Убийство в Восточном экспрессе
3. Poirot Refuses a Case
Bouc,hastilypouringitout.“Youaremorbid,moncher.Itis,perhaps,thedigestion.”
“Itistrue,”agreedPoirot,“thatthefoodinSyriawasnot,perhaps,quitesuitedtomystomach.”
Hesippedhiswine.Then,leaningback,heranhiseyethoughtfullyroundthediningcar.Therewerethirteenpeopleseatedthereand,asM.Bouchadsaid,ofallclassesandnationalities.Hebegantostudythem.
Atthetableoppositethemwerethreemen.Theywere,heguessed,singletravellersgradedandplacedtherebytheunerringjudgmentoftherestaurantattendants.Abig,swarthyItalianwaspickinghisteethwithgusto.Oppositehimaspare,neatEnglishmanhadtheexpressionlessdisapprovingfaceofthewell-trainedservant.NexttotheEnglishmanwasabigAmericaninaloudsuit—possiblyacommercialtraveller.
“You’vegottoputitoverbig,”hewassayinginaloudnasalvoice.
TheItalianremovedhistoothpicktogesticulatewithitfreely.
“Sure,”hesaid.“ThatwhattaIsayalladetime.”
TheEnglishmanlookedoutofthewindowandcoughed.
Poirot’seyepassedon.
Atasmalltable,sittingveryupright,wasoneoftheugliestoldladieshehadeverseen.Itwasanuglinessofdistinction—itfascinatedratherthanrepelled.Shesatveryupright.Roundherneckwasacollarofverylargepearlswhich,improbablethoughitseemed,werereal.Herhandswerecoveredwithrings.Hersablecoatwaspushedbackonhershoulders.Averysmallexpensiveblacktoquewashideouslyunbecomingtotheyellow,toad-likefacebeneathit.
