Chapter III
Poirot Refuses a Case

On the following day, M. Hercule Poirot rose early, had breakfast almost alone, and spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He saw little of his travelling companion.

When he entered the dining-car at lunch time, M. Bouc, who was already seated, invited him to his table. The director's table was served first, and the food, too, was unusually good.

As they were eating a delicate cream cheese, M. Bouc reached the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had the pen of a Balzac, I would describe this scene!” He waved a hand.

“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.

“Ah, you agree? These people around us, they are of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages, strangers to one another.

For three days they sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their own ways, never perhaps to see each other again.”

“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident —”

“Ah, no, my friend —”

“Of course, it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these people here are joined together – by death.”

Poirot ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.

At the table opposite were three men. A big swarthy Italian was enthusiastically picking his teeth. Opposite him a thin neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well – trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a garish suit – possibly a commercial traveller.

Poirot's eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was a very ugly old lady. But her ugliness charmed rather than disgusted. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large real pearls. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was frightfully unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.

She was speaking now to the waiter in a clear, polite, but completely imperious tone.

“You will be kind enough to bring to my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will organize that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening, also some boiled fish.”

The waiter replied respectfully that it would be done.

She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot's and went past him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.

“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husband made all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan.”

Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.

“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes her presence felt. You agree?”

Poirot agreed.

At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged. She wore glasses and had a long mild friendly face rather like a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking non-stop in a monotonous voice.

“I guess there's nothing like education. We've got to apply our Western ideals and teach the East to recognize them. My daughter says —”

The train went into a tunnel. The calm, monotonous voice was drowned out.

Colonel Arbuthnot sat alone at the next small table. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham's head. They were not sitting together though it could easily have been arranged. Why?

Perhaps, Poirot thought, it had been Mary Debenham's wish. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl who works for her living has to be discreet.

At the far end on the other side of the carriage, against the wall, there was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad, expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, he thought. Probably the German lady's maid.

At the table next to her a man and a woman were talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes, but he was not English. The shape of his head and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well-made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of a little over thirty with a big fair moustache.

The woman opposite him was very young – twenty at a guess. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, very white skin, large brown eyes, black hair. She was fashionably dressed in a little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, and a small black toque on her head. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.

“Beautiful and elegant,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife, eh?”

M. Bouc nodded. “Hungarian Embassy, I think,” he said. “A handsome couple.”

There were only two more people – young MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and again Poirot studied that unattractive face with its false kindness of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.

Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend's expression.

“It is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.

Poirot nodded.

As Poirot's coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot he had finished some time ago.

“I return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along soon and have a talk with me.”

“With pleasure.”

Poirot drank his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The waiter was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady's voice rose shrill and plaintive.

“My daughter said, 'Take a book of food tickets and you'll have no trouble at all.' Well, that isn't so. Seems they want to have a ten per cent tip, and then there's that bottle of mineral water – and a strange sort of water, too. They didn't have any Evian or Vichy.”

“They must – how do you say? – serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.

“Well, it seems strange to me.” She looked at small change on the table in front of her with displeasure. “Look at all these dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish! My daughter said —”

Mary Debenham got up and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot followed her. The American woman gathered up her despised coins and went out. The other one followed her like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. Only three men were left in the restaurant car – Poirot and Ratchett, and MacQueen.

Ratchett said something to his companion. MacQueen got up and left the car. Then Ratchett got up and quite unexpectedly sat down at Poirot's table.

The man introduced himself. “My name is Ratchett,” he said in a soft, slightly nasal voice.

Poirot bowed slightly.

“I think,” Ratchett went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”

Poirot bowed again. “You have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”

“Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”

Hercule Poirot's eyebrows went up a little.

“I undertake very few cases nowadays, Monsieur.”

“Naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.”

Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said, “What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur – er – Ratchett?”

“Mr. Poirot, I am a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”

“Only one enemy?”

“Just what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.

“Monsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually come to one enemy only.”

Ratchett said quickly, “Well, yes, enemy or enemies – it doesn't matter. What does matter is my safety.”

“Safety?”

“My 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.