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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
.
He
found
it
difficult
to
go
to
sleep
again
at
once
.
For
one
thing
,
he
missed
the
motion
of
the
train
.
If
it
was
a
station
outside
it
was
curiously
quiet
.
By
contrast
,
the
noises
on
the
train
seemed
unusually
loud
.
He
could
hear
Ratchett
moving
about
next
door
--
a
click
as
he
pulled
down
the
washbasin
,
the
sound
of
the
tap
running
,
a
splashing
noise
,
then
another
click
as
the
basin
shut
to
again
.
Footsteps
passed
up
the
corridor
outside
,
the
shuffling
footsteps
of
someone
in
bedroom
slippers
.
Hercule
Poirot
lay
awake
staring
at
the
ceiling
.
Why
was
the
station
outside
so
silent
?
His
throat
felt
dry
.
He
had
forgotten
to
ask
for
his
usual
bottle
of
mineral
water
.
He
looked
at
his
watch
again
.
Just
after
a
quarter
past
one
.
He
would
ring
for
the
conductor
and
ask
him
for
some
mineral
water
.
His
finger
went
out
to
the
bell
,
but
he
paused
as
in
the
stillness
he
heard
a
ting
.
The
man
could
n't
answer
every
bell
at
once
.
Ting
...
ting
...
ting
...
It
sounded
again
and
again
.
Where
was
the
man
?
Somebody
was
getting
impatient
.
Ting
...
Whoever
it
was
was
keeping
their
finger
solidly
on
the
push
.
Suddenly
with
a
rush
,
his
footsteps
echoing
up
the
aisle
,
the
man
came
.
He
knocked
at
a
door
not
far
from
Poirot
's
own
.
Then
came
voices
--
the
conductor
's
,
deferential
,
apologetic
,
and
a
woman
's
--
insistent
and
voluble
.
Mrs.
Hubbard
.
