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"
Rather
an
odd
little
comedy
that
I
watch
here
,
"
said
Poirot
to
himself
thoughtfully
.
He
was
to
remember
that
thought
of
his
later
.
They
arrived
at
Konya
that
night
about
half-past
eleven
.
The
two
English
travellers
got
out
to
stretch
their
legs
,
pacing
up
and
down
the
snowy
platform
.
M.
Poirot
was
content
to
watch
the
teeming
activity
of
the
station
through
a
window
pane
.
After
about
ten
minutes
,
however
,
he
decided
that
a
breath
of
air
would
not
perhaps
be
a
bad
thing
,
after
all
.
He
made
careful
preparations
,
wrapping
himself
in
several
coats
and
mufflers
and
encasing
his
neat
boots
in
goloshes
.
Thus
attired
he
descended
gingerly
to
the
platform
and
began
to
pace
its
length
.
He
walked
out
beyond
the
engine
.
It
was
the
voices
which
gave
him
the
clue
to
the
two
indistinct
figures
standing
in
the
shadow
of
a
traffic
van
.
Arbuthnot
was
speaking
.
"
Mary
--
"
The
girl
interrupted
him
.
"
Not
now
.
Not
now
.
When
it
's
all
over
.
When
it
's
behind
us
--
then
--
"
Discreetly
M.
Poirot
turned
away
.
He
wondered
.
He
would
hardly
have
recognized
the
cool
,
efficient
voice
of
Miss
Debenham
...
.
