Murder on the Orient Express Read Online Free Page B

so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle of mineral water—and a queer sort of water too. They hadn’t got any Evian or Vichy, which seems queer to me.”
    â€œIt is—they must—how you say—serve the water of the country,” explained the sheep-faced lady.
    â€œWell, it seems queer to me.” She looked distastefully at the heap of small change on the table in front of her. “Look at all this peculiar stuff he’s given me. Dinars or something. Just a lot of rubbish, it looks. My daughter said—”
    Mary Debenham pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Arbuthnot got up and followed her. Gathering up her despised money, the American lady followed suit, followed by the lady like a sheep. The Hungarians had already departed. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot and Ratchett and MacQueen.
    Ratchett spoke to his companion, who got up and left the car. Then he rose himself, but instead of following MacQueen he dropped unexpectedly into the seat opposite Poirot.
    â€œCan you oblige me with a light?” he said. His voice was soft—faintly nasal. “My name is Ratchett.”
    Poirot bowed slightly. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.
    â€œI think,” he went on, “that I have the pleasure of speaking to M. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?”
    Poirot bowed again.
    â€œYou have been correctly informed, Monsieur.”
    The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.
    â€œIn my country,” he said, “we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, I want you to take on a job for me.”
    Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows went up a trifle.
    â€œMy clientèle, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases.”
    â€œWhy, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money.” He repeated again in his soft, persuasive voice, “Big money.”
    Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two, then he said:
    â€œWhat is it you wish me to do for you, M.—er—Ratchett?”
    â€œMr. Poirot, I am a rich man—a very rich man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy.”
    â€œOnly one enemy?”
    â€œJust what do you mean by that question?” asked Ratchett sharply.
    â€œMonsieur, in my experience when a man is in a position to have, as you say, enemies, then it does not usually resolve itself into one enemy only.”
    Ratchett seemed relieved by Poirot’s answer. He said quickly:
    â€œWhy, yes, I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies—it doesn’t matter. What does matter is my safety.”
    â€œSafety?”
    â€œMy life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now, I’m a manwho can take pretty good care of himself.” From the pocket of his coat his hand brought a small automatic into sight for a moment. He continued grimly. “I don’t think I’m the kind of man to be caught napping. But as I look at it I might as well make assurance doubly sure. I fancy you’re the man for my money, Mr. Poirot. And remember— big money.”
    Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes. His face was completely expressionless. The other could have had no clue as to what thoughts were passing in that mind.
    â€œI regret, Monsieur,” he said at length. “I cannot oblige you.”
    The other looked at him shrewdly.
    â€œName your figure, then,” he said.
    Poirot shook his head.
    â€œYou do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as—interest me.”
    â€œYou’ve got a pretty good nerve,” said Ratchett. “Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?”
    â€œIt will