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.”
IV
The day passed without incident. Fortunately the hotel was well provisioned. The manager explained that there need be no anxiety. Supplies were assured.
Hercule Poirot endeavoured to get into conversation with Dr. Karl Lutz and was rebuffed. The doctor intimated plainly that psychology was his professional preoccupation and that he was not going to discuss it with amateurs. He sat in a corner reading a large German tome on the subconscious and making copious notes and annotations.
Hercule Poirot went outside and wandered aimlessly round to the kitchen premises. There he entered into conversation with the old man Jacques, who was surly and suspicious. His wife, the cook, was more forthcoming. Fortunately, she explained to Poirot, there was a large reserve of tinned food—but she herself thought little of food in tins. It was wickedly expensive and what nourishment could there be in it? The good God had never intended people to live out of tins.
The conversation came round to the subject of the hotel staff. Early in July the chambermaids and the extra waiters arrived. But for the next three weeks, there would be nobody or next to nobody. Mostly people who came up and had lunch and then went back again. She and Jacques and one waiter could manage that easily.
Poirot asked:
“There was already a waiter here before Gustave came, was there not?”
“But yes, indeed, a poor kind of a waiter. No skill, no experience. No class at all.”
“How long was he here before Gustave replaced him?”
“A few days only—the inside of a week. Naturally he was dismissed. We were not surprised. It was bound to come.”
Poirot murmured:
“He did not complain unduly?”
“Ah no, he went quietly enough. After all, what could he expect? This is a hotel of good class. One must have proper service here.”
Poirot nodded. He asked:
“Where did he go?”
“That Robert, you mean?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Doubtless back to the obscure café he came from.”
“He went down in the funicular?”
She looked at him curiously.
“Naturally, Monsieur. What other way is there to go?”
Poirot asked:
“Did anyone see him go?”
They both stared at him.
“Ah! do you think it likely that one goes to see off an animal like that—that one gives him the grand farewell? One has one’s own affairs to occupy one.”
“Precisely,” said Hercule Poirot.
He walked slowly away, staring up as he did so at the building above him. A large hotel—with only one wing open at present. In the other wings were many rooms, closed and shuttered where no one was likely to enter. . . .
He came round the corner of t
he hotel and nearly ran into one of the three card-playing men. It was the one with the pasty face and pale eyes. The eyes looked at Poirot without expression. Only the lips curled back a little showing the teeth like a vicious horse.
Poirot passed him and went on. There was a figure ahead of him—the tall graceful figure of Madame Grandier.
He hastened his pace a little and caught her up. He said:
“This accident to the funicular, it is distressing. I hope, Madame, that it has not inconvenienced you?”
She said:
“It is a matter of indifference to me.”
Her voice was very deep—a full contralto. She did not look at Poirot. She swerved aside and went into the hotel by a small side door.
V
Hercule Poirot went to bed early. He was awakened some time after midnight.
Someone was fumbling 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 malevolent. He saw the gleam of a razor blade.
The big thickset man advanced. He spoke in a growling voice.
“Sacred pig of a detective! Bah!”
He burst into a torrent 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 slash 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 swerved round. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. 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 knotty problem. Maybe we’d better consult the manager.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Ah, the manager. I think first we will consult the waiter—Gustave—alias Inspector 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 crooks 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 inhuman 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 it of a deep rusty brown.
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.
He uttered a sharp, horrified exclamation.
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 savage and unbelievable ferocity. There were a dozen wounds on his arms and chest and his head and face had been battered almost to a pulp.
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 pointed with a finger.
There was a paper pinned to the dead man’s breast. It had some words scrawled 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.”
Lutz said in his slow rumbling voice:
“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 bribe 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 rendezvous we thought.”
Dr. Lutz said irritably:
“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 miscreants 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.”
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.”