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 facade 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 skillful 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 sacre 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…'
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 common sense – 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!'
