The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [34]
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 suspicions. 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