“Voila, Monsieur,” he said. “All is arranged. Yours is the upper berth, the No. 7. We start in one minute.”

He hurried off down the corridor. Poirot re-entered the compartment.

“A phenomenon I have seldom seen,” he said cheerfully. “A Wagon Lit conductor himself puts up the luggage! It is unheard of!”

His fellow traveller smiled. He had evidently got over his annoyance-had probably decided that it was no good to take the matter otherwise than philosophically. “The train’s remarkably full,” he said.

A whistle blew, there was a long melancholy cry from the engine. Both men stepped out into the corridor. Outside a voice shouted, “En voiture!”

“We’re off,” said MacQueen.

But they were not quite off. The whistle blew again.

“I say, sir,” said the young man suddenly. “If you’d rather have the lower berth-easier and all that-well, that’s all right by me.”

A likeable young fellow.

“No, no,” protested Poirot. “I would not deprive you-”

“That’s all right-”

“You are too amiable-”

Polite protests on both sides.

“It is for one night only,” explained Poirot. “At Belgrade-”

“Oh! I see. You’re getting out at Belgrade-”

“Not exactly. You see-”

There was a sudden jerk. Both men swung round to the window, looking out at the long lighted platform as it slid slowly past them.

The Orient Express had started on its three-day journey across Europe.

3. Poirot Refuses a Case

 M. Hercule Poirot was a little late in entering the luncheon-car on the following day. He had risen early, had breakfasted almost alone, and had spent the morning going over the notes of the case that was recalling him to London. He had seen little of his travelling companion.

M. Bouc, who was already seated, gated a greeting and summoned his friend to the empty place opposite him. Poirot sat down and soon found himself in the favoured position of being at the table which was served first and with the choicest morsels. The food, too, was unusually good.