PART I
THE FACTS
1. AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE
TAURUS EXPRESS
It was five o'clock on a winter's morning in Syria. Alongside the
platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in railway guides
as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a
sleeping-car and two local coaches.
By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French
lieutenant, resplendent in uniform conversing, with a small man
muffled up to the ears of whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped
nose and the two points of an upward-curled moustache.
It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished
stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dubose performed
his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished
French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been
rumours, of course, as there always were in such cases. The
General's—his General's—temper had grown worse and worse. And
then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England,
it seemed. There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then
certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer had
committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, anxious faces had
suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed.
And the General, Lieutenant Dubose's own particular General, had
suddenly looked ten years younger.
Murder on the Orient Express | 1
Dubose had overheard part of a conversation between him and the
stranger. "You have saved us, mon cher," said the General emotionally,
his great white moustache trembling as he spoke. "You have saved the
honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How
can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—"
To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a
fitting reply including the phrase—"But indeed, do 1 not remember that
once you saved my life?" And then the General had made another
fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and
with more mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of
such kindred things they had embraced each other heartily and the
conversation had ended.
As to what it had all been about. Lieutenant Dubose was still in the
dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by
the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and
ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.
"To-day is Sunday," said Lieutenant Dubose. "Tomorrow, Monday
evening, you will be in Stamboul."
It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations
on the platform, before the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat
repetitive in character.
"That is so," agreed M. Poirot.
"And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?"
"Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a
pity to pass through—comme 9 a." He snapped his fingers descriptively.
"Nothing presses—I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days."
"La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine," said Lieutenant Dubose, who had
never seen it.
A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered.
Lieutenant Dubose managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch.
Five minutes to five—only five minutes more!
Fancying that the other man had noticed his glance, he hastened once
more into speech.
"There are few people travelling this time of year," he said, glancing
up at the windows of the sleeping-car above them.
Agatha Christie | 2
"That is so," agreed M. Poirot.
"Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!"
"That happens?"
"It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet."
"Let us hope, then," said M. Poirot. "The weather reports from
Europe, they are bad.
"Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow."
"In Germany, too, I have heard."
"Eh bien," said Lieutenant Dubose hastily as another pause seemed
to be about to occur. "Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in
Constantinople."
"Yes," said M. Poirot, and went on desperately, "La Sainte Sophie, I
have heard it is very fine."
"Magnificent, I believe."
Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car
compartments was pushed aside and a young woman looked out.
Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the
preceding Thursday. Neither in the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest
House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she slept properly. Now,
weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated
compartment, she got up and peered out.
This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poorly
lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in Arabic going on
somewhere. Two men below her window were talking French. One was
a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches.
She smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled
up. It must be very cold outside. That was why they heated the train so
terribly. She tried to force the window down lower, but it would not go.
The Wagon Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train
was about to depart, he said. Monsieur had better mount. The little man
removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had! In spite of her
preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-looking little
man. The sort of little man one could never take seriously.
Murder on the Orient Express | 3
Lieutenant Dubose was saying his parting speech. He had thought it
out beforehand and had kept it till the last minute. It was a very
beautiful, polished speech.
Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind. ...
"En voiture, Monsieur," said the Wagon Lit conductor. With an air
of infinite reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor
climbed after him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubose came
to the salute. The train, with a terrific jerk, moved slowly forward.
"Enfin!" murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
"Brrrrrrrr," said Lieutenant Dubose, realising to the full how cold he
was.
"Voila, Monsieur!" The conductor displayed to Poirot with a
dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment and the neat
arrangement of his luggage. "The little valise of Monsieur, I have put it
here."
His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a
folded note.
"Merci, Monsieur." The conductor became brisk and business-like.
"I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please.
Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand?"
M. Poirot assented. "There are not many people travelling, I
imagine?" he said.
"No, Monsieur. I have only two other passengers—both English. A
Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad. Monsieur
requires anything?"
Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.
Five o'clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train.
There were still two hours before dawn. Conscious of an inadequate
night's sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M.
Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant
car in search of hot coffee.
There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young
English lady referred to by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark—
Agatha Christie | 4
perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kind of cool efficiency
in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to the
attendant to bring her more coffee which bespoke a knowledge of the
world and of travelling. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of
some thin material eminently suitable for the heated atmosphere of the
train.
M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by
studying her without appearing to do so.
She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care
of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and
efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the
delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black head with its
neat waves of hair, and her eyes—cool, impersonal and grey. But she
was, he decided, just a little too efficient to be what he called "jolie
femme."
Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a tall
man of between forty and fifty, lean of figure, brown of skin, with hair
slightly grizzled round the temples.
"The Colonel from India," said Poirot to himself.
The newcomer gave a little bow to the girl. "Morning, Miss
Debenham."
"Good morning. Colonel Arbuthnot."
The Colonel was standing with a hand on the chair opposite her.
"Any objections?" he asked.
"Of course not. Sit down."
"Well, you know, breakfast isn't always a chatty meal."
"I should hope not. But I don't bite."
The Colonel sat down. "Boy," he called in peremptory fashion.
He gave an order for eggs and coffee.
His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on
indifferently. Poirot, reading the English mind correctly, knew that he
had said to himself. "Only some damned foreigner."
True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty.
They exchanged a few brief remarks and presently the girl rose and
went back to her compartment.
Murder on the Orient Express | 5
At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they both
completely ignored the third passenger. Their conversation was more
animated than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnot talked of the Punjab and
occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where, it
became clear, she had been in a post as governess. In the course of
conversation they discovered some mutual friends, which had the
immediate effect of making them more friendly and less stiff. They
discussed old Tommy Somebody and old Reggie Someone Else. The
Colonel inquired whether she was going straight through to England or
whether she was stopping in Stamboul.
"No, I'm going straight on."
"Isn't that rather a pity?"
"I came out this way two years ago and spent three days in Stamboul
then."
"Oh! I see. Well, I may say I'm very glad you are going right
through, because I am."
He made a kind of clumsy little bow, flushing a little as he did so.
"He is susceptible, our Colonel," thought Hercule Poirot to himself
with some amusement. "The train, it is as dangerous as a sea voyage!"
Miss Debenham said evenly that that would be very nice. Her
manner was slightly repressive.
The Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her back to her
compartment. Later they passed through the magnificent scenery of the
Taurus. As they looked down towards the Cilician Gates, standing in
the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. Poirot was
standing near them and heard her murmur:
"It's so beautiful! I wish—I wish—"
"Yes?"
"I wish I could enjoy it!"
Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw seemed a little
sterner and grimmer.
"I wish to Heaven you were out of all this," he said.
"Hush, please. Hush."
"Oh! it's all right." He shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot's
direction. Then he went on: "But I don't like the idea of your being a
Agatha Christie | 6
governess—at the beck and call of tyrannical mothers and their
tiresome brats."
She laughed with just a hint of uncontrol in the sound.
"Oh! you mustn't think that. The downtrodden governess is quite an
exploded myth. I can assure you that it's the parents who are afraid of
being bullied by me."
They said no more. Arbuthnot was, perhaps, ashamed of his
outburst.
"Rather an odd little comedy that I watch here," said Poirot to
himself thoughtfully.
He was to remember that thought of his later.
They arrived at Konya that night about half-past eleven. The two
English travellers got out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the
snowy platform.
M. Poirot was content to watch the teeming activity of the station
through a window pane. After about ten minutes, however, he decided
that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad thing after all. He made
careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers
and encasing his neat boots in goloshes. Thus attired, he descended
gingerly to the platform and began to pace its length. He walked out
beyond the engine.
It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct
figures standing in the shadow of a traffic van. Arbuthnot was
speaking.
"Mary—"
The girl interrupted him.
"Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us—then—
M
Discreetly M. Poirot turned away. He wondered. ...
He would hardly have recognised the cool, efficient voice of Miss
Debenham. ...
"Curious," he said to himself.
The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled.
They spoke little to each other. The girl, he thought, looked anxious.
There were dark circles under her eyes.
Murder on the Orient Express | 7
It was about half-past two in the afternoon when the train came to a
halt. Heads were poked out of windows. A little knot of men were
clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing at something
under the dining-car.
Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who was
hurrying past. The man answered, and Poirot drew back his head and,
turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham who was standing just
behind him.
"What is the matter?" she asked rather breathlessly in French. "Why
are we stopping?"
"It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It is something that has caught fire
under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now
repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you."
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea
of danger aside as something completely unimportant.
"Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!"
"The time?"
"Yes, this will delay us."
"It is possible—yes," agreed Poirot.
"But we can't afford delay! This train is due in at 6.55, and one has
to cross the Bosphorus and catch the Simplon Orient Express on the
other side at nine o'clock. If there is an hour or two of delay we shall
miss the connection."
"It is possible, yes," he admitted.
He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was
not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling.
"Does it matter to you very much, Mademoiselle?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, it does. I—I must catch that train."
She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join
Colonel Arbuthnot.
Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train
started again. It arrived at Hayda-passar only five minutes late, having
made up time on the journey.
Agatha Christie | 8
The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing.
He was separated from his travelling companions on the boat and did
not see them again.
On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian
Hotel.
Murder on the Orient Express | 9
2. THE TOKATLIAN HOTEL
At the Tokatlian, Hercule Poirot asked for a room with bath. Then he
stepped over to the concierge's desk and inquired for letters.
There were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose
a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.
He opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words
stood out clearly.
Development you predicted in Kassner case has come
unexpectedly. Please return immediately.
"Voila ce qui est embetant," muttered Poirot vexedly. He glanced up
at the clock. "I shall have to go on to-night," he said to the concierge.
"At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?"
"At nine o'clock, Monsieur."
"Can you get me a sleeper?"
"Assuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year. The
trains are almost empty. First-class or second?"
"First."
"Tres bien, Monsieur. How far are you going?"
"To London."
"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. "I have
time to dine?"
"But assuredly, Monsieur."
The little Belgian nodded. He went over and cancelled his room
order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
Agatha Christie | 10
As he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on his
shoulder.
"Ah, 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.
Poiret sprang up.
"M. Bouc!"
"M. 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.
"You find yourself far from home, mon cher," said M. Bouc.
"A little affair in Syria."
"Ah! and you return home—when?"
"To-night."
"Splendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I
have affairs. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I presume?"
"Yes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It was my intention
to remain here some days, but I have, received a telegram recalling me
to England on important business."
"Ah!" sighed M. Bouc. "Les affaires—les affaires! But you, you are
at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!"
"Some little success I have had, perhaps." Hercule Poirot tried to
look modest but failed signally.
M. Bouc laughed.
"We 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.
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