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Murder on the Orient Express
It
was
five
o'clock
on
a
winter
's
morning
in
Syria
.
Alongside
the
platform
at
Aleppo
stood
the
train
grandly
designated
in
railway
guides
as
the
Taurus
Express
.
It
consisted
of
a
kitchen
and
dining
car
,
a
sleeping
car
and
two
local
coaches
.
By
the
step
leading
up
into
the
sleeping
car
stood
a
young
French
lieutenant
,
resplendent
in
uniform
,
conversing
with
a
small
lean
man
,
muffled
up
to
the
ears
,
of
whom
nothing
was
visible
but
a
pink-tipped
nose
and
the
two
points
of
an
upward
curled
moustache
.
It
was
freezingly
cold
,
and
this
job
of
seeing
off
a
distinguished
stranger
was
not
one
to
be
envied
,
but
Lieutenant
Dubosc
performed
his
part
manfully
.
Graceful
phrases
fell
from
his
lips
in
polished
French
.
Not
that
he
knew
what
it
was
all
about
.
There
had
been
rumours
,
of
course
,
as
there
always
were
in
such
cases
.
The
General
--
his
General
's
--
temper
had
grown
worse
and
worse
.
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
very
distinguished
officer
had
committed
suicide
,
another
had
resigned
--
anxious
faces
had
suddenly
lost
their
anxiety
,
certain
military
precautions
were
relaxed
.
And
the
General
--
Lieutenant
Dubosc
's
own
particular
General
--
had
suddenly
looked
ten
years
younger
.
Dubosc
had
overheard
part
of
a
conversation
between
him
and
the
stranger
.
"
You
have
saved
us
,
mon
cher
,
"
said
the
General
emotionally
,
his
great
white
moustache
trembling
as
he
spoke
.
"
You
have
saved
the
honour
of
the
French
Army
--
you
have
averted
much
bloodshed
!
How
can
I
thank
you
for
acceding
to
my
request
?
To
have
come
so
far
--
"
To
which
the
stranger
(
by
name
M.
Hercule
Poirot
)
had
made
a
fitting
reply
including
the
phrase
,
"
But
indeed
do
I
not
remember
that
once
you
saved
my
life
?
"
And
then
the
General
had
made
another
fitting
reply
to
that
disclaiming
any
merit
for
that
past
service
,
and
with
more
mention
of
France
,
of
Belgium
,
of
glory
,
of
honour
and
of
such
kindred
things
they
had
embraced
each
other
heartily
and
the
conversation
had
ended
.
As
to
what
it
had
all
been
about
,
Lieutenant
Dubosc
was
still
in
the
dark
,
but
to
him
had
been
delegated
the
duty
of
seeing
off
M.
Poirot
by
the
Taurus
Express
,
and
he
was
carrying
it
out
with
all
the
zeal
and
ardour
befitting
a
young
officer
with
a
promising
career
ahead
of
him
.
"
Today
is
Sunday
,
"
said
Lieutenant
Dubosc
.
"
Tomorrow
,
Monday
evening
,
you
will
be
in
Stamboul
.
"
It
was
not
the
first
time
he
had
made
this
observation
.
Conversations
on
the
platform
,
before
the
departure
of
a
train
,
are
apt
to
be
somewhat
repetitive
in
character
.
