Читать «Murder On The Orient Express / Убийство в восточном экспрессе» онлайн - страница 7

Then he rose.

‘Pay the bill, Hector,’ he said.

His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.

When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel. Their luggage was being brought down. The younger was supervising the process. Presently he opened the glass door and said:

‘Quite ready now, Mr Ratchett.’

The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.

‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot. ‘What do you think of those two?’

‘They are Americans,’ said M. Bouc.

‘Assuredly they are Americans. I meant what did you think of their personalities?’

‘The young man seemed quite agreeable.’

‘And the other?’

‘To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?’

Hercule Poirot was a moment before replying.

‘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 tonight, I hear?’

‘It is incredible, Monsieur. All the world elects to travel tonight!’

‘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?’