V
Hercule Poirot went to bed early. He was
awakened1 some time after midnight.
Someone was
fumbling2 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
malevolent3. He saw the gleam of a razor blade.
voice.
“Sacred pig of a detective! Bah!”
He burst into a
torrent6 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
slash7 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
swerved8 round. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped
pyjamas9 stood in
the
doorway10. 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
knotty11 problem. Maybe we’d better consult the manager.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Ah, the manager. I think first we will consult the waiter—Gustave—alias
Inspector12 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
crooks13 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
inhuman14
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.
Dr. Lutz said:
“Marrascaud? I read about the case in the paper. I should much like to meet that man. There
is some deep abnormality there! I should like to know the particulars of his childhood.”
“For myself,” said Hercule Poirot. “I should like to know exactly where he is at this minute.”
Schwartz said:
“Isn’t he one of the three we locked in the cupboard?”
Poirot said in a dissatisfied voice:
“It is possible—yes, but me, I am not sure . . . I have an idea—”
He broke off, staring down at the carpet. It was of a light buff colour and there were marks on
Hercule Poirot said:
“Footsteps—footsteps that have trodden, I think, in blood and they lead from the unused
wing of the hotel. Come—we must be quick!”
They followed him, through a swing door and along a dim, dusty corridor. They turned the
corner of it, still following the marks on the carpet until the tracks led them to a half-open
doorway.
Poirot pushed the door open and entered.
The room was a bedroom. The bed had been slept in and there was a tray of food on the table.
In the middle of the floor lay the body of a man. He was of just over middle height and he
had been attacked with
savage18 and unbelievable ferocity. There were a dozen wounds on his arms
Schwartz gave a half-stifled exclamation and turned away looking as though he might be
sick.
Dr. Lutz uttered a horrified exclamation in German.
Schwartz said faintly:
“Who is this guy? Does anyone know?”
“I fancy,” said Poirot, “that he was known here as Robert, a rather unskilful waiter. . . .”
Lutz had gone nearer, bending over the body. He
pointed21 with a finger.
There was a paper pinned to the dead man’s breast. It had some words
scrawled22 on it in ink.
Marrascaud will kill no more—nor will he rob his friends!
Schwartz ejaculated:
“Marrascaud? So this is Marrascaud! But what brought him up here to this out of the way
spot? And why do you say his name is Robert?”
Poirot said:
“He was here masquerading as a waiter—and by all accounts he was a very bad waiter. So
bad that no one was surprised when he was given the sack. He left—presumably to return to
Andermatt. But nobody saw him go.”
“So—and what do you think happened?”
Poirot replied:
“I think we have here the explanation of a certain worried expression on the hotel manager’s
face. Marrascaud must have offered him a big
bribe24 to allow him to remain hidden in the unused
part of the hotel. . . .”
He added thoughtfully: “But the manager was not happy about it. Oh no, he was not happy at
all.”
“And Marrascaud continued to live in this unused wing with no one but the manager knowing
about it?”
“So it seems. It would be quite possible, you know.”
Dr. Lutz said:
“And why was he killed? And who killed him?”
Schwartz cried:
“That’s easy. He was to share out the money with his gang. He didn’t. He double-crossed
them. He came here, to this out of the way place, to lie low for a while. He thought it was the last
place in the world they’d ever think of. He was wrong. Somehow or other they got wise to it and
followed him.” He touched the dead body with the tip of his shoe. “And they settled his account—
like this.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“Yes, it was not quite the kind of
rendezvous25 we thought.”
“These hows and whys may be very interesting, but I am concerned with our present position.
Here we have a dead man. I have a sick man on my hands and a limited amount of medical
supplies. And we are cut off from the world! For how long?”
Schwartz added:
“And we’ve got three murderers locked in a cupboard! It’s what I’d call kind of an interesting
situation.”
Dr. Lutz said:
“What do we do?”
Poirot said:
“First, we get hold of the manager. He is not a criminal, that one, only a man who was greedy
for money. He is a coward, too. He will do everything we tell him. My good friend Jacques, or his
wife, will perhaps provide some cord. Our three
miscreants27 must be placed where we can guard
them in safety until the day when help comes. I think that Mr. Schwartz’s automatic will be
effective in carrying out any plans we may make.”
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.”
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