Four

A CRY IN THE NIGHT

The Simplon Orient Express arrived at Belgrade at a quarter to nine that evening. It was not due todepart again until 9:15, so Poirot descended¹ to the platform. He did not, however, remain therelong. The cold was bitter and though the platform itself was protected, heavy snow was fallingoutside. He returned to his compartment². The conductor, who was on the platform stamping hisfeet and waving his arms to keep warm, spoke³ to him.

“Your valises have been moved, Monsieur, to the compartment No. 1, the compartment of M.

Bouc.”

“But where is M. Bouc, then?”

“He has moved into the coach from Athens which has just been put on.”

Poirot went in search of his friend. M. Bouc waved his protestations aside.

“It is nothing. It is nothing. It is more convenient like this. You are going through to England,so it is better that you should stay in the through coach to Calais. Me, I am very well here. It ismost peaceful. This coach is empty save for myself and one little Greek doctor. Ah! my friend,what a night! They say there has not been so much snow for years. Let us hope we shall not beheld⁴ up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you.”

At 9:15 punctually the train pulled out of the station, and shortly afterwards Poirot got up, saidgood night to his friend and made his way along the corridor back into his own coach which wasin front next to the dining car.

On this, the second day of the journey, barriers were breaking down. Colonel Arbuthnot wasstanding at the door of his compartment talking to MacQueen.

MacQueen broke off something he was saying when he saw Poirot. He looked very surprised.

“Why,” he cried, “I thought you’d left us. You said you were getting off at Belgrade.”

“You misunderstood me,” said Poirot, smiling. “I remember now, the train started fromStamboul just as we were talking about it.”

“But, man, your baggage—it’s gone.”

“It has been moved into another compartment—that is all.”

“Oh, I see.”

He resumed his conversation with Arbuthnot and Poirot passed on down the corridor.

Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly American lady, Mrs. Hubbard, was standingtalking to the sheep-like lady who was a Swede. Mrs. Hubbard was pressing a magazine on theother.

“No, do take it, my dear,” she said. “I’ve got plenty other things to read. My, isn’t the coldsomething frightful⁵?” She nodded amicably⁶ to Poirot.

“You are most kind,” said the Swedish lady.

“Not at all. I hope you’ll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning.”

“It is the cold only. I make now myself a cup of tea.”

“Have you got some aspirin⁷? Are you sure, now? I’ve got plenty. Well, good night, my dear.”

She turned to Poirot conversationally⁸ as the other woman departed.

“Poor creature, she’s a Swede. As far as I can make out, she’s a kind of missionary—a teachingone. A nice creature, but doesn’t talk much English. She was most interested in what I told herabout my daughter.”

Poirot, by now, knew all about Mrs. Hubbard’s daughter. Everyone on the train who couldunderstand English did! How she and her husband were on the staff of a big American college inSmyrna and how this was Mrs. Hubbard’s first journey to the East, and what she thought of theTurks and their slipshod ways and the condition of their roads.

The door next to them opened and the thin, pale manservant stepped out. Inside Poirot caught aglimpse of Mr. Ratchett sitting up in bed. He saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening withanger. Then the door was shut.

Mrs. Hubbard drew Poirot a little aside.

“You know, I’m dead scared of that man. Oh, not the valet—the other—his master. Master,indeed! There’s something wrong about that man. My daughter always says I’m very intuitive.

‘When Momma gets a hunch⁹, she’s dead right,’ that’s what my daughter says. And I’ve got ahunch about that man. He’s next door to me, and I don’t like it. I put my grips against thecommunicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Do you know, I shouldn’tbe surprised if that man turns out to be a murderer—one of these train robbers you read about. Idare say I’m foolish, but there it is. I’m downright scared of the man! My daughter said I’d havean easy journey, but somehow I don’t feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel anythingmight happen. Anything at all. And how that nice young fellow can bear to be his secretary I can’tthink.”

Colonel Arbuthnot and MacQueen were coming towards them down the corridor.

“Come into my carriage,” MacQueen was saying. “It isn’t made up for the night yet. Now whatI want to get right about your policy in India is this—”

The men passed and went on down the corridor to MacQueen’s carriage.

Mrs. Hubbard said good night to Poirot.

“I guess I’ll go right to bed and read,” she said. “Good night.”

“Good night, Madame.”

Poirot passed into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Ratchett’s. Heundressed and got into bed, read for about half an hour and then turned out the light.

He awoke some hours later, and awoke with a start. He knew what it was that had wakened him—a loud groan¹⁰, almost a cry, somewhere close at hand. At the same moment the ting of a bellsounded sharply.

Poirot sat up and switched on the light. He noticed that the train was at a standstill—presumablyat a station.

That cry had startled him. He remembered that it was Ratchett who had the next compartment.

He got out of bed and opened the door just as the Wagon¹¹ Lit conductor came hurrying along thecorridor and knocked on Ratchett’s door. Poirot kept his door open a crack and watched. Theconductor tapped 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 voice from within the next-door compartment called out:

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.”

“Bien, Monsieur.” The conductor scurried¹² off again, to knock at the door where the light wasshowing.

Poirot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched off the light. He glanced at his watch. Itwas just twenty-three minutes to one.

 

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