The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [36]
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 Inspector 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.