“Ah, mon vieux, but this is an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.
The speaker was a short stout elderly man, his hair cut en brosse. He was smiling delightedly.
Poiret sprang up.
“M. Bouc!”
“M. Poirot!”
M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.
“You find yourself far from home, mon cher,” said M. Bouc.
“A little affair in Syria.”
“Ah! and you return home – when?”
“To-night.”
“Splendid!
I, too.
That is to say, I go as far as Lausanne, where I have affairs.
You travel on the Simplon Orient, I presume?”
“Yes. I have just asked them to get me a sleeper.
It was my intention to remain here some days, but I have. received a telegram recalling me toEngland on important business.”
“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Les affaires – les affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!”
“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed signally.
M. Bouc laughed.
“We will meet later,” he said.
Hercule Poirot addressed himself to the task of keeping his moustaches out of the soup.
That difficult task accomplished, he glanced round him whilst waiting for the next course.
There were only about half a dozen people in the restaurant, and of those half dozen there were only two that interested Hercule Poirot.
These two sat at a table not far away.
The younger was a likeable-looking young man of thirty, clearly an American.
It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective’s attention. He was a man perhaps of between sixty and seventy.
From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist.
His slightly bald head, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very white set of false teeth – all seemed to speak of a benevolent personality.
Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty.
Not only that.
As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural tensity in the glance.
Then he rose.
“Pay the bill, Hector,” he said.
His voice was slightly husky in tone.
It had a queer, soft, dangerous quality.
When Poirot rejoined his friend in the lounge, the other two men were just leaving the hotel.
Their luggage was being brought down.
The younger was supervising the process.
Presently he opened the glass door and said:
“Quite ready now, Mr. Ratchett.”
The elder man grunted an assent and passed out.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “What do you think of those two?”
“They are Americans,” said M. Bouc.
“Assuredly they are Americans.
I meant what did you think of their personalities?”
“The young man seemed quite agreeable.”
“And the other?”
“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him.
He produced on me an unpleasant impression.
And you?”