Murder on the Orient Express Read Online Free PDF Page B

man? Somebody was getting impatient.
    Ting…
    Whoever it was was keeping their finger solidly on the push.
    Suddenly with a rush, his footsteps echoing up the aisle, the man came. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot’s own.
    Then came voices—the conductor’s, deferential, apologetic, and a woman’s—insistent and voluble.
    Mrs. Hubbard.
    Poirot smiled to himself.
    The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time. It’s proportions were ninety per cent of Mrs. Hubbard’s to a soothing ten per cent of the conductor’s. Finally the matter seemed to be adjusted. Poirot heard distinctly:
    â€œ Bonne nuit, Madame,” and a closing door.
    He pressed his own finger on the bell.
    The conductor arrived promptly. He looked hot and worried.
    â€œDe l’eau minerale, s’il vous plait.”
    â€œBien, Monsieur.” Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot’s eye led him to unburden himself.
    â€œLa Dame Americaine—”
    â€œYes?”
    He wiped his forehead.
    â€œImagine to yourself the time I have had with her! She insists—but insists —that there is a man in her compartment! Figure to yourself, Monsieur. In a space of this size.” He swept a hand round. “Where would he conceal himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists. She woke up and there was a manthere. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door bolted behind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though, there were not enough to worry us already. This snow—”
    â€œSnow?”
    â€œBut yes, Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The train has stopped. We have run into a snowdrift. Heaven knows how long we shall be here. I remember once being snowed up for seven days.”
    â€œWhere are we?”
    â€œBetween Vincovi and Brod.”
    â€œLà là,” said Poirot vexedly.
    The man withdrew and returned with the water.
    â€œBon soir, Monsieur.”
    Poirot drank a glass of water and composed himself to sleep.
    He was just dropping off when something again woke him. This time it was as though something heavy had fallen with a thud against the door.
    He sprang up, opened it and looked out. Nothing. But to his right some way down the corridor a woman wrapped in a scarlet kimono was retreating from him. At the other end, sitting on his little seat, the conductor was entering up figures on large sheets of paper. Everything was deathly quiet.
    â€œDecidedly I suffer from the nerves,” said Poirot and retired to bed again. This time he slept till morning.
    When he awoke the train was still at a standstill. He raised a blind and looked out. Heavy banks of snow surrounded the train.
    He glanced at his watch and saw that it was past nine o’clock.
    At a quarter to ten, neat, spruce, and dandified as ever, he made his way to the restaurant car, where a chorus of woe was going on.
    Any barriers there might have been between the passengers had now quite broken down. All were united by a common misfortune. Mrs. Hubbard was loudest in her lamentations.
    â€œMy daughter said it would be the easiest way in the world. Just sit in the train until I got to Parrus. And now we may be here for days and days,” she wailed. “And my boat sails the day after tomorrow. How am I going to catch it now? Why, I can’t even wire to cancel my passage. I feel too mad to talk about it.”
    The Italian said that he had urgent business himself in Milan. The large American said that that was “too bad, Ma’am,” and soothingly expressed a hope that the train might make up time.
    â€œMy sister—her children wait me,” said the Swedish lady and wept. “I get no word to them. What they think? They will say bad things have happen to me.”
    â€œHow long shall we be here?” demanded Mary Debenham. “Doesn’t anybody know? ”
    Her voice sounded impatient, but Poirot noted that there were no signs