PART ONE

THE FACTS

One

AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS

It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood thetrain grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen anddining car, a sleeping car and two local coaches.

By the step leading up into the sleeping car stood a young French lieutenant¹, resplendent inuniform, conversing² with a small lean man, muffled³ up to the ears, of whom nothing was visiblebut a pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward curled moustache.

It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished⁴ stranger was not one to beenvied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful⁵ phrases fell from his lips inpolished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours⁶, of course, asthere always were in such cases. The General—his General’s—temper had grown worse andworse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed.

There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A verydistinguished officer had committed suicide, another had resigned—anxious faces had suddenlylost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General — LieutenantDubosc’s own particular General—had suddenly looked ten years younger.

Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger. “You have savedus, mon cher,” said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke⁷.

“You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted⁸ much bloodshed! How can Ithank you for acceding⁹ to my request? To have come so far—”

To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including thephrase, “But indeed do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the General hadmade another fitting reply to that disclaiming¹⁰ any merit for that past service, and with moremention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had embracedeach other heartily¹¹ and the conversation had ended.

As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had beendelegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out withall the zeal¹² and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising¹³ career ahead of him.

“Today is Sunday,” said Lieutenant Dubosc. “Tomorrow, Monday evening, you will be inStamboul.”

It was not the first time he had made this observation. Conversations on the platform, before thedeparture of a train, are apt to be somewhat repetitive in character.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?”

“Mais oui. Stamboul, it is a city I have never visited. It would be a pity to pass through—comme?a.” He snapped his fingers descriptively. “Nothing presses—I shall remain there as a tourist for afew days.”

“La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, who had never seen it.

A cold wind came whistling down the platform. Both men shivered. Lieutenant Duboscmanaged to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five—only five minutes more!

Fancying that the other man had noticed his surreptitious glance, he hastened once more intospeech.

“There are few people travelling this time of year,” he said, glancing up at the windows of thesleeping car above them.

“That is so,” agreed M. Poirot.

“Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the Taurus!”

“That happens?”

“It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.”

“Let us hope, then,” said M. Poirot. “The weather reports from Europe, they are bad.”

“Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.”

“In Germany too, I have heard.”

“Eh bien,” said Lieutenant Dubosc hastily as another pause seemed to be about to occur.

“Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in Constantinople.”

“Yes,” said M. Poirot, and went on desperately¹⁴, “La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very fine.”

“Magnificent, I believe.”

Above their heads the blind of one of the sleeping car compartments¹⁶ was pushed aside and ayoung woman looked out.

Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday. Neitherin the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she sleptproperly. Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness¹⁷ of her overheated compartment¹⁵, shegot up and peered out.

This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of course. Just a long, poor-lighted platform with loudfurious altercations¹⁸ in Arabic going on somewhere. Two men below her window were talkingFrench. One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches. Shesmiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up. It must be very coldoutside. That was why they heated the train so terribly. She tried to force the window down lower,but it would not go.

The Wagon¹⁹ Lit conductor had come up to the two men. The train was about to depart, he said.

Monsieur had better mount. The little man removed his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had. Inspite of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled. A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort oflittle man one could never take seriously.

Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech. He had thought it out beforehand and hadkept it till the last minute. It was a very beautiful, polished speech.

Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind.

“En voiture, Monsieur,” said the Wagon Lit conductor.

With an air of infinite reluctance²⁰ M. Poirot climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbedafter him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute²¹. The train, with aterrific jerk, moved slowly forward.

“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.

“Brrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realizing to the full how cold he was….

 

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