Murder on the Orient Express Read Free

immediately.”
    â€œVoilà ce qui est embêtant,” murmured Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock.
    â€œI shall have to go on tonight,” he said to the concierge. “At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?”
    â€œAt nine o’clock, Monsieur.”
    â€œCan you get me a sleeper?”
    â€œAssuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year. The trains are almost empty. First-class or second?”
    â€œFirst.”
    â€œ Très bien, Monsieur. How far are you going?”
    â€œTo London.”
    â€œ 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.
    â€œI have time to dine?”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œAh! 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.
    Poirot sprang up.
    â€œM. Bouc.”
    â€œM. 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.
    â€œYou find yourself far from home, mon cher, ” said M. Bouc.
    â€œA little affair in Syria.”
    â€œAh! And you return home—when?”
    â€œTonight.”
    â€œSplendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I have affairs. You travel on the Simplon-Orient, I presume?”
    â€œYes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It was myintention to remain here some days, but I have received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”
    â€œAh!” sighed M. Bouc. “ Les affaires—les affaires! But you—you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux! ”
    â€œSome little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signally.
    Bouc laughed.
    â€œWe 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. There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half-dozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.
    These two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking 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 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, all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment, and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, and unnatural tensity in the glance.
    Then he rose.
    â€œPay the bill, Hector,” he said.
    His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.
    When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. Presently he opened the glass door and said:
    â€œQuite ready now, Mr. Ratchett.”
    The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.
    â€œEh bien,” said Poirot. “What do you think of those two?”
    â€œThey are Americans,” said M. Bouc.
    â€œAssuredly they are Americans. I meant what