Murder on the Orient Express Read Free Page B

berth—a second-class. The gentleman has not yet come, and it is four minutes to nine.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œAn Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A M. Harris.”
    â€œA name of good omen,” said Poirot. “I read my Dickens. M. Harris, he will not arrive.”
    â€œPut Monsieur’s luggage in No. 7,” said M. Bouc. “If this M. Harris arrives we will tell him that he is too late—that berths cannot be retained so long—we will arrange the matter one way or another. What do I care for a M. Harris?”
    â€œAs Monsieur pleases,” said the conductor.
    He spoke to Poirot’s porter, directing him where to go.
    Then he stood aside the steps to let Poirot enter the train. “Tout à fait au bout, Monsieur,” he called. “The end compartment but one.”
    Poirot passed along the corridor, a somewhat slow progress, as most of the people travelling were standing outside their carriages.
    His polite “Pardons” were uttered with the regularity of clockwork. At last he reached the compartment indicated. Inside it, reaching up to a suitcase, was the tall young American of the Tokatlian.
    He frowned as Poirot entered.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.” Then, laboriously in French, “Je crois que vous avez un erreur.”
    Poirot replied in English.
    â€œYou are Mr. Harris?”
    â€œNo, my name is MacQueen. I—”
    But at that moment the voice of the Wagon Lit conductor spoke from over Poirot’s shoulder. An apologetic, rather breathless voice.
    â€œThere is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here.”
    He was hauling up the corridor window as he spoke and began to lift in Poirot’s luggage.
    Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. Doubtless the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the sole use of the other traveller. However, even the most munificent of tips lose their effect when a director of the company is on board and issues his orders.
    The conductor emerged from the compartment, having swung the suitcases up on to the racks.
    â€œVoilà Monsieur,” he said. “All is arranged. Yours is the upper berth, the number 7. We start in one minute.”
    He hurried off down the corridor. Poirot reentered the compartment.
    â€œA phenomenon I have seldom seen,” he said cheerfully. “A Wagon Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!”
    His fellow traveller smiled. He had evidently got over his annoyance—had probably decided that it was no good to take the matter other than philosophically.
    â€œThe train’s remarkably full,” he said.
    A whistle blew, there was a long, melancholy cry from the engine. Both men stepped out into the corridor.
    Outside a voice shouted.
    â€œEn voiture.”
    â€œWe’re off,” said MacQueen.
    But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.
    â€œI say, sir,” said the young man suddenly, “if you’d rather have the lower berth—easier, and all that—well, that’s all right by me.”
    â€œNo, no,” protested Poirot. “I would not deprive you—”
    â€œThat’s all right—”
    â€œYou are too amiable—”
    Polite protests on both sides.
    â€œIt is for one night only,” explained Poirot. “At Belgrade—”
    â€œOh, I see. You’re getting out at Belgrade—”
    â€œNot exactly. You see—”
    There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the window, looking out at the long, lighted platform as it slid slowly past them.
    The Orient Express had started on its three-days’ journey across Europe.

Three
P OIROT R EFUSES A C ASE
    M . Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car on the following day. He had risen early, breakfasted almost alone, and had