Hercule Poirot sighed. He must take one more journey to put things beyond any possible doubt. He must go to Vagray les Alpes.
VIII
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, Madame, 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, Madame, for a long time for a certain maid of yours—her name was Nita.”
“Nita?”
She stared at him. Her eyes were large and startled. She said:
“What do you know about—Nita?”
“I will 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, that—yes, 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 favour. 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 for a minute, then he said:
“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 her, not as Juanita but as Bianca.”
Katrina shrugged her thin shoulders. She said: “Bianca—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, his 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 described as being like wings of gold.”
He leaned still a little further forward. His finger just touched the two springing waves of Katrina’s hair.
“Wings of gold, horns of gold? It is as you look at it, it is whether one sees you as devil or as angel! You might be either. Or are they perhaps only the golden horns of the stricken deer?”
Katrina murmured:
“The stricken deer . . .” and her voice was the voice of one without hope.
Poirot said:
“All along Ted Williamson’s description has worried me—it brought something to my mind—that something was you, dancing on your twinkling bronze feet through the forest. Shall I tell you what I think, Mademoiselle? I think there was a week when you had no maid, when you went down alone to Grasslawn, for Bianca Valetta had returned to Italy and you had not yet engaged a new maid. Already you were feeling the illness which has since overtaken you, and you stayed in the house one day when the others went on an all day excursion on the river. There 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 god! And you invented for him a girl—not Juanita—but Incognita—and for a few hours you walked with him in
Arcady. . . .”
There was a long pause. Then Katrina 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 Leningrad!”
“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 fantastic!”
“Nevertheless,” said Hercule Poirot with great self-satisfaction, “I believe it is going to come true!”
Four
THE ERYMANTHIAN BOAR
The accomplishment 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 passed an agreeable couple of days at Chamonix, lingered a day or two at Montreux and then went on to Andermatt, a spot which he had heard various friends praise highly.
Andermatt, however, affected him unpleasantly. It was at the end of a valley with towering snow-peaked mountains 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 pa
ir 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 (it ran) to mistake those moustaches! 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 reliable—there 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 Andermatt 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 moustaches. Yes, indeed, impossible to mistake the moustaches of Hercule Poirot. Now what was all this? He had read in the papers the details of l’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 racecourse 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 look out 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 any one 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, then Lementeuil was probably right. Hercule Poirot respected the Swiss Commissionaire 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 boar—that was the term Lementeuil had used. It was certainly an odd coincidence. . . .
He murmured 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 naïve 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 greyish 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. Afterwards, 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 train on the way to a race meeting—or on an unimportant liner. But in an almost empty funicular—no!
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 Bergères and the Louvre and Nôtre Dame—and he’d noticed that none of these restaurants and cafés could play hot jazz properly. The Champs Elysées, he thought, was pretty good, and he liked the fountains especially when they were floodlit.
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 endeavoured to draw the tall, grey-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 travelling about alone with no one to see to things for her. A woman needs a lot of looking after when she’s travelling.”
Remembering 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?
II
To be received by a hotel manager correctly garbed in frock coat and patent leather shoes seemed somehow ludicrous in this out of the world, 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 façade 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 skilful 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 Joseph!—What about the little Denise, mon vieux?—Do you remember that sacré pig of a horse that let us all down at Auteuil?
It was all very hearty, very much in character—and incongruously out of place!
The woman with the beautiful face sat alone at a table in the corner. She looked at no one.
Afterwards, as Poirot was sitting in the lounge, the manager came to him and was confidential.
Monsieur must not judge the hotel too hardly. It was out of the season. No one came here till the end of July. That lady, Monsieur had noticed her, perhaps? She came at this time every year. Her husband had been killed
climbing three years ago. It was very sad. They had been very devoted. She came here always before the season commenced—so as to be quiet. It was a sacred pilgrimage. The elderly gentleman was a famous doctor, Dr. Karl Lutz, from Vienna. He had come here, so he said, for quiet and
repose.
“It is peaceful, yes,” agreed Hercule Poirot. “And ces Messieurs there?” He indicated the three horsy men. “Do they also seek repose, do you think?”
The manager shrugged his shoulders. Again there appeared in his eyes that worried look. He said vaguely:
“Ah, the tourists, they wish always a new experience . . . The altitude—that alone is a new sensation.”
It was not, Poirot thought, a very pleasant sensation. He was conscious of his own rapidly beating heart. The lines of a nursery rhyme ran idiotically through his mind. “Up above the world so high, Like a tea tray in the sky.”
Schwartz came into the lounge. His eyes brightened when he saw Poirot. He came over to him at once.
“I’ve been talking to that doctor. He speaks English after a fashion. He’s a Jew—been turned out of Austria by the Nazis. Say, I guess those people are just crazy! This Doctor Lutz was quite a big man, I gather—nerve specialist—psychoanalysis—that kind of stuff.”
His eyes went to where the tall woman was looking out of a window at remorseless mountains. He lowered his voice.
“I got her name from the waiter. She’s a Madame Grandier. Her husband was killed climbing. That’s why she comes here. I sort of feel, don’t you, that we ought to do something about it—try to take her out of herself?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“If I were you I should not attempt it.”
But the friendliness of Mr. Schwartz was indefatigable.
Poirot saw him make his overtures, saw the remorseless way in which they were rebuffed. The two stood together for a minute silhouetted against the light. The woman was taller than Schwartz. Her head was thrown back and her expression was cold and forbidding.
The Labours of Hercules Page 8