang at that moment. The conductor couldn't answer every bell at once, so Hercule Poirot waited.
The bell rang and rang, again and again. Where was the conductor? Somebody was getting impatient.
At last the conductor's running footsteps were heard. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot's own.
Then he heard the conductor's apologetic voice and a torrent of words from a woman.
Mrs. Hubbard!
Poirot smiled to himself.
Finally he heard a “Bonne nuit, Madame,” and a closing door. He pressed his own finger on the bell.
The conductor arrived immediately. He looked hot and worried. Poirot asked for mineral water.
Perhaps a glint in Poirot's eye made him unburden himself. “La dame americaine —”
“Yes?”
He wiped his forehead. “She insists – but insists – that there is a man in her compartment! Just imagine, Monsieur. In so small a space, where would he hide? But she will not listen. She insists. She woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door bolted behind him? As though there were not enough to worry us already. This snow —”
“Snow?”
“But yes, Monsieur. We have run into a snowdrift. I remember once being snowed up for seven days.”
“Where are we?”
“Between