Labours Of Hercules By Agatha Christie

Dr karl lutz from vienna he had come here so he said

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Unformatted text preview: 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. 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...
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