Was this perhaps the best end to that sudden, strange romance? Now the
girl would live always in the young man's ineniory as lie had seen her
for those few enchanted hours of a,july afteroo. The clash of opposing
nationalities, of different standards, the pain of disillusionment, all
that was ruled out forever.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. His mind went back to his
conversation with the Valetta family. The mother, with her broad
peasant face; the upright, griefstricken father; the dark , hard-lipped
sister.
"It was sudden, Signore, it was very sudden. Though for many years she
had had pains on and off. The doctor gave us no choice-he said there
must be an operation immediately for the appendicitis. He took her off
to the hospital then and there. Si, si, it was under the anesthetic she
died.
She never recovered consciousness."
The mother sniffed, murmuring, "Bianca was always such a clever girl. It
is terrible that she should have died so young.
Hercule Poirot repeated to himself, She died young.
That was the message lie must take back to the young man who had asked
for his help so confidingly.
She is not for you, my friend. She died young.
His quest had ended-here where the Leaning Tower was silhouetted against
the sky and the first spring flowers were showing pale and creanly with
their promise of life and joy to come.
Was it the stirring of spring that made liti feel so rebelliously
disinclined to accept this final verdict? Or was it something else?
Something stirring at the back of his brain-words-a phrase-a name? Did
not the whole thing finish too neatly-dovetail too obviously?
Hercule Poirot sighed. He must take one more journey to put things
beyond any possible doubt. He must go to Vagray It's Alpes.
Here, he thought, really was the world's end. This shelf of snow-these
scattered huts and shelters in each of which lay a motionless human
being fighting an insidious death.
So he came at last to Katrina Samoushenka. When he saw her, lying there
with hollow cheeks in each of which was a vivid red stain, and long,
thin, emaciated hands stretched out on the coverlet, a memory stirred in
him.
He had not remembered her name, but he had seen her dance-had been
carried away and fascinated by the supreme art that can make you forget
art.
He remembered Michael Novgin, the Hunter, leaping and twirling in that
outrageous and fantastic forest that the brain of Ambrose Vandel had
conceived. And he remembered the lovely flying Hind, eternally pursued,
eternally desirable-a golden beautiful creature with horns on her head
and twinkling bronze feet. He remembered her final collapse, shot and
wounded, and Michael Novgin standing bewildered, with the body of the
slain Deer in his arms.
Katrina Samoushenka was looking at him with faint curiosity.
She said, "I have never seen you before, have I? What is it you want of
me?"
Hercule Poirot made her a little bow.
"First, I wish to thank you-for your art which made for me once an
evening of beauty."
She smiled faintly.
"But also I am here on a matter of business. I have been looking, for a
long time for a certain maid of yours-her name w;ts Nita."
"Nita?"
She stared at him. Her eyes were large and startled.
She said, "What do you know about-Nita?"
"Iwill tell you."
He told her of the evening when his car had broken down and of Ted
Williamson standing there twisting his cap between his fingers and
stammering out his love and his pain. She listened with close
attention.
She said when he had finished, "It is touching, thatyes, it is
touching."
Hercule Poirot nodded.
"Yes," he said. "It is a tale of Arcady, is it not? What can you tell
me, Madame, of this girl?"
Katrina Samoushenka sighed.
"I had a maid-Juanita. She was lovely, yes-gay, light of heart. It
happened to her what happens so often to those the gods favor. She died
young."
They had been Poirot's own words-final words-irrevocable words. Now he
heard them again-and yet he persisted.
He asked, "She is dead?"
"Yes, she is dead."
Hercule Poirot was silent a minute, then he said:
"Yet there is one thing I do not quite understand. I asked Sir George
Sanderfield about this maid of yours and he seemed afraid. Why was
that?"
There was a faint expression of disgust on the dancer's face.
"You just said a maid of mine. He thought you meant Marie-the girl who
came to me after Juanita left. She tried to blackmail him, I believe,
over something that she found out about him. She was an odious
girl-inquisitive, always prying into letters and locked drawers."
Poirot murmured, "Then that explains that."
He paused a minute, then he went on, still persistent:
",Juanita's other name was Valetta and she died of an operation for
appendicitis in Pisa. Is that correct?"
He noted the hesitation, hardly perceptible but nevertheless there,
before the dancer bowed her head.
"Yes, that is right."
Poirot said meditatively, "And yet-there is still a little point-her
people spoke of lier, not as Juanita but as Bianca."
Katri:ia shrugged her thin shoulders.
She said, "Bianco-Juanita, does it matter? I suppose her real name was
Bianca but she thought the name of Juanita was more romantic and so
chose to call herself by it."
"Ah, you think that?" He paused and then, s voice changing, he said,
"For me, there is another explanation."
"What is it?"
Poirot leaned forward.
He said, "The girl that Ted Williamson saw had hair that he (tescril)e(i
as being like wings of gold."
He leaned still a little farther for,waz-(I. His finger just touched
the two spriligilig waves of Katrina's hair.
"Wings of gold, horns of gold? It is as yon look at it, it is whether
one sees you as devil or as angel! You tylight be either. Or are they
perhaps only the golden horns of the stricken deer?"
Katra murmured, "The stricken deer and her voice was the voice of one
without hope.
Poirot said, "All along Ted Willianison's description has worried me-it
brought sometlng to my mild-tliat sometlng was you, dancing on your
twinkling bronze feet through the forest. Shall I tell you what I
think, Ma(lemoiselle? I think there was a week ix,lien you had no
inaid, when you went down alone to (;rasslawn, for Bianca Valettzi had
returned to Italy ati(I you lia(i not yet egage(I a nex,,- in,.d.
Alietdy you wei-e I'eeling the illness which has siti(e overtaken you,
an(i yoti stayed in the house one day when the others went on a all-day
excursion on the river.
Thei-e was a ring at the door and you went to it and you saw-shall I
tell you what you saw? You saw a young man who was as simple as a child
and as handsome as a godl And you invented for him a girl-not
>
Juanita-but Incognita-and for a few hours you walked with him -Arcady."
There was a long pause. -Then Katra said in a low hoarse voice:
"In one thing at least I have told you the truth. I have
given you the right end to the story. Nita will die young."
"Ah, non!" Hercule Poirot was transformed. He struck his hand on the
table. He was suddenly prosaic, mundane, practical.
He said, "It is quite unnecessary] You need not die. You can fight for
your life, can you not, as well as another?"
She shook her head-sadly, hopelessly.
"What life is there for me?"
"Not the life of the stage, bien entendu! But think, there is another
life. Come now, Mademoiselle, be honest, was your father really a
prince or a grand duke, or even a general?"
She laughed suddenly.
She said, "He drove a lorry in Leningradl"
"Very good! And why should you not be the wife of a garage hand in a
country village? And have children as beautiful as gods, and with feet,
perhaps, that will dance as you once danced."
Katrina caught her breath.
"But the whole idea is fantastiel"
"Nevertheless," said Hercule Poirot with great self-satisfaction, "I
believe it is going to come truel"
THE ACCOMPLIGHMENT OF THE THIRD LABOR of Hercules having brought him to
Switzerland, Hercule Poirot decided that being there, he might take
advantage of the fact and visit certain places which were up to now
unknown to him.
He pztsse(i an agreeable couple of days at Chamonix, lingered a day or
two at Montreux, and then went on to Aldermatt, a shot which he had
heard various friends praise highly.
AI(lermatt, however, affected him unpleasantly. It was at the end of a
valley with towering snow-peaked motint,s shutting it in. He felt,
unreasonably, that it was difficult to breathe.
Impossible to remain here, said Hercule Poirot to himself. It was at
that moment that he caught sight of a funicular railway. Decidedly, I
must mount.
The funicular, he discovered, ascended first to Les Avines, then to
Caurouchet, and finally to Rochers Neiges, ten thousand feet above sea
level.
Poirot did not propose mounting as high as all that. Les Avines, he
thought, would be quite sufficiently his affair.
But here he reckoned without that element of chance which plays so large
a part in life. The funicular had started when the conductor approached
Poirot and demanded his ticket. After he had inspected it and punched
it with a fearsome pair of clippers, he returned it with a bow. At the
same time Poirot felt a small wad of paper pressed into his hand with
the ticket.
The eyebrows of Hercule Poirot rose a little on his forehead.
Presently, unostentatiously, without hurrying himself, he smoothed out
the wad of paper. It proved to be a hurriedly scribbled note written in
pencil.
Impossible fit ran) to mistake those mustaches! I salute you, my dear
colleague. If you are willing, you can be of great assistance to me.
You have doubtless read of the affaire Salley? The killer-Marrascaud-is
believed to have a rendezvous with some members of his gang at Rochers
Neiges-of all places in the world! Of course the whole thing may be a
blague-but our information is reliablethere is always someone who
squeals, is there not? So. keep your eyes open, my friend. Get in
touch with Inspector Drouet who is on the spot. He is a sound man-but
he cannot pretend to the brilliance of Hercule Poirot. It is important,
my friend, that Marrascaud should be taken-and taken alive. He is not a
man-he is a wild boar-one of the most dangerous killers alive today. I
did not risk speaking to you at A ldermatt as I might have been observed
and you will have a freer hand if you are thought to be a mere tourist.
Good hunting! Your old friend-Lementeuil.
Thoughtfully, Hercule Poirot caressed his mustaches.
Yes, indeed, impossible to mistake the mustaches of Hercule Poirot. Now
what was all this? He had read in the papers the details of I'affaire
Salley-the cold-blooded murder of a well-known Parisian bookmaker. The
identity of the murderer was known. Marrascaud was a member of a
well-known race-course gang. He had been suspected of many other
killings-but this time his guilt was proved up to the hilt. He had got
away, out of France, it was thought, and the police in every country in
Europe were on the lookout for him.
So Marrascaud was said to have a rendezvous at Rochers Neiges....
Hercule Poirot shook his head slowly. He was puzzled.
For Rochers Neiges was above the snow line. There was a hotel there,
but it communicated with the world only by the funicular, standing as it
did on a long, narrow ledge overhanging the valley. The hotel opened in
June, but there was seldom anyone there until July and August. It was a
place ill supplied with entrances and exits-if a man were tracked there,
he was caught in a trap. It seemed a fantastic place to choose as the
rendezvous of a gang of
criminals.
And yet, if Lementeuil said his information was reliable, that
Lementeuil was probably right. Hercule Poirot respected the Swiss
Commissaire of Police. He knew him as a sound and dependable man.
Some reason unknown was bringing Marrascaud to this meeting-place far
above civilization.
Hercule Poirot sighed. To hunt down a ruthless killer was not his idea
of a pleasant holiday. Brain work from an armchair, he reflected, was
more in his line. Not to ensnare a wild boar upon a mountainside.
A wild boai-that was the term Lementeuil had used. It was certainly an
odd coincidence....
He said to himself, The fourth Labor of Hercules. The Erymanthian Boar?
Quietly, without ostentation, he took careful stock of his fellow
passengers.
On the seat opposite him was an American tourist. The pattern of his
clothes, of his overcoat, the grip he carried, down to his hopeful
friendliness and his naive absorption in the scenery, even the guide
book in his hand, all gave him away and proclaimed him a small-town
American seeing Europe for the first time. In another minute or two,
Poirot judged, he would break into speech. His wistful doglike
expression could not be mistaken.
On the other side of the carriage, a tall, rather distinguished-looking
man with grayish hair and a big curved nose was reading a German book.
He had the strong, mobile fingers of a musician or a surgeon.
Farther away still were three men all of the same type.
Men with bowed legs and an indescribable suggestion of horsiness about
them. They were playing cards. Presently, perhaps, they would suggest
a stranger cutting in on the game. At first the stranger would win.
Afterward, the luck would run the other way.
Nothing very unusual about the three men. The only thing that was
unusual was the place where they were.
One might have seen them in any ti-am on the way to a race meeting-or on
an unimportant Iilier. But in an almost empty
funicular-nol
There was one other occupant of the carriage-a woman.
She was tall and dark. It was a beautiful face-a face that might have
expressed a whole gamut of emotion-but which instead was frozen into a
strange inexpressiveness.
She looked at no one, staring out at the valley below.
Presently, as Poirot had expected, the American began to talk. His
name, he said, was Schwartz. It was his first visit to Europe. The
scenery, he said, was just grand. He'd been very deeply impressed by
the Castle of Chillon. He didn't think much of Paris as a
city-overrated-he'd been to the Folies Berg&res and the Louvre and Notre
Dame and he'd noticed that none of the restaurants and cafes could play
hot jazz properly. The Champs #,Iystes, he thought, was pretty good,
and he liked the fountains especially when they were floodlighted.
Nobody got out at Les Avines or at Caurouchet. It was clear that
everyone in the funicular was going up to Rochers Neiges.
Mr. Schwartz explained his own reasons. He had always wished, he said,
to be high up among snow mountains.
Ten thousand feet was pretty good-he'd heard that you couldn't boil an
egg properly when you were as high up as that.
In the innocent friendliness of his heart, Mr. Schwartz endeavored to
draw the tall gray-haired man on the other side of the carriage into the
conversation, but the latter merely stared at him coldly over his
pince-nez and returned to the perusal of his book.
Mr. Schwartz then offered to exchange places with the dark lady-she
would get a better view, he explained.
It was doubtful whether she understood English. Anyway, she merely
shook her head and shrank closer into the fur collar of her coat.
Mr. Schwartz murmured to Poirot, "Seems kind of wrong to see a woman
traveling about alone with no one to see to things for her. A woman
needs a lot of looking after when she's traveling."
Reinenibei,ing certain American women he had met on
the Continent, Hercule Poirot agreed.
Mr. Schwartz sighed. He found the world unfriendly.
And surely, his brown eyes said expressively, there's no harm in a
little friendliness all round?
To be received by a hotel manager correctly garbed in frock coat and
patent leather shoes seemed somehow ludicrous in this out-of-the-way, or
rather above-the-world, spot.
The manager was a big, handsome man, with an important manner. He was
very apologetic.
So early in the season ... the hot-water system was out of order ...
things were hardly in running order. . . . Naturally, he would do
everything he could.... Not a full staff yet ... He was quite confused
by the unexpected number of visitors.
It all came rolling out with professional urbanity and yet it seemed to
Poirot that behind the urbane fasade he caught a glimpse of some
poignant anxiety. This man, for all his easy manner, was not at ease.
He was worried about something.
Lunch was served in a long room overlooking the valley far below. The
solitary waiter, addressed as Gustave, was skillful and adroit. He
darted here and there, advising on the menu, whipping out his wine list.
The three horsy men sat at a table together. They laughed and talked in
French, their voices rising.
"Good old josephl-What about the little Denise, mon vieux?-Do you
remember that sacrd pig of a horse that let us all down at Auteuil?"
It was all very hearty, very much in character-and incongruously out of
placel
Thie woman with the beautiful face sat alone at a table in the corner.
She looked at no one.
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 8