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
dressing1 gown. He
stared when he saw the men.
“I heard voices,” he explained. “Why, what’s this?”
“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
Inspector3 Drouet.”
“It is Gustave, yes—but it is not Drouet. Drouet was the first waiter, the waiter Robert who
was
imprisoned4 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
retired5 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
crook6 too?”
“Dr. Lutz is really Dr. Lutz—but he is not a nerve specialist—not a psychoanalyst. He is a
surgeon, my friend, a surgeon who specializes in facial surgery. That is why he was to meet
Marrascaud here. He is poor now, turned out of his country. He was offered a huge fee to meet a
man here and change that man’s appearance by means of his
surgical7 skill. He may have guessed
that that man was a criminal, but if so, he shut his eyes to the fact. Realize this, they dared not risk
a nursing home in some foreign country. No, up here, where no one ever comes so early in the
season except for an odd visit, where the manager is a man in need of money who can be
bribed8,
was an ideal spot.
“But, as I say, matters went wrong. Marrascaud was betrayed. The three men, his
bodyguard9,
who were to meet him here and look after him had not yet arrived, but Marrascaud acts at once.
The police officer who is pretending to be a waiter is kidnapped and Marrascaud takes his place.
The gang arrange for the funicular to be
wrecked10. It is a matter of time. The following evening
Drouet is killed and a paper is pinned on the dead body. It is hoped that by the time that
communications are established with the world Drouet’s body may have been buried as that of
Marrascaud. Dr. Lutz performs his operation without delay. But one man must be silenced—
Hercule Poirot. So the gang are sent to attack me. Thanks to you, my friend—”
“So you’re really Hercule Poirot?”
“Precisely.”
“And you were never fooled by that body for a minute? You knew all along that it wasn’t
Marrascaud?”
“Certainly.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Hercule Poirot’s face was suddenly stern.
“Because I wanted to be quite sure of handing the real Marrascaud over to the police.”
He murmured below his breath:
“To capture alive the wild boar of Erymanthea. . . .”
分享到: