Убийство в Восточном экспрессе
2. The Tokatlian Hotel
BoucwasaBelgian,adirectoroftheCompagnieInternationaledesWagonsLits,andhisacquaintancewiththeformerstaroftheBelgianPoliceForcedatedbackmanyyears.
“Youfindyourselffarfromhome,moncher,”saidM.Bouc.
“AlittleaffairinSyria.”
“Ah!Andyoureturnhome—when?”
“Tonight.”
“Splendid!I,too.Thatistosay,IgoasfarasLausanne,whereIhaveaffairs.YoutravelontheSimplon-Orient,Ipresume?”
“Yes.Ihavejustaskedthemtogetmeasleeper.Itwasmyintentiontoremainheresomedays,butIhavereceivedatelegramrecallingmetoEnglandonimportantbusiness.”
“Ah!”sighedM.Bouc.“Lesaffaires—lesaffaires!Butyou—youareatthetopofthetreenowadays,monvieux!”
“SomelittlesuccessIhavehad,perhaps.”HerculePoirottriedtolookmodestbutfailedsignally.
Bouclaughed.
“Wewillmeetlater,”hesaid.
HerculePoirotaddressedhimselftothetaskofkeepinghismoustachesoutofthesoup.
Thatdifficulttaskaccomplished,heglancedroundhimwhilstwaitingforthenextcourse.Therewereonlyabouthalfadozenpeopleintherestaurant,andofthosehalf-dozentherewereonlytwothatinterestedHerculePoirot.
Thesetwosatatatablenotfaraway.Theyoungerwasalikeable-lookingmanofthirty,clearlyanAmerican.Itwas,however,nothebuthiscompanionwhohadattractedthelittledetective’sattention.
Hewasamanofbetweensixtyandseventy.Fromalittledistancehehadtheblandaspectofaphilanthropist.
