AHercule Poirot had spent a week in Syria helping his friend, a general in the French Army, to solve a very serious crisis. His mission had been successfully completed.
Now, at about five o'clock in the morning, he was standing on the platform at Aleppo by the step leading up into the sleeping-car of the famous Taurus Express. The train consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local carriages.
It was a very cold winter morning. Hercule Poirot, muffled up to the ears, was talking with a young French lieutenant, who was seeing him off.
Lieutenant Dubosc had no idea what this small man's mission had been about, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the enthusiasm of a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.
"Today is Sunday," said Lieutenant Dubosc. "Tomorrow,
Monday evening, you will be in Stamboul."
"That is so," agreed M. Poirot.
"And you intend to remain there a few days, I think?"
"I have never visited Stamboul. It would be a pity just to pass through it. Yes, I shall remain there as a tourist for a few days."