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.

137

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.

138

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

139

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