style="font-size:15px;"> Poirot leaned out and spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor who was hurrying past. The man answered and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided with Mary Debenham who was 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. Nothing serious. It is put out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.’
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as something 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 and catch the Simplon Orient Express the other side at nine o’clock. If there is an hour or two of delay we shall miss the connection.’
‘It is possible, yes,’ he admitted.
He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady, her lips too were 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 at Haydapassar 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 his travelling companions on the boat, and did not see them again.
On arrival at the Galata Bridge he drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.
2. The Tokatlian Hotel
At the Tokatlian, Hercule Poirot asked for a room with bath. Then he stepped over to the concierge’s desk and inquired for letters.
There were three waiting for him and a telegram. His eyebrows rose a little at the sight of the telegram. It was unexpected.
He opened it in his usual neat, unhurried fashion. The printed words stood out clearly.
‘Development you predicted in Kassner Case has come unexpectedly please return immediately.’
‘Voilà ce qui est embêtant,[15]’ murmured Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock.
‘I shall have to go on tonight,’ he said to the concierge. ‘At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?’
‘At nine o’clock, Monsieur.’
‘Can you get me a sleeper?’
‘Assuredly, Monsieur. There is no difficulty this time of year. The trains are almost empty. First-class or second?’
‘First.’
‘Très bien, Monsieur[16]. How far are you going?’
‘To London.’
‘Bien, Monsieur[17]. I will get you a ticket to London and reserve your sleeping-car accommodation in the Stamboul-Calais coach.’
Poirot glanced at the clock again. It was ten minutes to eight.
‘I have time to dine?’
‘But assuredly, Monsieur.’
The little Belgian nodded. He went over and cancelled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
As he was giving his order to the waiter a hand was placed on his shoulder.
‘Ah! mon vieux[18], but this is an unexpected pleasure,’ said a voice behind him.
The speaker was a short, stout elderly man, his hair cut en brosse[19]. He was smiling delightedly.
Poirot sprang up.
‘M. Bouc.’
‘M. Poirot.’
M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian Police Force dated back many years.
‘You find yourself far from home, mon cher,’ said M. Bouc.
‘A little affair in Syria.’
‘Ah! And you return home—when?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Splendid! I, too. That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I have affairs. You travel on the Simplon-Orient, I presume?’
‘Yes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper. It was my intention to remain here some days, but I have received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.’
‘Ah!’ sighed M. Bouc. ‘Les affaires—les affaires![20] But you—you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!’
‘Some little success I have had, perhaps.’ Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signally.
Bouc laughed.
‘We will meet later,’ he said.
Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.
That difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him whilst waiting for the next course. There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those halfdozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.
These two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking man of thirty, clearly an American. It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective’s attention.
He was a man of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth, all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment, and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, and unnatural tensity in the glance.
Then he rose.
‘Pay the bill, Hector,’ he said.
His
