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II
To be received by a hotel manager correctly garbed in frock coat and patent leather shoes seemed
somehow ludicrous in this out of the world, or rather above-the-world, spot.
The manager was a big handsome man, with an important manner. He was very apologetic.
So early in the season . . . the hot-water system was out of order . . . things were hardly in
running order . . . Naturally, he would do everything he could . . . Not a full staff yet . . . He was
quite confused by the unexpected number of visitors.
It all came rolling out with professional urbanity and yet it seemed to Poirot that behind the
urbane façade he caught a glimpse of some poignant anxiety. This man, for all his easy manner,
was not at ease. He was worried about something.
Lunch was served in a long room overlooking the valley far below. The solitary waiter,
addressed as Gustave, was skilful and adroit. He darted here and there, advising on the menu,
whipping out his wine list. The three horsy men sat at a table together. They laughed and talked in
French, their voices rising.
Good old Joseph!—What about the little Denise, mon vieux?—Do you remember that sacré
pig of a horse that let us all down at Auteuil?
It was all very hearty, very much in character—and incongruously out of place!
The woman with the beautiful face sat alone at a table in the corner. She looked at no one.
Afterwards, as Poirot was sitting in the lounge, the manager came to him and was
confidential.
Monsieur must not judge the hotel too hardly. It was out of the season. No one came here till
the end of July. That lady, Monsieur had noticed her, perhaps? She came at this time every year.
Her husband had been killed climbing three years ago. It was very sad. They had been very
devoted. She came here always before the season commenced—so as to be quiet. It was a sacred
pilgrimage. The elderly gentleman was a famous doctor, Dr. Karl Lutz, from Vienna. He had
come here, so he said, for quiet and
repose.
“It is peaceful, yes,” agreed Hercule Poirot. “And ces Messieurs there?” He indicated the
three horsy men. “Do they also seek repose, do you think?”
The manager shrugged his shoulders. Again there appeared in his eyes that worried look. He
said vaguely:
“Ah, the tourists, they wish always a new experience . . . The altitude—that alone is a new
sensation.”
It was not, Poirot thought, a very pleasant sensation. He was conscious of his own rapidly
beating heart. The lines of a nursery rhyme ran idiotically through his mind. “Up above the world
so high, Like a tea tray in the sky.”
Schwartz came into the lounge. His eyes brightened when he saw Poirot. He came over to
him at once.
“I’ve been talking to that doctor. He speaks English after a fashion. He’s a Jew—been turned
out of Austria by the Nazis. Say, I guess those people are just crazy! This Doctor Lutz was quite a
big man, I gather—nerve specialist—psychoanalysis—that kind of stuff.”
His eyes went to where the tall woman was looking out of a window at remorseless
mountains. He lowered his voice.
“I got her name from the waiter. She’s a Madame Grandier. Her husband was killed climbing.
That’s why she comes here. I sort of feel, don’t you, that we ought to do something about it—try
to take her out of herself?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“If I were you I should not attempt it.”
But the friendliness of Mr. Schwartz was indefatigable.
Poirot saw him make his overtures, saw the remorseless way in which they were rebuffed.
The two stood together for a minute silhouetted against the light. The woman was taller than
Schwartz. Her head was thrown back and her expression was cold and forbidding.
He did not hear what she said, but Schwartz came back looking crestfallen.
“Nothing doing,” he said. He added wistfully: “Seems to me that as we’re all human beings
together there’s no reason we shouldn’t be friendly to one another. Don’t you agree, Mr.—You
know, I don’t know your name?”
“My name,” said Poirot, “is Poirier.” He added: “I am a silk merchant from Lyons.”
“I’d like to give you my card, M. Poirier, and if ever you come to Fountain Springs you’ll be
sure of a welcome.”
Poirot accepted the card, clapped his hand to his own pocket, murmured:
“Alas, I have not a card on me at the moment. . . .”
That night, when he went to bed, Poirot read through Lementeuil’s letter carefully, before
replacing it, neatly folded, in his wallet. As he got into bed he said to himself:
“It is curious—I wonder if. . . .”
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