To M.E.L.M. Arpachiya, 1933

      Contents

       Title Page

Copyright

       Dedication

Part 1 The Facts

1 An Important Passenger on the Taurus Express

2 The Tokatlian Hotel

3 Poirot Refuses a Case

4 A Cry In The Night

5 The Crime

6 A Woman?

      7 The Body

      8 The Armstrong Kidnapping Case

      Part 2 The Evidence

      1 The Evidence of the Wagon Lit Conductor

      2 The Evidence of the Secretary

      3 The Evidence of the Valet

      4 The Evidence of the American Lady

      5 The Evidence of the Swedish Lady

      6 The Evidence of the Russian Princess

      7 The Evidence of Count and Countess Andrenyi

      8 The Evidence of Colonel Arbuthnot

      9 The Evidence of Mr Hardman

      10 The Evidence of the Italian

      11 The Evidence of Miss Debenham

      12 The Evidence of the German Lady’s-Maid

      13 Summary of the Passengers’ Evidence

      14 The Evidence of the Weapon

      15 The Evidence of the Passengers’ Luggage

      Part 3 Hercule Poirot Sits Back and Thinks

      1 Which of Them?

      2 Ten Questions

      3 Certain Suggestive Points

      4 The Grease Spot on a Hungarian Passport

      5 The Christian Name of Princess Dragomiroff

      6 A Second Interview with Colonel Arbuthnot

      7 The Identity of Mary Debenham

      8 Further Surprising Revelations

      9 Poirot Propounds Two Solutions

       Extract from Closed Casket, the new Hercule Poirot novel by Sophie Hannah

      About Agatha Christie

      The Agatha Christie Collection

      About the Publisher

       Chapter 1

       An Important Passenger on the Taurus Express

      It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in Syria. Alongside the platform at Aleppo stood the train grandly designated in railway guides as the Taurus Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a sleeping-car and two local coaches.

      By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young French lieutenant, resplendent in uniform, conversing with a small lean man, muffled up to the ears, of whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped nose and the two points of an upward curled moustache.

      It was freezingly cold, and this job of seeing off a distinguished stranger was not one to be envied, but Lieutenant Dubosc performed his part manfully. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished French. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were in such cases. The General—his General’s—temper had grown worse and worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from England, it seemed. There had been a week—a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished officer had committed suicide, another had resigned—anxious faces had suddenly lost their anxiety, certain military precautions were relaxed. And the General—Lieutenant Dubosc’s own particular General—had suddenly looked ten years younger.

      Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between him and the stranger. ‘You have saved us, mon cher,’ said the General emotionally, his great white moustache trembling as he spoke. ‘You have saved the honour of the French Army—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—’

      To which the stranger (by name M. Hercule Poirot) had made a fitting reply including the phrase, ‘But indeed do I not remember that once you saved my life?’ And then the General had made another fitting reply to that disclaiming any merit for that past service, and with more mention of France, of Belgium, of glory, of honour and of such kindred things they had embraced each other heartily and the conversation had ended.

      As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant Dubosc was still in the dark, but to him had been delegated the duty of seeing off M. Poirot by the Taurus Express, and he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardour befitting a young officer with a promising career ahead of him.

      ‘Today is Sunday,’ said Lieutenant Dubosc. ‘Tomorrow, Monday evening,