“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 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—”
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.
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.”