Napoleon Duchamp felt the gentle nip of the Cointreau on his tongue and sighed. He had been too long without a vacation, too long chasing the felons around the dark underside of the City of Light. He was going to enjoy this trip to Istanbul. His wife Matilde was enjoying a snooze on the seat opposite his, a half-smile on her lips. He stared out into the night, watching the occasional clusters of light from the French villages flicker by. He opened his copy of the new French translation of Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises with one hand and pulled up the soft woolen blanket with the dark purple stenciling that read "Orient Express Line".

Then the door slid open and Dumblier the Porter stuck his head in, his face red, his eyes like the headlights of a Renault Dauphin. "Pardon, Mssr Duchamp, but something terrible has happened. Dr Villeneuve has been murdered." Napoleon considered the unlikely possibility that this was a practical joke being played upon him by Detective Sergeant Roche, like the time a year ago when Roche had pasted a plastic spider to the stem of his Champagne Flute on Duchamp's birthday, but he dismissed the situation as too obscure and complex for Roche's meager imagination. He placed his Cointreau gently upon the table and said "where is the victim?"

"In the baggage car", replied Dumblier.

"He was murdered in the baggage car?"

"Oh,no, Inspector. He was murdered in his cabin."

"And you moved the body, you fool!"

"The Chief Conductor thought it would disturb the other passengers."

"And am I not a passenger? He had no hesitation to disturb me!" Duchamp placed a Gauloise in the stubby holder and lit it, then glanced at his watch. "It is now twelve minutes after ten o'clock. When was the body discovered?"

"At quarter til ten, mssr."

"The dead man's belongings?"

"Still in his cabin, Inspector"

"Take me there at once. And have the Chief Conductor bring to me a complete passenger list with destinations. No one leaves this train until their innocence is established beyond un suspicion d'raison. Understand?" Duchamp placed the blanket on the knees of his still-sleeping wife and mumbled "pleasant dreams, cheri," and followed Dumblier through the doorway.

In the hallway he was taken aback to see a short, red-headed individual babbling and brandishing a harpoon. "Have him watched," said Duchamp.