'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!'
Chapter 4
THE ERYMANTHIAN BOAR
I
The accomplishment of the third Labour 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 Aldermatt, a spot which he had heard various friends praise highly.
Aldermatt, 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 Aldermatt 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 the 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 race-course 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 Commissaire of Police. He knew him as a sound and dependable man.
Some reason unknown was bringing Marrascaud to this meeting-place far above civilisation.
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 Labour 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 naive 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 dog-like 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 Bergeres and the Louvre and Notre Dame – and he'd noticed that none of these restaurants and cafes could play hot jazz properly. The Champs Elysees, 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
