He did not hear what she said, but Schwartz came back looking crestfallen.
“Nothing doing,” he said. He added wistfully: “Seems to me that as we’re all human beings together there’s no reason we shouldn’t be friendly to one another. Don’t you agree, Mr.—You know, I don’t know your name?”
“My name,” said Poirot, “is Poirier.” He added: “I am a silk merchant from Lyons.”
“I’d like to give you my card, M. Poirier, and if ever you come to Fountain Springs you’ll be sure of a welcome.”
Poirot accepted the card, clapped his hand to his own pocket, murmured:
“Alas, I have not a card on me at the moment. . . .”
That night, when he went to bed, Poirot read through Lementeuil’s letter carefully, before replacing it, neatly folded, in his wallet. As he got into bed he said to himself:
“It is curious—I wonder if. . . .”
III
Gustave the waiter brought Hercule Poirot his breakfast of coffee and rolls. He was apologetic over the coffee.
“Monsieur comprehends, does he not, that at this altitude it is impossible to have the coffee really hot? Lamentably, it boils too soon.”
Poirot murmured:
“One must accept these vagaries of Nature’s with fortitude.”
Gustave murmured:
“Monsieur is a philosopher.”
He went to the door, but instead of leaving the room, he took one quick look outside, then shut the door again and returned to the bedside. He said:
“M. Hercule Poirot? I am Drouet, Inspector of Police.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I had already suspected as much.”
Drouet lowered his voice.
“M. Poirot, something very grave has occurred. There has been an accident to the funicular!”
“An accident?” Poirot sat up. “What kind of an accident?”
“Nobody has been injured. It happened in the night. It was occasioned, perhaps, by natural causes—a small avalanche that swept down boulders and rocks. But it is possible that there was human agency at work. One does not know. In any case the result is that it will take many days to repair and that in the meantime we are cut off up here. So early in the season, when the snow is still heavy, it is impossible to communicate with the valley below.”
Hercule Poirot sat up in bed. He said softly:
“That is very interesting.”
The Inspector nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “It shows that our commissaire’s information was correct. Marrascaud has a rendezvous here, and he has made sure that that rendezvous shall not be interrupted.”
Hercule Poirot cried impatiently:
“But it is fantastic!”
“I agree.” Inspector Drouet threw up his hands. “It does not make the commonsense—but there it is. This Marrascaud, you know, is a fantastic creature! Myself,” he nodded, “I think he is mad.”
Poirot said:
“A madman and a murderer!”
Drouet said drily:
“It is not amusing. I agree.”
Poirot said slowly:
“But if he has a rendezvous here, on this ledge of snow high above the world, then it also follows that Marrascaud himself is here already, since communications are now cut.”
Drouet said quietly:
“I know.”
Both men were silent for a minute or two. Then Poirot asked:
“Dr. Lutz? Can he be Marrascaud?”
Drouet shook his head.
“I do not think so. There is a real Dr. Lutz—I have seen his pictures in the papers—a distinguished and well-known man. This man resembles these photographs closely.”
Poirot murmured:
“If Marrascaud is an artist in disguise, he might play the part successfully.”
“Yes, but is he? I never heard of him as an expert in disguise. He has not the guile and cunning of a serpent. He is a wild boar, ferocious, terrible, who charges in blind fury.”
Poirot said:
“All the same. . . .”
Drouet agreed quickly.
“Ah yes, he is a fugitive from justice. Therefore he is forced to dissemble. So he may—in fact he must be—more or less disguised.”
“You have his description?”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“Roughly only. The official Bertillon photograph and measurements were to have been sent up to me today. I know only that he is a man of thirty odd, of a little over medium height and of dark complexion. No distinguishing marks.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“That could apply to anybody. What about the American, Schwartz?”
“I was going to ask you that. You have spoken with him, and you have lived, I think, much with the English and the Americans. To a casual glance he appears to be the normal travelling American. His passport is in order. It is perhaps strange that he should elect to come here—but Americans when travelling are quite incalculable. What do you think yourself?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head in perplexity.
He said:
“On the surface, at any rate, he appears to be a harmless slightly over-friendly, man. He might be a bore, but it seems difficult to regard him as a danger.” He went on: “But there are three more visitors here.”
The Inspector nodded, his face suddenly eager.
“Yes, and they are the type we are looking for. I’ll take my oath, M. Poirot, that those three men are at any rate members of Marrascaud’s gang. They’re racecourse toughs if I ever saw them! and one of the three may be Marrascaud himself.”
Hercule Poirot reflected. He recalled the three faces.
One was a broad face with overhanging brows and a fat jowl—a hoggish, bestial face. One was lean and thin with a sharp narrow face and cold eyes. The third man was a pasty-faced fellow with a slight dandiacal air.
Yes, one of the three might well be Marrascaud, but if so, the question came insistently, why? Why should Marrascaud, and two members of his gang journey together and ascend into a rattrap on a mountain side? A meeting surely could be arranged in safer and less fantastic surroundings—in a café—in a railway station—in a crowded cinema—in a public park—somewhere where there were exits in plenty—not here far above the world in a wilderness of snow.
Something of this he tried to convey to Inspector Drouet and the latter agreed readily enough.
“But yes, it is fantastic, it does not make sense.”
“If it is a rendezvous, why do they travel together? No, indeed, it does not make sense.”
Drouet said, his face worried:
“In that case, we have to examine a second supposition. These three men are members of Marrascaud’s gang and they have come here to meet Marrascaud himself. Who then is Marrascaud?”
Poirot asked:
“What about the staff of the hotel?”
Drouet shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no staff to speak of. There is an old woman who cooks, there is her old husband Jacques—they have been here for fifty years I should think. There is the waiter whose place I have taken, that is all.”
Poirot said:
“The manager, he knows of course who you are?”
“Naturally. It needed his cooperation.”
“Has it struck you,” said Hercule Poirot, “that he looks worried?”
The remark seemed to strike Drouet. He said thoughtfully:
“Yes, that is true.”
“It may be that it is merely the anxiety of being involved in police proceedings.”
“But you think it may be more than that? You think that he may—know something?”
“It occurred to me, that is all.”
Drouet said sombrely: “I wonder.”
He paused and then went on:
“Could one get it out of him, do you think?”
Poirot shook his head doubtfully. He said:
“It would be better, I think, not to let him know of our suspici
ons. Keep your eye on him, that is all.”
Drouet nodded. He turned towards the door.
“You’ve no suggestions, M. Poirot? I—I know your reputation. We have heard of you in this country of ours.”
Poirot said perplexedly:
“For the moment I can suggest nothing. It is the reason which escapes me—the reason for a rendezvous in this place. In fact, the reason for a rendezvous at all?”
“Money,” said Drouet succinctly.
“He was robbed, then, as well as murdered, this poor fellow Salley?”
“Yes, he had a very large sum of money on him which has disappeared.”
“And the rendezvous is for the purpose of sharing out, you think?”
“It is the most obvious idea.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Yes, but why here?” He went on slowly: “The worst place possible for a rendezvous of criminals. But it is a place, this, where one might come to meet a woman. . . .”
Drouet took a step forward eagerly.
He said excitedly:
“You think—?”
“I think,” said Poirot, “that Madame Grandier is a very beautiful woman. I think that anyone might well mount ten thousand feet for her sake—that is, if she had suggested such a thing.”
“You know,” said Drouet, “that’s interesting. I never thought of her in connection with the case. After all, she’s been to this place several years running.”
Poirot said gently:
“Yes—and therefore her presence would not cause comment. It would be a reason, would it not, why Rochers Neiges should have been the spot selected?”
Drouet said excitedly:
“You’ve had an idea, M. Poirot. I’ll look into that angle.”
IV
The day passed without incident. Fortunately the hotel was well provisioned. The manager explained that there need be no anxiety. Supplies were assured.
Hercule Poirot endeavoured to get into conversation with Dr. Karl Lutz and was rebuffed. The doctor intimated plainly that psychology was his professional preoccupation and that he was not going to discuss it with amateurs. He sat in a corner reading a large German tome on the subconscious and making copious notes and annotations.
Hercule Poirot went outside and wandered aimlessly round to the kitchen premises. There he entered into conversation with the old man Jacques, who was surly and suspicious. His wife, the cook, was more forthcoming. Fortunately, she explained to Poirot, there was a large reserve of tinned food—but she herself thought little of food in tins. It was wickedly expensive and what nourishment could there be in it? The good God had never intended people to live out of tins.
The conversation came round to the subject of the hotel staff. Early in July the chambermaids and the extra waiters arrived. But for the next three weeks, there would be nobody or next to nobody. Mostly people who came up and had lunch and then went back again. She and Jacques and one waiter could manage that easily.
Poirot asked:
“There was already a waiter here before Gustave came, was there not?”
“But yes, indeed, a poor kind of a waiter. No skill, no experience. No class at all.”
“How long was he here before Gustave replaced him?”
“A few days only—the inside of a week. Naturally he was dismissed. We were not surprised. It was bound to come.”
Poirot murmured:
“He did not complain unduly?”
“Ah no, he went quietly enough. After all, what could he expect? This is a hotel of good class. One must have proper service here.”
Poirot nodded. He asked:
“Where did he go?”
“That Robert, you mean?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Doubtless back to the obscure café he came from.”
“He went down in the funicular?”
She looked at him curiously.
“Naturally, Monsieur. What other way is there to go?”
Poirot asked:
“Did anyone see him go?”
They both stared at him.
“Ah! do you think it likely that one goes to see off an animal like that—that one gives him the grand farewell? One has one’s own affairs to occupy one.”
“Precisely,” said Hercule Poirot.
He walked slowly away, staring up as he did so at the building above him. A large hotel—with only one wing open at present. In the other wings were many rooms, closed and shuttered where no one was likely to enter. . . .
He came round the corner of the hotel and nearly ran into one of the three card-playing men. It was the one with the pasty face and pale eyes. The eyes looked at Poirot without expression. Only the lips curled back a little showing the teeth like a vicious horse.
Poirot passed him and went on. There was a figure ahead of him—the tall graceful figure of Madame Grandier.
He hastened his pace a little and caught her up. He said:
“This accident to the funicular, it is distressing. I hope, Madame, that it has not inconvenienced you?”
She said:
“It is a matter of indifference to me.”
Her voice was very deep—a full contralto. She did not look at Poirot. She swerved aside and went into the hotel by a small side door.
V
Hercule Poirot went to bed early. He was awakened some time after midnight.
Someone was fumbling with the lock of the door.
He sat up, putting on the light. At the same moment the lock yielded to manipulation and the door swung open. Three men stood there, the three card-playing men. They were, Poirot thought, slightly drunk. Their faces were foolish and yet malevolent. He saw the gleam of a razor blade.
The big thickset man advanced. He spoke in a growling
voice.
“Sacred pig of a detective! Bah!”
He burst into a torrent of profanity. The three of them advanced purposefully on the defenceless man in the bed.
“We’ll carve him up, boys. Eh, little horses? We’ll slash Monsieur Detective’s face open for him. He won’t be the first one tonight.”
They came on, steady, purposeful—the razor blades flashed. . . .
And then, startling in its crisp transatlantic tones, a voice said:
“Stick ’em up.”
They swerved round. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. In his hand he held an automatic.”
“Stick ’em up, guys. I’m pretty good at shooting.”
He pressed the trigger—and a bullet sang past the big man’s ear and buried itself in the woodwork of the window.
Three pairs of hands were raised rapidly.
Schwartz said: “Can I trouble you, M. Poirier?”
Hercule Poirot was out of bed in a flash. He collected the gleaming weapons and passed his hands over the three men’s bodies to make sure that they were not armed.
Schwartz said:
“Now then, march! There’s a big cupboard just along the corridor. No window in it. Just the thing.”
He marched them into it and turned the key on them. He swung round to Poirot, his voice breaking with pleasurable emotion.
“If that doesn’t just show? Do you know, M. Poirier, there were folks in Fountain Springs who laughed at me because I said I was going to take a gun abroad with me. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ they asked. ‘Into the jungle?’ Well, sir, I’d say the laugh is with me. Did you ever see such an ugly bunch of
toughs?”
Poirot said:
“My dear Mr. Schwartz, you appeared in the nick of time. It might have been a drama on the stage! I am very much in your debt.”
“That’s nothing. Where do we go from here? We ought to turn these boys over to the police and that’s just what we can’t do! It’s a knotty problem. Maybe we’d better consult the manager.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Ah, the manager. I think first we will consult the waiter—Gustave—alias Inspec
tor Drouet. But yes—the waiter Gustave is really a detective.”
Schwartz stared at him.
“So that’s why they did it!”
“That is why who did what?”
“This bunch of crooks got to you second on the list. They’d already carved up Gustave.”
“What?”
“Come with me. The doc’s busy on him now.”
Drouet’s room was a small one on the top floor. Dr. Lutz, in a dressing-gown, was busy bandaging the injured man’s face.
He turned his head as they entered.
“Ah! It is you, Mr. Schwartz? A nasty business, this. What butchers! What inhuman monsters!”
Drouet lay still, moaning faintly.
Schwartz asked: “Is he in danger?”
“He will not die if that is what you mean. But he must not speak—there must be no excitement. I have dressed the wounds—there will be no risk of septicæmia.”
The three men left the room together. Schwartz said to Poirot:
“Did you say Gustave was a police officer?”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“But what was he doing up at Rochers Neiges?”
“He was engaged in tracking down a very dangerous criminal.”
In a few words Poirot explained the situation.
Dr. Lutz said:
“Marrascaud? I read about the case in the paper. I should much like to meet that man. There is some deep abnormality there! I should like to know the particulars of his childhood.”
“For myself,” said Hercule Poirot. “I should like to know exactly where he is at this minute.”
Schwartz said:
“Isn’t he one of the three we locked in the cupboard?”
Poirot said in a dissatisfied voice:
“It is possible—yes, but me, I am not sure . . . I have an idea—”
He broke off, staring down at the carpet. It was of a light buff colour and there were marks on it of a deep rusty brown.
Hercule Poirot said:
“Footsteps—footsteps that have trodden, I think, in blood and they lead from the unused wing of the hotel. Come—we must be quick!”
They followed him, through a swing door and along a dim, dusty corridor. They turned the corner of it, still following the marks on the carpet until the tracks led them to a half-open doorway.
The Labours of Hercules Page 9