Afterward, 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 climbiDg three
years ago. It was very sad. They had been very devoted. She came here
always before the season comanenced-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.
Thie 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 was turned out of Austria by the Nazis.
Say, I guess those people are just crazyl This Dr. Lutz was quite a big
man, I'gaCher-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. 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 Lyon."
"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 ...
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 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 funicularl"
"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
rendezvous shall not be interrupted."
Hercule Poirot cried impatiently, "But it is fantastict"
"Iagree." Inspector Drouet threw up his hands. "It does not make the
common sense-but there it is. This Marrascaud, you know, is a fantastic
creaturel Myself"-he nodded-"I think he is mad."
Poirot said, "A madman and a murdererl"
Drouet said dryly, "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 nght 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 the serpent. He is a wild boar, ferocious,
terrible, who charges in blind fury."
I)oirot 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.
"RougWy 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 oda, 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 LoinL, to ask you that. You have spoken with him, and you
hay;'Iived, I think, much with the English and the Americans. To a
casual glance he appears to be the normal traveling American. His
passport is in order. It is perhaps strange that he should elect to
come here-but Americans when traveling are quite incalculable. What do
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, at any rate, are members of Marrascaud's
gang. They're race-course toughs if I ever saw theml 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 slightly 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 rat trap on a mountain side? A meeting surely could
be arranged in safer and less fantastic surroundings-in a cafd-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 te latter
agreed readily enough.
"ilut 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."
Di-ouet said, Is face worried, "In that case, we have to examine a
second supposition. These three men are members of I.f;irrpiscaud's
gang and they have come here to nieet Marrascaud himself. Who then is
Marrascaud?"
iloirot asked, "What about the staff of the hotel?"
Drouet shrugged his shoulders.
"There is no staff to speak of. There is an old woman wIio 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?"
Thie 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 somberly, "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
suspicions. Keep your eye on him, that is all."
Drouet nodded. He turned toward 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 Madaine 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 beeti 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."
The day passed without incident. Fortunately the hotel was well
I)rovisioned. The manager explained that there need be no anxiety.
Sul)l)lies were assured.
Hercule Poirot endeavored to get in to 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 wat nourishment could there be in it? The good
God had never intended people to live out of tins.
Thie conversation came round to the subject of the hotel staff. Early
in Iuly the chan)ermaids aild the extra waiters arrived. But for the
next three weeks there would be nol)ody 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 lie 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?"
"Ali, 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 cafd he came from."
"He went down in the funicular?"
She looked at Ini curiously.
"Naturally, Monsieur. What other way is there to go?"
Poirot asked, "Did anyone see him go?"
They both stared at him.
"Ahl 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.
H
e 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.
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 detectivel Bahl" He burst into a torrent of profanity.
The three of them
advanced purposefully on the defenseless 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 pajamas, 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 showl 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 tui-ri these
boys over to the police and that's just what we can't dol IL's a knotty
problem. Maybe we'd better
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 9
