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

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pince-nez and 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.35

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-theworld,

spot.

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The manager was a big handsome man, with an important manner. He was very apologetic.

So early in the season . . . The hotwater

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 Foirot 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 skilful

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

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character—and incongruously out of

place!

The woman with the beautiful face sat