Murder on the Orient Express

“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as though a wild animal – an animal savage, but savage! you understand – had passed me by.”

“And yet he looked altogether of the most respectable.”

“Précisément! The body – the cage – is everything of the most respectable – but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”

“You are fanciful, mon vieux,” said M. Bouc.

“It may be so. But I could not rid myself of the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”

“That respectable American gentleman?”

“That respectable American gentleman.”

“Well,” said M. Bouc cheerfully, “it may be so. There is much evil in the world.”

At that moment the door opened and the concierge came towards them. He looked concerned and apologetic.

“It is extraordinary, Monsieur,” he said to Poirot. “There is not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.”

“Comment?” cried M. Bouc. “At this time of year? Ah, without doubt there is some party of journalists – of politicians–?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said the concierge, turning to him respectfully. “But that’s how it is.”

“Well, well.” M. Bouc turned to Poirot. “Have no fear, my friend. We will arrange something. There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which is not engaged. The conductor sees to that!” He smiled, then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time we started.”

At the station M. Bouc was greeted with respectful empressement by the brown-uniformed Wagon Lit conductor.

“Good evening, Monsieur. Your compartment is the No. 1.”

He called to the porters and they wheeled their load halfway along the carriage on which the tin plates proclaimed its destination:

ISTANBUL TRIESTE CALAIS

“You are full up to-night, I hear?”

“It is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel to-night!”

“All the same you must find room for this gentleman here. He is a friend of mine. He can have the No. 16.”

“It is taken, Monsieur.”

“What? The No. 16?”

A glance of understanding passed between them, and the conductor smiled. He was a tall sallow man of middle age.

“But yes, Monsieur. As I told you, we are full – full – everywhere.”

“But what passes itself?” demanded M. Bouc angrily. “There is a conference somewhere? It is a party?”

“No, Monsieur. It is only chance. It just happens that many people have elected to travel to-night.”

M. Bouc made a clicking sound of annoyance.

“At Belgrade,” he said, “there will be the slip coach from Athens. There will also be the Bucharest-Paris coach. But we do not reach Belgrade until to-morrow evening. The problem is for to-night. There is no second-class berth free?”

“There is a second-class berth, Monsieur–”

“Well, then–”

“But it is a lady’s berth. there is already a German woman in the compartment – a lady’s maid.”

“Là-là, that is awkward,” said M. Bouc.

“Do not distress yourself, my friend,” said Poirot. “I must travel in an ordinary carriage.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He turned once more to the conductor. “Everyone has arrived?”

“It is true,” said the man, “that there is one passenger who has not yet arrived.” He spoke slowly, with hesitation.

“But speak then!”

“No. 7 berth – a second-class. The gentleman has not yet come, and it is four minutes to nine.”

“Who is it?”

“An Englishman,” the conductor consulted his list. “A M. Harris.”

“A name of good omen,” said Poirot. “I read my Dickens. M. Harris he will not arrive.”

“Put Monsieur’s luggage in No. 7,” said M. Bouc. “If this M. Harris arrives we will tell him that he is too late – that berths cannot be retained so long – we will arrange the matter one way or another. What do I care for a M. Harris?”

“As Monsieur pleases,” said the conductor. He spoke to Poirot’s porter, directing him where to go. Then he stood aside from the steps to let Poirot enter the train.

“Tout à fait au bout, Monsieur,” he called. “The end compartment but one.”

Poirot passed along the corridor, a somewhat slow progress, since most of the people travelling were standing outside their carriages.

His polite “Pardons” were uttered with the regularity of clockwork. At last he reached the compartment indicated. Inside it, reaching up to a suitcase, was the tall young American of the Tokatlian.

He frowned as Poirot entered.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I think you’ve made a mistake.” Then, laboriously in French: “Je crois qua vous avez un erreur.”

Poirot replied in English. “You are Mr. Harris?”

“No, my name is MacQueen. I–”

But at that moment the voice of the Wagon Lit conductor spoke from over Poirot’s shoulder – an apologetic, rather breathless voice.

“There is no other berth on the train, Monsieur. The gentleman has to come in here.”

He was hauling up the corridor window as he spoke and began to lift in Poirot’s luggage.