Murder on the Orient Express

With a wide theatrical gesture, the conductor showed Poirot the beauty of his sleeping compartment. “I have put the little valise of Monsieur here.” Hercule Poirot put a folded note in his hinting hand.“Merci, Monsieur.” The conductor became business-like. “I have the tickets of Monsieur. I will also take the passport, please. As I understand, Monsieur breaks his journey in Stamboul?”M. Poirot agreed. “There are not many people on the train, I suppose?” he said.“No, Monsieur. There are only two other passengers in my carriage – both English. A Colonel from India and a young English lady from Baghdad.”When the conductor left, M. Poirot fell asleep.At half-past nine he awoke and went to the restaurant car for hot coffee.He saw only one person in the restaurant car, obviously the young English lady mentioned by the conductor. She was tall, slim and dark – perhaps twenty-eight years of age. She wore a dark-coloured travelling dress of some thin material suitable for the heated atmosphere of the train.Hercule Poirot amused himself by studying her discreetly.He decided this young woman could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had self-possession and efficiency. He liked her appearance: the regular features and the delicate pallor of her face, the neat waves of her dark hair, and her cool grey eyes. But, in his opinion, she was just a little too efficient to be called beautiful.A tall man entered the restaurant car. His age was between forty and fifty; he was lean; his skin was brown; his hair was slightly grey round the temples.“The Colonel from India,” Poirot decided.The man bowed slightly to the girl. “Morning, Miss Debenham.”“Good morning, Colonel Arbuthnot.”The Colonel asked her permission to sit at her table. She didn’t object.The expression of the Colonel’s eyes when they stopped at Hercule Poirot for a moment was absolutely indifferent, and