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III
Gustave the waiter brought Hercule Poirot his breakfast of coffee and rolls. He was apologetic
over the coffee.
“Monsieur comprehends, does he not, that at this altitude it is impossible to have the coffee
really hot? Lamentably, it boils too soon.”
Poirot murmured:
“One must accept these vagaries of Nature’s with fortitude.”
Gustave murmured:
“Monsieur is a philosopher.”
He went to the door, but instead of leaving the room, he took one quick look outside, then
shut the door again and returned to the bedside. He said:
“M. Hercule Poirot? I am Drouet, Inspector of Police.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “I had already suspected as much.”
Drouet lowered his voice.
“M. Poirot, something very grave has occurred. There has been an accident to the funicular!”
“An accident?” Poirot sat up. “What kind of an accident?”
“Nobody has been injured. It happened in the night. It was occasioned, perhaps, by natural
causes—a small avalanche that swept down boulders and rocks. But it is possible that there was
human agency at work. One does not know. In any case the result is that it will take many days to
repair and that in the meantime we are cut off up here. So early in the season, when the snow is
still heavy, it is impossible to communicate with the valley below.”
Hercule Poirot sat up in bed. He said softly:
“That is very interesting.”
The Inspector nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “It shows that our commissaire’s information was correct. Marrascaud has a
rendezvous here, and he has made sure that that rendezvous shall not be interrupted.”
Hercule Poirot cried impatiently:
“But it is fantastic!”
“I agree.” Inspector Drouet threw up his hands. “It does not make the commonsense—but
there it is. This Marrascaud, you know, is a fantastic creature! Myself,” he nodded, “I think he is
mad.”
Poirot said:
“A madman and a murderer!”
Drouet said drily:
“It is not amusing. I agree.”
Poirot said slowly:
“But if he has a rendezvous here, on this ledge of snow high above the world, then it also
follows that Marrascaud himself is here already, since communications are now cut.”
Drouet said quietly:
“I know.”
Both men were silent for a minute or two. Then Poirot asked:
“Dr. Lutz? Can he be Marrascaud?”
Drouet shook his head.
“I do not think so. There is a real Dr. Lutz—I have seen his pictures in the papers—a
distinguished and well-known man. This man resembles these photographs closely.”
Poirot murmured:
“If Marrascaud is an artist in disguise, he might play the part successfully.”
“Yes, but is he? I never heard of him as an expert in disguise. He has not the guile and
cunning of a serpent. He is a wild boar, ferocious, terrible, who charges in blind fury.”
Poirot said:
“All the same. . . .”
Drouet agreed quickly.
“Ah yes, he is a fugitive from justice. Therefore he is forced to dissemble. So he may—in fact
he must be—more or less disguised.”
“You have his description?”
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“Roughly only. The official Bertillon photograph and measurements were to have been sent
up to me today. I know only that he is a man of thirty odd, of a little over medium height and of
dark complexion. No distinguishing marks.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“That could apply to anybody. What about the American, Schwartz?”
“I was going to ask you that. You have spoken with him, and you have lived, I think, much
with the English and the Americans. To a casual glance he appears to be the normal travelling
American. His passport is in order. It is perhaps strange that he should elect to come here—but
Americans when travelling are quite incalculable. What do you think yourself?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head in perplexity.
He said:
“On the surface, at any rate, he appears to be a harmless slightly over-friendly, man. He
might be a bore, but it seems difficult to regard him as a danger.” He went on: “But there are three
more visitors here.”
The Inspector nodded, his face suddenly eager.
“Yes, and they are the type we are looking for. I’ll take my oath, M. Poirot, that those three
men are at any rate members of Marrascaud’s gang. They’re racecourse toughs if I ever saw them!
and one of the three may be Marrascaud himself.”
Hercule Poirot reflected. He recalled the three faces.
One was a broad face with overhanging brows and a fat jowl—a hoggish, bestial face. One
was lean and thin with a sharp narrow face and cold eyes. The third man was a pasty-faced fellow
with a slight dandiacal air.
Yes, one of the three might well be Marrascaud, but if so, the question came insistently, why?
Why should Marrascaud, and two members of his gang journey together and ascend into a rattrap
on a mountain side? A meeting surely could be arranged in safer and less fantastic surroundings—
in a café—in a railway station—in a crowded cinema—in a public park—somewhere where there
were exits in plenty—not here far above the world in a wilderness of snow.
Something of this he tried to convey to Inspector Drouet and the latter agreed readily enough.
“But yes, it is fantastic, it does not make sense.”
“If it is a rendezvous, why do they travel together? No, indeed, it does not make sense.”
Drouet said, his face worried:
“In that case, we have to examine a second supposition. These three men are members of
Marrascaud’s gang and they have come here to meet Marrascaud himself. Who then is
Marrascaud?”
Poirot asked:
“What about the staff of the hotel?”
Drouet shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no staff to speak of. There is an old woman who cooks, there is her old husband
Jacques—they have been here for fifty years I should think. There is the waiter whose place I have
taken, that is all.”
Poirot said:
“The manager, he knows of course who you are?”
“Naturally. It needed his cooperation.”
“Has it struck you,” said Hercule Poirot, “that he looks worried?”
The remark seemed to strike Drouet. He said thoughtfully:
“Yes, that is true.”
“It may be that it is merely the anxiety of being involved in police proceedings.”
“But you think it may be more than that? You think that he may—know something?”
“It occurred to me, that is all.”
Drouet said sombrely: “I wonder.”
He paused and then went on:
“Could one get it out of him, do you think?”
Poirot shook his head doubtfully. He said:
“It would be better, I think, not to let him know of our suspicions. Keep your eye on him, that
is all.”
Drouet nodded. He turned towards the door.
“You’ve no suggestions, M. Poirot? I—I know your reputation. We have heard of you in this
country of ours.”
Poirot said perplexedly:
“For the moment I can suggest nothing. It is the reason which escapes me—the reason for a
rendezvous in this place. In fact, the reason for a rendezvous at all?”
“Money,” said Drouet succinctly.
“He was robbed, then, as well as murdered, this poor fellow Salley?”
“Yes, he had a very large sum of money on him which has disappeared.”
“And the rendezvous is for the purpose of sharing out, you think?”
“It is the most obvious idea.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Yes, but why here?” He went on slowly: “The worst place possible for a rendezvous of
criminals. But it is a place, this, where one might come to meet a woman. . . .”
Drouet took a step forward eagerly.
He said excitedly:
“You think—?”
“I think,” said Poirot, “that Madame Grandier is a very beautiful woman. I think that anyone
might well mount ten thousand feet for her sake—that is, if she had suggested such a thing.”
“You know,” said Drouet, “that’s interesting. I never thought of her in connection with the
case. After all, she’s been to this place several years running.”
Poirot said gently:
“Yes—and therefore her presence would not cause comment. It would be a reason, would it
not, why Rochers Neiges should have been the spot selected?”
Drouet said excitedly:
“You’ve had an idea, M. Poirot. I’ll look into that angle.”
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