“Wings of gold, horns of gold? It is as you look at it, it is whether one sees you as devil or as angel! You might be either. Or are they perhaps only the golden horns of the stricken deer?”
Katrina murmured:
“The stricken deer . . .” and her voice was the voice of one without hope.
Poirot said:
“All along Ted Williamson’s description has worried me—it brought something to my mind—that something was you, dancing on your twinkling bronze feet through the forest. Shall I tell you what I think, Mademoiselle? I think there was a week when you had no maid, when you went down alone to Grasslawn, for Bianca Valetta had returned to Italy and you had not yet engaged a new maid. Already you were feeling the illness which has since overtaken you, and you stayed in the house one day when the others went on an all day excursion on the river. There was a ring at the door and you went to it and you saw—shall I tell you what you saw? You saw a young man who was as simple as a child and as handsome as a god! And you invented for him a girl—not Juanita—but Incognita—and for a few hours you walked with him in Arcady. . . .”
There was a long pause. Then Katrina said in a low hoarse voice:
“In one thing at least I have told you the truth. I have given you the right end to the story. Nita will die young.”
“Ah non!” Hercule Poirot was transformed. He struck his hand on the table. He was suddenly prosaic, mundane, practical.
He said:
“It is quite unnecessary! You need not die. You can fight for your life, can you not, as well as another?”
She shook her head—sadly, hopelessly—
“What life is there for me?”
“Not the life of the stage, bien entendu! But think, there is another life. Come now, Mademoiselle, be honest, was your father really a Prince or a Grand Duke, or even a General?”
She laughed suddenly. She said:
“He drove a lorry in Leningrad!”
“Very good! And why should you not be the wife of a garage hand in a country village? And have children as beautiful as gods, and with feet, perhaps, that will dance as you once danced.”
Katrina caught her breath.
“But the whole idea is fantastic!”
“Nevertheless,” said Hercule Poirot with great self-satisfaction, “I believe it is going to come true!”
Forty-two
THE ERYMANTHIAN BOAR
“The Erymanthian Boar” was first published in The Strand, February 1940.
The accomplishment of the third Labor of Hercules having brought him to Switzerland, Hercule Poirot decided 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, affected him unpleasantly. It was at the end of a valley with towering snow-peaked mountains shutting it in. He felt, unreasonably, 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, ascended 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 sufficiently his affair.
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 eyebrows 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 scribbled note written in pencil.
Impossible (it ran) to mistake those moustaches! I salute 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 killer—Marrascaud—is believed to have a rendezvous with some members of his gang at Rochers 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 squeals, is there not? So keep your eyes open, my friend. Get in touch with Inspector Drouet who is on the spot. He is a sound man—but he cannot pretend to the brilliance 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 killers 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 mere tourist. Good hunting! Your old friend—Lementeuil.
Thoughtfully, Hercule Poirot caressed 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 guilt 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, standing as it did on a long narrow ledge 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 ostentation, 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 friendliness 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 gamut 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 perusal 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 expressively, there’s no harm in a little friendliness all round?
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 harshly. 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. . . .”
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.”
r /> 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.”