“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 a 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.

Poirot noticed the apology in his tone with some amusement. Doubtless the man had been promised a good tip if he could keep the compartment for the sole use of the other traveller. However, even the most munificent of tips lose their effect when a Director of the Company is on board and issues his orders.

The conductor emerged from the compartment, having swung the suitcases up onto the racks.

“Voila, Monsieur,” he said. “All is arranged. Yours is the upper berth, the No. 7. We start in one minute.”

He hurried off down the corridor. Poirot re-entered the compartment.

“A phenomenon I have seldom seen,” he said cheerfully. “A Wagon Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!”

His fellow traveller smiled. He had evidently got over his annoyance – had probably decided that it was no good to take the matter otherwise than philosophically. “The train’s remarkably full,” he said.

A whistle blew, there was a long melancholy cry from the engine. Both men stepped out into the corridor. Outside a voice shouted, “En voiture!”

“We’re off,” said MacQueen.

But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.

“I say, sir,” said the young man suddenly. “If you’d rather have the lower berth – easier and all that – well, that’s all right by me.”

A likeable young fellow.

“No, no,” protested Poirot. “I would not deprive you–”

“That’s all right–”

“You are too amiable–”

Polite protests on both sides.

“It is for one night only,” explained Poirot. “At Belgrade–”

“Oh! I see. You’re getting out at Belgrade–”

“Not exactly. You see–”

There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the window, looking out at the long lighted platform as it slid slowly past them.

The Orient Express had started on its three-day journey across Europe.

M. Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car on the following day. He had risen early, had breakfasted almost alone, and had spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He had seen little of his travelling companion.

M. Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned his friend to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down and soon found himself in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels. The food, too, was unusually good.

It was not till they were eating a delicate cream cheese that M. Bouc allowed his attention to wander to matters other than nourishment. He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes philosophic.

“Ah!” he sighed. “If I had but the pen of a Balzac! I would depict this scene.” He waved a hand.

“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot.

“Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet – it lends itself to romance, my friend. All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never perhaps to see each other again.”

“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident–”

“Ah, no, my friend–”

“From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together – by death.”

“Some more wine,” said M. Bouc, hastily pouring it out. “You are morbid, mon cher. It is, perhaps the digestion.”

“It is true,” agreed Poirot, “that the food in Syria was not perhaps quite suited to my stomach.”

He sipped his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people seated there and, as M. Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He began to study them.

At the table opposite them were three men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded and placed there by the unerring judgment of the restaurant attendants. A big swarthy Italian was picking his teeth with gusto. Opposite him a spare neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was a big American in a loud suit – possibly a commercial traveller.

“You’ve got to put it over big,” he was saying in a loud, nasal voice.

The Italian removed his toothpick to gesticulate with it freely.

“Sure,” he said. “That whatta I say alla de time.”

The Englishman looked out of the window and coughed.

Poirot’s eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction – it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the yellow, toad-like face beneath it.

She was speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a clear, courteous, but completely autocratic tone.

“You will be sufficiently amiable to place in my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening – also some boiled fish.”

The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done.

She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot’s and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.

“That is Princess Dragomiroff,” said M. Bouc in a low tone. “She is a Russian. Her husband realised all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. A cosmopolitan.”

Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.

“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes herself felt. You agree?”

Poirot agreed.

At another of the large tables Mary Debenham was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and middle-aged, in a plaid blouse and tweed skirt. She had a mass of faded yellow hair unbecomingly arranged in a large bun, wore glasses, and had a long mild amiable face rather like a sheep. She was listening to the third woman, a stout, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.