Murder on the Orient Express Read Free Page A

did you think of their personalities?”
    â€œThe young man seemed quite agreeable.”
    â€œAnd the other?”
    â€œTo tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”
    Hercule Poirot was a moment before replying.
    â€œWhen he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as though a wild animal—an animal savage, but savage! you understand—had passed me by.”
    â€œAnd yet he looked altogether of the most respectable.”
    â€œ Précisément! The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”
    â€œYou are fanciful, mon vieux, ” said M. Bouc.
    â€œIt may be so. But I could not rid myself of the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”
    â€œThat respectable American gentleman?”
    â€œThat respectable American gentleman.”
    â€œWell,” said M. Bouc cheerfully. “It may be so. There is much evil in the world.”
    At that moment the door opened and the concierge came towards them. He looked concerned and apologetic.
    â€œIt is extraordinary, Monsieur,” he said to Poirot. “There is not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.”
    â€œComment?” cried M. Bouc. “At this time of year? Ah, without doubt there is some party of journalists—of politicians—?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir,” said the concierge, turning to him respectfully. “But that’s how it is.”
    â€œWell, well,” M. Bouc turned to Poirot. “Have no fear, my friend. We will arrange something. There is always one compartment—the No. 16, which is not engaged. The conductor sees to that!” He smiled, then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time we started.”
    At the station M. Bouc was greeted with respectful empressement by the brown-uniformed Wagon Lit conductor.
    â€œGood evening, Monsieur. Your compartment is the No. 1.”
    He called to the porters and they wheeled their load half-way along the carriage on which the tin plates proclaimed its destination:
    ISTANBUL TRIESTE CALAIS
    â€œYou are full up tonight, I hear?”
    â€œIt is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel tonight!”
    â€œAll the same, you must find room for this gentleman here. He is a friend of mine. He can have the No. 16.”
    â€œIt is taken, Monsieur.”
    â€œWhat? The No. 16?”
    A glance of understanding passed between them, and the conductor smiled. He was a tall, sallow man of middle age.
    â€œBut yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are full—full—everywhere.”
    â€œBut what passes itself?” demanded M. Bouc angrily. “There is a conference somewhere? It is a party?”
    â€œNo, Monsieur. It is only chance. It just happens that many people have elected to travel tonight.”
    M. Bouc made a clicking sound of annoyance.
    â€œAt Belgrade,” he said, “there will be the slip coach from Athens. There will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach—but we do not reach Belgrade until tomorrow evening. The problem is for tonight. There is no second-class berth free?”
    â€œThere is a second-class berth, Monsieur—”
    â€œWell, then—”
    â€œBut it is a lady’s berth. There is already a German woman in the compartment—a lady’s maid.”
    â€œ Là, là, that is awkward,” said M. Bouc.
    â€œDo not distress yourself, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”
    â€œNot at all. Not at all.” He turned once more to the conductor. “Everyone has arrived?”
    â€œIt is true,” said the man, “that there is one passenger who has not yet arrived.”
    He spoke slowly with hesitation.
    â€œBut speak then?”
    â€œNo. 7