The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [33]
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 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.