II

“Voilà, Monsieur.” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of hissleeping compartment¹ and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of Monsieur, Ihave placed it here.”

His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.

“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and businesslike. “I have the tickets ofMonsieur. I will also take the passport, please. Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, Iunderstand?”

M. Poirot assented².

“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 ayoung 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 was still two hoursbefore dawn. Conscious of an inadequate³ night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfullyaccomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.

When he awoke it was half-past nine, and he sallied forth⁴ to the restaurant car in search of hotcoffee.

There was only one occupant at the moment, obviously the young English lady referred to bythe conductor. She was tall, slim and dark—perhaps twenty-eight years of age. There was a kindof cool efficiency in the way she was eating her breakfast and in the way she called to theattendant to bring her more coffee, which bespoke⁵ a knowledge of the world and of travelling. Shewore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material eminently⁷ suitable for the heatedatmosphere of the train.

M. Hercule Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying her withoutappearing to do so.

She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect easewherever she went. She had poise⁸ and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity⁹ of herfeatures and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished¹⁰ black head with its neat wavesof hair, and her eyes, cool, impersonal¹¹ and grey. But she was, he decided¹², just a little too efficientto be what he called “jolie femme.”

Presently another person entered the restaurant car. This was a tall man of between forty andfifty, 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 standing¹³ with a hand on the chair opposite her.

“Any objection?” 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 peremptory¹⁴ fashion.

He gave an order for eggs and coffee.

His eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on indifferently. Poirot, readingthe 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 briefremarks, and presently the girl rose and went back to her compartment.

At lunch time the other two again shared a table and again they both completely ignored thethird passenger. Their conversation was more animated¹⁵ than at breakfast. Colonel Arbuthnottalked of the Punjab, and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Baghdad where itbecame clear that she had been in a post as governess. In the course of conversation theydiscovered some mutual¹⁶ friends which had the immediate¹⁷ effect of making them more friendly andless stiff. They discussed old Tommy Somebody and Jerry Someone Else. The Colonel inquiredwhether 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 susceptible¹⁸, our Colonel,” thought Hercule Poirot to himself with some amusement. “Thetrain, 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 theypassed through the magnificent scenery of the Taurus. As they looked down towards the CilicianGates, standing in the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. Poirot wasstanding near them and heard her murmur¹⁹:

“It’s so beautiful! I wish—I wish—”

“Yes?”

“I wish, I could enjoy it!”

Arbuthnot did not answer. The square line of his jaw²⁰ seemed a little sterner and grimmer.

“I wish to Heaven you were out of all this,” he said.

“Hush²¹, 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 mothersand their tiresome²² brats²³.”

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 canassure you that it’s the parents who are afraid of being bullied²⁴ 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 tostretch their legs, pacing up and down the snowy platform.

M. Poirot was content to watch the teeming²⁵ activity of the station through a window pane²⁶. Afterabout ten minutes, however, he decided that a breath of air would not perhaps be a bad thing, afterall. He made careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers and encasing hisneat boots in goloshes. Thus attired²⁷ he descended²⁸ gingerly to the platform and began to pace itslength. He walked out beyond the engine.

It was the voices which gave him the clue to the two indistinct figures standing in the shadow ofa 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—”

Discreetly²⁹ M. Poirot turned away. He wondered.

He would hardly have recognized the cool, efficient voice of Miss Debenham….

“Curious,” he said to himself.

The next day he wondered whether, perhaps, they had quarrelled. They spoke⁶ little to eachother. 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 poked³⁰ outof windows. A little knot of men were clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing atsomething under the dining car.

Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon³¹ Lit conductor who was hurrying past. The mananswered and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham whowas 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. Nothingserious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.”

She made a little abrupt³² gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside assomething 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! The train is due in at 6:55 and one has to cross the Bosphorus andcatch the Simplon Orient Express the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two of delaywe shall miss the connection.”

“It is possible, yes,” he admitted.

He looked at her curiously³³. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady, her lips toowere 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 atHaydapassar only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey.

The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing. He was separated from histravelling companions on the boat, and did not see them again.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

 

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