Murder On The Orient Express Page #2

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night only at Belgrade Station.

Oh, I see. At Belgrade,

you're... You're getting off.

Better than the hotel?

I shall probably keep

the menu as a souvenir.

Hector, I ordered three Islamic

and six beakers.

They delivered only five beakers,

and one of the bowls arrived chipped,

which it was not when I paid for it.

Through the nose.

- Send a telegram from Belgrade.

- Yes. Yes, Mr. Ratchett.

What's the matter? You look tired.

- I slept badly.

- Yeah, why?

The Belgian in the upper berth snored.

Really? Any other

unanswered letters on file?

Only the anonymous ones.

We can't answer those, can we?

You'd better go catch up

on your sleep...

...before the Belgian gentleman

gets back to your compartment.

Go on.

Hi. My name's Hardman.

Call me Dick.

- Foscarelli. Call me Gino.

- How are you?

Beddoes.

Mr. Beddoes.

For the pen of a Balzac.

For three days, all these people,

these total strangers,

meet in a single train whose

engine controls their destiny.

Yes, I know. We are both

envious of the husband.

Is?

Is the husband as British

as his tweeds?

Oh, heaven forbid.

He's a hot-blooded Hungarian.

If you but look at his wife,

he will cease to be a diplomat.

Thank God we are not young.

My second husband said

always to ask for change in dollars

or at worst, sterling.

So for Pete's sake,

what's a drachma?

It is... What do you call it?

The currency...

My second husband also said,

"Take a book of food tickets, Mama,

"and you'll have no problem,

no problem at all."

That just isn't so.

First there's this ten-percent tip. Five

would've done the steward more...

I think Miss Ohlsson has a headache.

Would you forgive us if we went back

to the compartment, Mrs. Hubbard?

Gladly, if you must.

If you need aspirin,

I always carry it on my person.

I mistrust foreign drugs.

You must excuse me,

Mrs. Hubbard is upon us.

What's the matter with him?

Train-sick or something?

Some of us, in the words of the divine

Greta Garbo, "want to be alone".

And for dinner this evening?

You will have the goodness

to serve me the poached sole

with one new potato

and a small green salad

with no dressing. Hildegarde.

Who was that majestic lady?

- The Princess Dragomiroff.

- I have heard.

Pardon me, sir.

I wonder if you could

oblige me with a light.

Certainly.

Thank you.

My name is Ratchett.

Do I have the pleasure of speaking

to Mr. Hercule Poirot?

The pleasure possibly, Mr. Ratchett,

the intention certainly.

You asked me for a light.

I offered you one,

and you have not used it.

One can deduce that without

acute mental exhaustion.

That's wonderful. Sit down, sir.

- For a moment.

- Just for a moment.

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