Four
THE ERYMANTHIAN BOAR
Poirot
decided3 that being there, he might take advantage of the fact and visit certain places which
were up to now unknown to him.
He passed an agreeable couple of days at Chamonix, lingered a day or two at Montreux and
then went on to Andermatt, a spot which he had heard various friends praise highly.
Andermatt, however,
affected4 him unpleasantly. It was at the end of a valley with towering
snow-peaked mountains shutting it in. He felt,
unreasonably5, that it was difficult to breathe.
“Impossible to remain here,” said Hercule Poirot to himself. It was at that moment that he
caught sight of a funicular railway. “Decidedly, I must mount.”
The funicular, he discovered,
ascended6 first to Les Avines, then to Caurouchet and finally to
Rochers Neiges, ten thousand feet above sea level.
Poirot did not propose mounting as high as all that. Les Avines, he thought, would be quite
But here he reckoned without that element of chance which plays so large a part in life. The
funicular had started when the conductor approached Poirot and demanded his ticket. After he had
inspected it and punched it with a fearsome pair of clippers, he returned it with a bow. At the same
time Poirot felt a small wad of paper pressed into his hand with the ticket.
The
eyebrows8 of Hercule Poirot rose a little on his forehead. Presently, unostentatiously,
without hurrying himself, he smoothed out the wad of paper. It proved to be a hurriedly
scribbled9
note written in pencil.
Impossible (it ran) to mistake those moustaches! I
salute10 you, my dear colleague. If you are
willing, you can be of great assistance to me. You have doubtless read of the affaire Salley? The
Neiges—of all places in the world! Of course the whole thing may be a blague—but our
information is reliable—there is always someone who
squeals13, is there not? So keep your eyes
open, my friend. Get in touch with
Inspector14 Drouet who is on the spot. He is a sound man—but
he cannot pretend to the
brilliance15 of Hercule Poirot. It is important, my friend, that Marrascaud
should be taken—and taken alive. He is not a man—he is a wild boar—one of the most dangerous
killers16 alive today. I did not risk speaking to you at Andermatt as I might have been observed and
you will have a freer hand if you are thought to be a
mere17 tourist. Good hunting! Your old friend
—Lementeuil.
Thoughtfully, Hercule Poirot
caressed18 his moustaches. Yes, indeed, impossible to mistake the
moustaches of Hercule Poirot. Now what was all this? He had read in the papers the details of
l’affaire Salley—the cold-blooded murder of a well-known Parisian bookmaker. The identity of
the murderer was known. Marrascaud was a member of a well-known racecourse gang. He had
been suspected of many other killings—but this time his
guilt19 was proved up to the hilt. He had
got away, out of France it was thought, and the police in every country in Europe were on the look
out for him.
So Marrascaud was said to have a rendezvous at Rochers Neiges. . . .
Hercule Poirot shook his head slowly. He was puzzled. For Rochers Neiges was above the
snow line. There was a hotel there, but it communicated with the world only by the funicular,
standing20 as it did on a long narrow
ledge21 overhanging the valley. The hotel opened in June, but
there was seldom any one there until July and August. It was a place ill-supplied with entrances
and exits—if a man were tracked there, he was caught in a trap. It seemed a fantastic place to
choose as the rendezvous of a gang of criminals.
And yet, if Lementeuil said his information was reliable, then Lementeuil was probably right.
Hercule Poirot respected the Swiss Commissionaire of Police. He knew him as a sound and
dependable man.
Some reason unknown was bringing Marrascaud to this meeting place far above civilization.
Hercule Poirot sighed. To hunt down a ruthless killer was not his idea of a pleasant holiday.
Brain work from an armchair, he reflected, was more in his line. Not to ensnare a wild boar upon a
mountainside.
A wild boar—that was the term Lementeuil had used. It was certainly an odd coincidence. . . .
He murmured to himself: “The fourth Labor of Hercules. The Erymanthian Boar?”
Quietly, without
ostentation22, he took careful stock of his fellow passengers.
On the seat opposite him was an American tourist. The pattern of his clothes, of his overcoat,
the grip he carried, down to his hopeful
friendliness23 and his naïve absorption in the scenery, even
the guide book in his hand, all gave him away and proclaimed him a small town American seeing
Europe for the first time. In another minute or two, Poirot judged, he would break into speech. His
wistful doglike expression could not be
mistaken.
On the other side of the carriage a tall, rather distinguished-looking man with greyish hair and
a big curved nose was reading a German book. He had the strong mobile fingers of a musician or a
surgeon.
Farther away still were three men all of the same type. Men with bowed legs and an
indescribable suggestion of horsiness about them. They were playing cards. Presently, perhaps,
they would suggest a stranger cutting in on the game. At first the stranger would win. Afterwards,
the luck would run the other way.
Nothing very unusual about the three men. The only thing that was unusual was the place
where they were.
One might have seen them in any train on the way to a race meeting—or on an unimportant
liner. But in an almost empty funicular—no!
There was one other occupant of the carriage—a woman. She was tall and dark. It was a
beautiful face—a face that might have expressed a whole
gamut24 of emotion—but which instead
was frozen into a strange inexpressiveness. She looked at no one, staring out at the valley below.
Presently, as Poirot had expected, the American began to talk. His name, he said, was
Schwartz. It was his first visit to Europe. The scenery, he said, was just grand. He’d been very
deeply impressed by the Castle of Chillon. He didn’t think much of Paris as a city—overrated—
he’d been to the Folies Bergères and the Louvre and Nôtre Dame—and he’d noticed that none of
these restaurants and cafés could play hot jazz properly. The Champs Elysées, he thought, was
pretty good, and he liked the fountains especially when they were floodlit.
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
perusal25 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
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