Murder on the Orient Express (Hercule Poirot, #10)

by Agatha Christie

A ridiculous-looking little man. The sort of little man one could never take seriously.

She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and efficiency. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate pallor of her skin. He liked the burnished black head with its neat waves of hair, and her eyes, cool, impersonal and grey.

“Voilà ce qui est embêtant,” murmured Poirot vexedly. He glanced up at the clock.

M. Bouc was a Belgian, a director of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits, and his acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian Police Force dated back many years.

The body—the cage—is everything of the most respectable—but through the bars, the wild animal looks out.”

“If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,” he said.

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé.” “Bien, Monsieur.” The conductor scurried off again, to knock at the door where the light was showing. Poirot returned to bed, his mind relieved, and switched off the light. He glanced at his watch. It was just twenty-three minutes to one.

“Vous êtes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur. Vous pouvez nous dire—”

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a Hungarian diplomatic passport.

“The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances.”