“Yes,” said M. Poirot, and went on desperately, “La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very fine.”
“Magnificent, I believe.”
Above their heads the blinds of one of the sleeping-car compartments was pushed aside and a young woman looked out.
Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday.
Neither in the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, nor last night on the train had she slept properly.
Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment, she got up and peered out.
This must be Aleppo.
Nothing to see, of course.
Just a long, poorly lighted platform with loud, furious altercations in Arabic going on somewhere.
Two men below her window were talking French.
One was a French officer, the other was a little man with enormous moustaches.
She smiled faintly.
She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up.
It must be very cold outside.
That was why they heated the train so terribly.
She tried to force the window down lower, but it would not go.
The Wagon 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!
In spite of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled.
A ridiculous-looking little man.
The sort of little man one could never take seriously.
Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting speech.
He had thought it out beforehand and had kept 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 reluctance M. Poirot climbed aboard the train.
The conductor climbed after him.
M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant Dubosc came to the salute.
The train, with a terrific jerk, moved slowly forward.
“Enfin!” murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
“Brrrrrrrr,” said Lieutenant Dubosc, realising to the full how cold he was.
“Voila, Monsieur!” The conductor displayed to Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement of his luggage. “The little valise of Monsieur, I have put it here.”
His outstretched hand was suggestive.
Hercule Poirot placed in it a folded note.
“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became brisk and business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur.
I will also take the passport, please.
Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul, I understand?” M. Poirot assented.
“There are not many people travelling, I imagine?” he said.
“No, Monsieur.
I have only two other passengers – both English.
A Colonel fromIndia and a young English lady fromBaghdad.
Monsieur requires anything?”
Monsieur demanded a small bottle of Perrier.
Five o’clock in the morning is an awkward time to board a train.
There were still two hours before dawn.
Conscious of an inadequate night’s sleep, and of a delicate mission successfully accomplished, M. Poirot curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
When he awoke it was half-past nine he sallied forth to the restaurant car in search of hot coffee.