The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [32]
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.