Murder on the orient express ���ݺ���

It was five o'clock on a winter morning in Syria. Beside the platform at Aleppo was the Taurus Express. By the sleeping carriage stood a French lieutenant�� and next to him a man wearing so many clothes that nothing could be seen but the end of his pink nose and the two points of his moustache. It was freezing�� and both men were shaking with cold. Lieutenant Dubosc did not know why the other man�� a Belgian�� had come to Aleppo from England�� except that it involved a very important job for the French Army. Everything had gone well and now the stranger�� Monsieur Poirot�� was leaving. ��ҹ�^��һ����ѩ��ʹ�|����܇ͣ�������@�v���A��܇���궼̎�ڝM�T��B(t��i)�����������υs�l(f��)�F(xi��n)����һ���˿͡�һ�����������������İ������������ʮ�����������������T�s�Ƿ��i���ġ� �S���o�������u��������̽�ՠ������������˃ɂ����ƴ˰��ķ�������