The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [38]
Dr. Lutz said:
“And I? What do I do?”
“You, doctor,” said Poirot gravely, “will do all you can for your patient. The rest of us will employ ceaseless vigilance—and wait. There is nothing else we can do.”
VI
It was three days later that a little party of men appeared in front of the hotel in the early hours of the morning.
It was Hercule Poirot who opened the front door to them with a flourish.
“Welcome, mon vieux.”
Monsieur Lementeuil, Commissaire of Police, seized Poirot by both hands.
“Ah, my friend, with what emotion I greet you! What stupendous events—what emotions you have passed through! And we below, our anxiety, our fears—knowing nothing—fearing everything. No wireless—no means of communication. To heliograph, that was indeed a stroke of genius on your part.”
“No, no,” Poirot endeavoured to look modest. “After all, when the inventions of man fail, one falls back upon nature. There is always the sun in the sky.”
The little party filed into the hotel. Lementeuil said:
“We are not expected?” His smile was somewhat grim.
Poirot smiled also. He said:
“But no! It is believed that the funicular is not nearly repaired yet.”
Lementeuil said with emotion:
“Ah, this is a great day. There is no doubt, you think? It is really Marrascaud?”
“It is Marrascaud all right. Come with me.”
They went up the stairs. A door opened and Schwartz came out in his dressing gown. He stared when he saw the men.
“I heard voices,” he explained. “Why, what’s this?”
Hercule Poirot said grandiloquently:
“Help has come! Accompany us, monsieur. This is a great moment.”
He started up the next flight of stairs.
Schwartz said:
“Are you going up to Drouet? How is he, by the way?”
“Dr. Lutz reported him going on well last night.”
They came to the door of Drouet’s room. Poirot flung it open. He announced:
“Here is your wild boar, gentlemen. Take him alive and see to it that he does not cheat the guillotine.”
The man in the bed, his face still bandaged, started up. But the police officers had him by the arms before he could move.
Schwartz cried bewildered:
“But that’s Gustave the waiter—that’s Inspector Drouet.”
“It is Gustave, yes—but it is not Drouet. Drouet was the first waiter, the waiter Robert who was imprisoned in the unused part of the hotel and whom Marrascaud killed the same night as the attack was made on me.”
VII
Over breakfast, Poirot explained gently to the bewildered American.
“You comprehend, there are certain things one knows—knows quite certainly in the course of one’s profession. One knows, for instance, the difference between a detective and a murderer! Gustave was no waiter—that I suspected at once—but equally he was not a policeman. I have dealt with policemen all my life and I know. He could pass as a detective to an outsider—but not to a man who was a policeman himself.
“And so, at once, I was suspicious. That evening, I did not drink my coffee. I poured it away. And I was wise. Late that evening a man came into my room, came in with the easy confidence of one who knows that the man whose room he is searching is drugged. He looked through my affairs and he found the letter in my wallet—where I had left it for him to find! The next morning Gustave comes into my room with my coffee. He greets me by name and acts his part with complete assurance. But he is anxious—horribly anxious—for somehow or other the police have got on his track! They have learnt where he is and that is for him a terrible disaster. It upsets all his plans. He is caught up here like a rat in a trap.”
Schwartz said:
“The damn fool thing was ever to come here! Why did he?”
Poirot said gravely:
“It is not so foolish as you think. He had need, urgent need, of a retired spot, away from the world, where he could meet a certain person, and where a certain happening could take place.”
“What person?”
“Dr. Lutz.”
“Dr. Lutz? Is he a crook too?”
“Dr. Lutz is really