134

moment that he caught sight of a funicular

railway. "Decidedly, I must mount.w

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, unostantatiously, 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 I salute you, my dear colleague. If

you are willing, you can be of great assistance

LOH10 I3<

to me. You have doubtless read of the ajfaire

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 I 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 raffaire Salley --the

cold-blooded murder of a well-known

Parisian bookmaker. The identity of the

136

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.