MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS by Agatha Christie

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

At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed. Why?

Perhaps, Poirot thought, Mary Debenham had demurred. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl with her living to get has to be discreet.

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

Beyond her were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was not English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Poirot, the shape of it 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 thirty-odd with a big fair moustache.

The woman opposite him was a mere girl—twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large brown eyes, jet black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.

“Elle est jolie—et chic,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife—eh?”

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

There were only two more lunchers—Poirot’s fellow traveller MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and for the second time Poirot studied that unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence 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 his 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 presently and converse with me.”

“With pleasure.”

Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant 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—no trouble at all.’ Now, that isn’t so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle of mineral water—and a queer sort of water too. They didn’t have any Evian or Vichy, which seems queer to me.”

“It is—they must—how do you say?—serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.

“Well, it seems queer to me.” She looked distastefully at the heap of small change on the table in front of her. “Look at all this peculiar stuff he’s given me. Dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish, it looks like! My daughter said—”

Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering up her despised money the American woman followed suit, followed by the other one like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.

Ratchett spoke to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but instead of following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.

“Can you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft—faintly nasal. “My name is Ratchett.”

Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.

“I think,” he 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.”

The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.

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