Poirot shook his head.
‘You 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.’
‘You’ve got a pretty good nerve,’ said Ratchett. ‘Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?’
‘It will not.’
‘If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it. I know what a thing’s worth to me.’
‘I also—M. Ratchett.’
‘What’s wrong with my proposition?’
Poirot rose.
‘If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,’ he said.
And with that he left the restaurant car.
The Simplon Orient Express arrived at Belgrade at a quarter to nine that evening. It was not due to depart again until 9.15, so Poirot descended to the platform. He did not, however, remain there long. The cold was bitter and though the platform itself was protected, heavy snow was falling outside. He returned to his compartment. The conductor, who was on the platform stamping his feet and waving his arms to keep warm, spoke to him.
‘Your valises have been moved, Monsieur, to the compartment No. 1, the compartment of M. Bouc.’
‘But where is M. Bouc, then?’
‘He has moved into the coach from Athens which has just been put on.’
Poirot went in search of his friend. M. Bouc waved his protestations aside.
‘It is nothing. It is nothing. It is more convenient like this. You are going through to England, so it is better that you should stay in the through coach to Calais. Me, I am very well here. It is most peaceful. This coach is empty save for myself and one little Greek doctor. Ah! my friend, what a night! They say there has not been so much snow for years. Let us hope we shall not be held up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you.’
At 9.15 punctually the train pulled out of the station, and shortly afterwards Poirot got up, said good-night to his friend and made his way along the corridor back into his own coach which was in front next to the dining-car.
On this, the second day of the journey, barriers were breaking down. Colonel Arbuthnot was standing at the door of his compartment talking to MacQueen.
MacQueen broke off something he was saying when he saw Poirot. He looked very surprised.
‘Why,’ he cried, ‘I thought you’d left us. You said you were getting off at Belgrade.’
‘You misunderstood me,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I remember now, the train started from Stamboul just as we were talking about it.’
‘But, man, your baggage—it’s gone.’
‘It has been moved into another compartment—that is all.’
‘Oh, I see.’
He resumed his conversation with Arbuthnot and Poirot passed on down the corridor.
Two doors from his own compartment, the elderly American lady, Mrs Hubbard, was standing talking to the sheep-like lady who was a Swede. Mrs Hubbard was pressing a magazine on the other.
‘No, do take it, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’ve got plenty other things to read. My, isn’t the cold something frightful?’ She nodded amicably to Poirot.
‘You are most kind,’ said the Swedish lady.
‘Not at all. I hope you’ll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning.’
‘It is the cold only. I make now myself a cup of tea.’
‘Have you got some aspirin? Are you sure, now? I’ve got plenty. Well, good-night, my dear.’
She turned to Poirot conversationally as the other woman departed.
‘Poor creature, she’s a Swede. As far as I can make out, she’s a kind of missionary—a teaching one. A nice creature, but doesn’t talk much English. She was most interested in what I told her about my daughter.’
Poirot, by now, knew all about Mrs Hubbard’s daughter. Everyone on the train who could understand English did! How she and her husband were on the staff of a big American college in Smyrna and how this was Mrs Hubbard’s first journey to the East, and what she thought of the Turks and their slipshod ways and the condition of their roads.
The door next to them opened and the thin, pale manservant stepped out. Inside Poirot caught a glimpse of Mr Ratchett sitting up in bed. He saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening with anger. Then the door was shut.
Mrs Hubbard drew Poirot a little aside.
‘You know, I’m dead scared of that man. Oh, not the valet—the other—his master. Master, indeed! There’s something wrong about that man. My daughter always says I’m very intuitive. “When Momma gets a hunch, she’s dead right,” that’s what my daughter says. And I’ve got a hunch about that man. He’s next door to me, and I don’t like it. I put my grips against the communicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if that man turns out to be a murderer—one of these train robbers you read about. I dare say I’m foolish, but there it is. I’m downright scared of the man! My daughter said I’d have an easy journey, but somehow I don’t feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel anything might happen. Anything at all. And how that nice young fellow can bear to be his secretary I can’t think.’
Colonel Arbuthnot and MacQueen were coming towards them down the corridor.
‘Come into my carriage,’ MacQueen was saying. ‘It isn’t made up for the night yet. Now what I want to get right about your policy in India is this—’
The men passed and went on down the corridor to MacQueen’s carriage.
Mrs Hubbard said good-night to Poirot.
‘I guess I’ll go right to bed and read,’ she said. ‘Good-night.’
‘Good-night, Madame.’
Poirot passed into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Ratchett’s. He undressed and got into bed, read for about half an hour and then turned out the light.
He awoke some hours later, and awoke with a start. He knew what it was that had wakened him—a loud groan, almost a cry, somewhere close at hand. At the same moment the ting of a bell sounded sharply.
Poirot sat up and switched on the light. He noticed that the train was at a standstill—presumably at a station.
That cry had startled him. He remembered that it was Ratchett who had the next compartment. He got out of bed and opened the door just as the Wagon Lit conductor came hurrying along the corridor and knocked on Ratchett’s door. Poirot kept his door open a crack and watched. The conductor tapped a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down. The conductor glanced over his shoulder.
At the same moment a voice from within the next-door compartment called out:
‘Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.’
‘Bien, Monsieur.’ The conductor scurried off again, to knock at the door where the light was showing.
Poirot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched off the light. He glanced at his watch. It was just twenty-three minutes to one.