Убийство в восточном экспрессе

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93
      К82

ISBN 978-5-9925-1361-5

Кристи, Агата.
К82 
Убийство в Восточном экспрессе : книга для чтения 
на анг лий ском языке. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2018. — 
320 с. — (Detective Story).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1361-5.

В занесенном снегом Восточном экспрессе обнаруживается 
труп. Спальный вагон полон, что нетипично для этого времени 
года. Эркюль Пуаро, с трудом доставший билет на Восточный 
экспресс (дела государственной важности — непременно надо 
ехать!), пытается найти злодея, что не так-то просто: на трупе 
столько ран и они такие разные! Несомненно одно: преступник 
все еще находится в поезде.
Разумеется, Эркюль Пуаро как всегда блестяще раскрывает 
таинственное убийство.
Неадаптированный текст на языке оригинала снабжен подробными комментариями и небольшим словарем. Книга предназначена для студентов языковых вузов и всех интересующихся английским языком.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

Murder on the Оrient Еxpress Copyright © 1934 
Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.
MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS,  
AGATHA CHRISTIE, POIROT  
аnd the Agatha Christie Signature
аre registered trade marks  
of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK
and elsewhere. All rights reserved.
© КАРО, 2018
Все права защищены

AGATHA CHRISTIE
MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS

To M.E.L.M.  

Arpachiyah, 1933 

PART 1
THE FACTS

1

AN IMPORTANT PASSENGER  
ON THE TAURUS EXPRESS

I
t 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 diningcar, 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 pinktipped 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,’ 1 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.

1 mon cher — (фр.) дорогой мой

As to what it had all been about, Lieutenant 
Dubosc was still in the dark 1, 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, you will be in Stamboul.’
It was not the first time he had made this 
observation. Conversations on the platform, before 
the departure of a train, are apt to be somewhat 
repetitive in character.
‘That is so,’ agreed M. Poirot.
‘And you intend to remain there a few days, 
I think?’ 
‘Mais oui 2. Stamboul, it is a city I have never 
visited. It would be a pity to pass through—comme 
ça. 3’ He snapped his fingers descriptively. ‘Nothing 
presses 4—I shall remain there as a tourist for a few 
days.’
‘La Sainte Sophie, it is very fine,’ said Lieutenant 
Dubosc, who had never seen it.

1 was still in the dark — (разг.) понятия не имел

2 Mais oui — (фр.) да

3 comme ça — (фр.) вот так

4 Nothing presses — (зд.) У меня нет никаких срочных 
дел

A cold wind came whistling down the platform. 
Both men shivered. Lieutenant Dubosc managed to 
cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes 
to five—only five minutes more!
Fancying that the other man had noticed his 
surrep titious glance, he hastened once more into 
speech.
‘There are few people travelling this time of year,’ 
he said, glancing up at the windows of the sleepingcar above them. 
‘That is so,’ agreed M. Poirot.
‘Let us hope you will not be snowed up in the 
Taurus!’ 
‘That happens?’
‘It has occurred, yes. Not this year, as yet.’
‘Let us hope, then,’ said M. Poirot. ‘The weather 
reports from Europe, they are bad.’
‘Very bad. In the Balkans there is much snow.’
‘In Germany too, I have heard.’
‘Eh bien, 1’ said Lieutenant Dubosc hastily 
as another pause seemed to be about to occur. 
‘Tomorrow evening at seven-forty you will be in 
Constantinople.’
‘Yes,’ said M. Poirot, and went on desperately,  
‘La Sainte Sophie, I have heard it is very fine.’
‘Magnificent, I believe.’

1 Eh bien — (фр.) Ну хорошо

Above their heads the blind of one of the sleeping 
car compartments was pushed aside and a young 
woman looked out.
Mary Debenham had had little sleep since she 
left Baghdad on the preceding Thursday. Neither in 
the train to Kirkuk, nor in the Rest House at Mosul, 
nor last night on the train had she slept properly. 
Now, weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness 
of her overheated compartment, she got up and 
peered out.
This must be Aleppo. Nothing to see, of 
course. Just a long, poor-lighted platform with 
loud furious altercations in Arabic going on 
somewhere. Two men below her window were 
talking French. One was a French officer, the other 
was a little man with enormous moustaches. She 
smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so 
heavily muffled up. It must be very cold outside. 
That was why they heated the train so terribly. 
She tried to force the window down lower, but it 
would not go.
The Wagon Lit 1 conductor had come up to the 
two men. The train was about to depart, he said. 
Monsieur had better mount. The little man removed 
his hat. What an egg-shaped head he had. In spite 
of her preoccupations Mary Debenham smiled.  

1 Wagon Lit — (фр.) спальный вагон

A ridiculous-lo oking little man. The sort of little 
man one could never take seriously.
Lieutenant Dubosc was saying his parting 
speech. He had thought it out beforehand and had 
kept it till the last minute. It was a very beautiful, 
polished speech.
Not to be outdone, M. Poirot replied in kind.
‘En voiture 1, Monsieur,’ said the Wagon Lit conductor. 
With an air of infinite reluctance M. Poirot 
climbed aboard the train. The conductor climbed 
after him. M. Poirot waved his hand. Lieutenant 
Dubosc came to the salute. The train, with a terrific 
jerk, moved slowly forward.
‘Enfin! 2’ murmured M. Hercule Poirot.
‘Brrrrr,’ said Lieutenant Dubosc, realizing to the 
full how cold he was...

‘Voilà 3, Monsieur.' The conductor displayed to 
Poirot with a dramatic gesture the beauty of his 
sleeping compartment and the neat arrangement 
of his luggage. ‘The little valise of Monsieur, I have 
placed it here.'
His outstretched hand was suggestive. Hercule 
Poirot placed in it a folded note.

1 En voiture, Monsieur — (фр.) Ваш вагон, мсье

2 Enfin! — (фр.) Наконец!

3 Voilà — (фр., зд.) Прошу вас