8Chapter II
THE TOKATLIAN HOTEL
At the hotel there were three letters waiting for him and a telegram. The telegram was quite unexpected. He was asked to return to London immediately.
Poirot asked the receptionist to reserve a sleeping-car accommodation in the Orient Express for him. Then he glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to eight. “I have time to dine?”
“But of course, Monsieur.”
The little Belgian nodded. He cancelled his room order and crossed the hall to the restaurant.
As he was giving his order to the waiter, a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“What an unexpected pleasure!” said a voice behind him.
The speaker was a short stout elderly man. He was smiling delightedly.
Poirot stood up.
“M. Bouc!”
“M. Poirot!”
M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Sleeping-cars International Company, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years.
“So far from home, my dear,” said M. Bouc.
“A little affair in Syria.”
“Ah! And you return home — when?”
“To-night.”
“Splendid! I, too. You travel on the Simplon Orient, I understand?”
“Yes. I wanted to stay here some days, but I have received a telegram recalling me to England on important business.”
“Ah!” sighed M. Bouc. “Affaires, affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, old man!”
“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest but failed remarkably.
M. Bouc laughed.
“We will meet later,” he said.
Hercule Poirot ate his soup trying to keep his famous moustache out of it. While waiting for the next course, he glanced round him. There were few people in the restaurant, and of those few only two interested Hercule Poirot.
They sat at a table not far away. The younger was a pleasant-looking young man of thirty, clearly an American. But the little detective’s attention was attracted by his companion.