9That man was much older — between sixty and seventy. His face with his smiling mouth might produce an impression of kindness, but his eyes, small and deep-set, were cunning. When he looked at Poirot for a second, there was a strange malice, an unnatural tension in his glance. His voice, when he addressed his young companion, had a strange, soft, dangerous quality.
When Poirot joined his friend in the lounge, those two men were just leaving the hotel. Poirot watched them, and after they went out, he asked M. Bouc, “What do you think of those two?”
“They are Americans,” his friend said.
“Surely they are Americans. What do you think of their personalities?”
“The young man seemed quite pleasant.”
“And the other?”
“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not like him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression. And you?”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a moment.
“When he passed me in the restaurant,” he said at last, “I had a curious impression. It was as if a wild animal had passed me by.”
“And yet he looked altogether most respectable.”
“Exactly! The body — the cage — is everything of the most respectable — but through the bars, the wild animal looks out. I had the impression that evil had passed me by very close.”
“That respectable American gentleman?”
“That respectable American gentleman.”
“Well,” said M. Bouc cheerfully, “it may be so. There is much evil in the world.”
At that moment the receptionist came up to them. He brought unexpected and unpleasant news to Hercule Poirot: there was not one first-class sleeping berth to be had on the train.
M. Bouc was very much surprised, but he promised to help.
“There is always one compartment, the No. 16, which the conductor keeps vacant!” He smiled; then glanced up at the clock. “Come,” he said, “it is time to go.”