Murder on the Orient Express Read Online Free Page A

cosmopolitan.”
    Poirot nodded. He had heard of Princess Dragomiroff.
    â€œShe 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 a tall middle-aged woman 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 woman who was talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.
    â€œâ€¦And so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said ‘you just can’t apply Amurrican methods in this country. It’s just natural to the folks here to be indolent,’ she said. ‘They just haven’t got any hustle in them.’ But all the same you’d be surprised to know what our college there is doing. They’ve gotten a fine staff of teachers. I guess there’s nothing like education. We’ve got to apply our Western ideals and teach the East to recognize them. My daughter says—”
    The train plunged into a tunnel. The calm monotonous voice was drowned.
    At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Arbuthnot—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Mary Debenham’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed. Why?
    Perhaps, Poirot thought, Mary Debenham had demurred. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. A girl with her living to get has to be discreet.
    His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in black with a broad expressionless face. German or Scandinavian, he thought. Probably a German lady’s maid.
    After her came a couple leaning forward and talking animatedlytogether. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed—but he was not English. Though only the back of his head was visible to Poirot, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very handsome man of thirty odd with a big fair moustache.
    The woman opposite him was a mere girl—twenty at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, white satin blouse, small chic black toque perched at the fashionable outrageous angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large brown eyes, jet-black hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep red nails. She wore one large emerald set in platinum. There was coquetry in her glance and voice.
    â€œElle est jolie—et chic,” murmured Poirot. “Husband and wife—eh?”
    M. Bouc nodded.
    â€œHungarian Embassy, I believe,” he said. “A handsome couple.”
    There were only two more lunchers—Poirot’s fellow traveller MacQueen and his employer Mr. Ratchett. The latter sat facing Poirot, and for the second time Poirot studied that unprepossessing face, noting the false benevolence of the brow and the small, cruel eyes.
    Doubtless M. Bouc saw a change in his friend’s expression.
    â€œIt is at your wild animal you look?” he asked.
    Poirot nodded.
    As his coffee was brought to him, M. Bouc rose to his feet. Having started before Poirot, he had finished some time ago.
    â€œI return to my compartment,” he said. “Come along presently and converse with me.”
    â€œWith pleasure.”
    Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady’s voice rose shrill and plaintive.
    â€œMy daughter said, ‘Take a book of food tickets and you’ll have no trouble—no trouble at all.’ Now, that isn’t