Убийство в Восточном экспрессе
2. The Tokatlian Hotel
”
“Anameofgoodomen,”saidPoirot.“IreadmyDickens.M.Harris,hewillnotarrive.”
“PutMonsieur’sluggageinNo.7,”saidM.Bouc.“IfthisM.Harrisarriveswewilltellhimthatheistoolate—thatberthscannotberetainedsolong—wewillarrangethematteronewayoranother.WhatdoIcareforaM.Harris?”
“AsMonsieurpleases,”saidtheconductor.
HespoketoPoirot’sporter,directinghimwheretogo.
ThenhestoodasidethestepstoletPoirotenterthetrain.“Toutàfaitaubout,Monsieur,”hecalled.“Theendcompartmentbutone.”
Poirotpassedalongthecorridor,asomewhatslowprogress,asmostofthepeopletravellingwerestandingoutsidetheircarriages.
Hispolite“Pardons”wereutteredwiththeregularityofclockwork.Atlasthereachedthecompartmentindicated.Insideit,reachinguptoasuitcase,wasthetallyoungAmericanoftheTokatlian.
HefrownedasPoirotentered.
“Excuseme,”hesaid.“Ithinkyou’vemadeamistake.”Then,laboriouslyinFrench,“Jecroisquevousavezunerreur.”
PoirotrepliedinEnglish.
“YouareMr.Harris?”
“No,mynameisMacQueen.I—”
ButatthatmomentthevoiceoftheWagonLitconductorspokefromoverPoirot’sshoulder.Anapologetic,ratherbreathlessvoice.
“Thereisnootherberthonthetrain,Monsieur.Thegentlemanhastocomeinhere.”
HewashaulingupthecorridorwindowashespokeandbegantoliftinPoirot’sluggage.
Poirotnoticedtheapologyinhistonewithsomeamusement.
