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THE BIG FOUR

AGATHA CHRISTIE

A DELL BOOK

Published by

DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC.

750 Third Avenue

New York, New York 10017

Dodd, Mead & Company.

Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

Reprinted by arrangement with

Dodd, Mead & Company

New York, New York 10016

Printed in the United States of America

Previous Dell Edition #0562

New Dell Edition

First printing--June 1972

CONTENTS

1. THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

2. THE MAN FROM THE ASYLUM

3. WE HEAR MORE ABOUT LI CHANG YEN

4. THE IMPORTANCE OF A LEG OF MUTTON

5. DISAPPEARANCE OF A SCIENTIST

6. THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS

7. THE RADIUM THIEVES

8. IN THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY

9. THE YELLOW JASMINE MYSTERY

10. WE INVESTIGATE AT CROFTLANDS

11. A CHESS PROBLEM

12. THE BAITED TRAP

13. THE MOUSE WALKS IN

14. THE PEROXIDE BLONDE

15. THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE

16. THE DYING CHINAMAN

17. NUMBER FOUR WINS A TRICK

18. IN THE FELSENLABYRYNTH

THE BIG FOUR

1. THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

I have met people who enjoy a channel crossing; men who can sit calmly

in their deck-chairs and, on arrival, wait until the boat is moored,

then gather their belongings together without fuss and disembark.

Personally, I can never manage this. From the moment I get on board I

feel that the time is too short to settle down to anything. I move my

suit-cases from one spot to another, and if I go down to the saloon

for a meal, I bolt my food with an uneasy feeling that the boat may

arrive unexpectedly whilst I am below. Perhaps all this is merely a

legacy from one's short leaves in the war, when it seemed a matter of

such importance to secure a place near the gangway, and to be amongst

the first to disembark lest one should waste precious minutes of one's

three or five days' leave.

On this particular July morning, as I stood by the rail and watched the

white cliffs of Dover drawing nearer, I marvelled at the passengers

who could sit calmly in their chairs and never even raise their eyes

for the first sight of their native land. Yet perhaps their case was

different from mine. Doubtless many of them had only crossed to Paris

for the week-end, whereas I had spent the last year and a half on a

ranch in the Argentine. I had prospered there, and my wife and I had

both enjoyed the free and easy life of the South American continent,

nevertheless it was with a lump in my throat that I watched the

familiar shore draw nearer and nearer.

I had landed in France two days before, transacted some necessary

business, and was now _en route_ for London. I should be there

some months--time enough to look up old friends, and one old friend

in particular. A little man with an egg-shaped head and green

eyes--Hercule Poirot! I proposed to take him completely by surprise.

My last letter from the Argentine had given no hint of my intended

voyage--indeed, that had been decided upon hurriedly as a result

of certain business complications--and I spent many amused moments

picturing to myself his delight and stupefaction on beholding me.

He, I knew, was not likely to be far from his headquarters. The time

when his cases had drawn him from one end of England to the other was

past. His fame had spread, and no longer would he allow one case to

absorb all his time. He aimed more and more, as time went on, at being

considered a "consulting detective"--as much a specialist as a Harley

Street physician. He had always scoffed at the popular idea of the

human bloodhound who assumed wonderful disguises to track criminals,

and who paused at every footprint to measure it.

"No, my friend Hastings," he would say; "we leave that to Giraud and

his friends. Hercule Poirot's methods are his own. Order and method,

and 'the little gray cells.' Sitting at ease in our own arm-chairs we

see the things that these others overlook, and we do not jump to the

conclusion like the worthy Japp."

No; there was little fear of finding Hercule Poirot far afield.

On arrival in London, I deposited my luggage at an hotel and drove

straight on to the old address. What poignant memories it brought back

to me! I hardly waited to greet my old landlady, but hurried up the

stairs two at a time and rapped on Poirot's door.

"Enter, then," cried a familiar voice from within.

I strode in. Poirot stood facing me. In his arms he carried a small

valise, which he dropped with a crash on beholding me.

"_Mon ami_, Hastings!" he cried. "_Mon ami_, Hastings!"

And, rushing forward, he enveloped me in a capacious embrace. Our

conversation was incoherent and inconsequent. Ejaculations, eager

questions, incomplete answers, messages from my wife, explanations as

to my journey, were all jumbled up together.

"I suppose there's some one in my old rooms?" I asked at last, when we

had calmed down somewhat. "I'd love to put up here again with you."

Poirot's face changed with startling suddenness.

"_Mon Dieu!_ but what a _chance épouvantable_. Regard around

you, my friend."

For the first time I took note of my surroundings. Against the wall

stood a vast ark of a trunk of prehistoric design. Near to it were

placed a number of suit-cases, ranged neatly in order of size from

large to small. The inference was unmistakable.

"You are going away?"

"Yes."

"Where to?"

"South America."

"_What?_"

"Yes, it is a droll farce, is it not? It is to Rio I go, and every

day I say to myself, I will write nothing in my letters--but oh! the

surprise of the good Hastings when he beholds me!"

"But when are you going?"

Poirot looked at his watch.

"In an hour's time."

"I thought you always said nothing would induce you to make a long sea

voyage?"

Poirot closed his eyes and shuddered.

"Speak not of it to me, my friend. My doctor, he assures me that one

dies not of it--and it is for the one time only; you understand, that

never--never shall I return."

He pushed me into a chair.

"Come, I will tell you how it all came about. Do you know who is the

richest man in the world? Richer even than Rockefeller? Abe Ryland."

"The American Soap King?"

"Precisely. One of his secretaries approached me. There is some very

considerable, as you would call it, hocus-pocus going on in connection

with a big company in Rio. He wished me to investigate matters on the

spot. I refused. I told him that if the facts were laid before me,

I would give him my expert opinion. But that he professed himself

unable to do. I was to be put in possession of the facts only on my

arrival out there. Normally, that would have closed the matter. To

dictate to Hercule Poirot is sheer impertinence. But the sum offered

was so stupendous that for the first time in my life I was tempted by

mere money. It was a competence--a fortune! And there was a second

attraction--_you_, my friend. For this last year and a half I

have been a very lonely old man. I thought to myself, Why not? I am

beginning to weary of this unending solving of foolish problems. I

have achieved sufficient fame. Let me take this money and settle down

somewhere near my old friend."

I was quite affected by this token of Poirot's regard.

"So I accepted," he continued, "and in an hour's time I must leave to

catch the boat train. One of life's little ironies, is it not? But I

will admit to you, Hastings, that had not the money offered been so

big, I might have hesitated, for just lately I have begun a little

investigation of my own. Tell me, what is commonly meant by the phrase,

'The Big Four'?"

"I suppose it had its origin at the Versailles Conference, and then

there's the famous 'Big Four' in the film world, and the term is used

by hosts of smaller fry."

"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I have come across the phrase,

you understand, under certain circumstances where none of those

explanations would apply. It seems to refer to a gang of international

criminals or something of that kind; only--"

"Only what?" I asked, as he hesitated.

"Only that I fancy that it is something on a large scale. Just a little

idea of mine, nothing more. Ah, but I must complete my packing. The

time advances."

"Don't go," I urged. "Cancel your passage and come out on the same boat

with me."

Poirot drew himself up and glanced at me reproachfully.

"Ah, it is that you do not understand! I have passed my word, you

comprehend--the word of Hercule Poirot. Nothing but a matter of life or

death could detain me now."

"And that's not likely to occur," I murmured ruefully. "Unless at the

eleventh hour 'the door opens and the unexpected guest comes in.'"

I quoted the old saw with a slight laugh, and then, in the pause that

succeeded it, we both started as a sound came from the inner room.

"What's that?" I cried.

"_Ma foi!_" retorted Poirot. "It sounds very like your 'unexpected

guest' in my bedroom."

"But how can any one be in there? There's no door except into this

room."

"Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions."

"The window! But it's a burglar then? He must have had a stiff climb of

it--I should say it was almost impossible."

I had risen to my feet and was striding in the direction of the door

when the sound of a fumbling at the handle from the other side arrested

me.

The door swung slowly open. Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was

coated from head to foot with dust and mud; his face was thin and

emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, and then swayed and fell.

Poirot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me.

"Brandy--quickly."

I dashed some brandy into a glass and brought it. Poirot managed to

administer a little, and together we raised him and carried him to the

couch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an

almost vacant stare.

"What is it you want, monsieur?" said Poirot.

The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice.

"M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street."

"Yes, yes; I am he."

The man did not seem to understand, and merely repeated in exactly the

same tone:--

"M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street."

Poirot tried him with several questions. Sometimes the man did not

answer at all; sometimes he repeated the same phrase. Poirot made a

sign to me to ring up on the telephone.

"Get Dr. Ridgeway to come round."

The doctor was in luckily; and as his house was only just round the

corner, few minutes elapsed before he came bustling in.

"What's all this, eh?"

Poirot gave a brief explanation, and the doctor started examining our

strange visitor, who seemed quite unconscious of his presence or ours.

"H'm!" said Dr. Ridgeway, when he had finished. "Curious case."

"Brain fever?" I suggested.

The doctor immediately snorted with contempt.

"Brain fever! Brain fever! No such thing as brain fever. An invention

of novelists. No; the man's had a shock of some kind. He's come here

under the force of a persistent idea--to find M. Hercule Poirot, 14

Farraway Street--and he repeats those words mechanically without in the

least knowing what they mean."

"Aphasia?" I said eagerly.

This suggestion did not cause the doctor to snort quite as violently as

my last one had done. He made no answer, but handed the man a sheet of

paper and a pencil.

"Let's see what he'll do with that," he remarked.

The man did nothing with it for some moments, then he suddenly began to

write feverishly. With equal suddenness he stopped and let both paper

and pencil fall to the ground. The doctor picked it up, and shook his

head.

"Nothing here. Only the figure 4 scrawled a dozen times, each one

bigger than the last. Wants to write 14 Farraway Street, I expect.

It's an interesting case--very interesting. Can you possibly keep him

here until this afternoon? I'm due at the hospital now, but I'll come

back this afternoon and make all arrangements about him. It's too

interesting a case to be lost sight of."

I explained Poirot's departure and the fact that I proposed to

accompany him to Southampton.

"That's all right. Leave the man here. He won't get into mischief. He's

suffering from complete exhaustion. Will probably sleep for eight hours

on end. I'll have a word with that excellent Mrs. Funnyface of yours,

and tell her to keep an eye on him."

And Dr. Ridgeway bustled out with his usual celerity. Poirot hastily

completed his packing, with one eye on the clock.

"The time, it marches with a rapidity unbelievable. Come now, Hastings,

you cannot say that I have left you with nothing to do. A most

sensational problem. The man from the unknown. Who is he? What is he?

Ah, _sapristi_, but I would give two years of my life to have

this boat go to-morrow instead of to-day. There is something here very

curious--very interesting. But one must have time--_time_. It may

be days--or even months--before he will be able to tell us what he came

to tell."

"I'll do my best, Poirot," I assured him. "I'll try to be an efficient

substitute."

"Ye-es."

His rejoinder struck me as being a shade doubtful. I picked up the

sheet of paper.

"If I were writing a story," I said lightly, "I should weave this in

with your latest idiosyncrasy and call it _The Mystery of the Big

Four_." I tapped the pencilled figures as I spoke.

And then I started, for our invalid, roused suddenly from his stupor,

sat up in his chair and said clearly and distinctly:

"Li Chang Yen."

He had the look of a man suddenly awakened from sleep. Poirot made a

sign to me not to speak. The man went on. He spoke in a clear, high

voice, and something in his enunciation made me feel that he was

quoting from some written report or lecture.

"Li Chang Yen may be regarded as representing the brains of the Big

Four. He is the controlling and motive force. I have designated him,

therefore, as Number One. Number Two is seldom mentioned by name. He is

represented by an 'S' with two lines through it--the sign for a dollar;

also by two stripes and a star. It may be conjectured, therefore, that

he is an American subject, and that he represents the power of wealth.

There seems no doubt that Number Three is a woman, and her nationality

French. It is possible that she may be one of the sirens of the

_demi-monde_ but nothing is known definitely. Number Four--"

His voice faltered and broke. Poirot leant forward.

"Yes," he prompted eagerly. "Number Four?"

His eyes were fastened on the man's face. Some overmastering terror

seemed to be gaining the day; the features were distorted and twisted.

"_The destroyer_," gasped the man. Then, with a final convulsive

movement, he fell back in a dead faint.

"_Mon Dieu!_" whispered Poirot, "I was right then. I was right."

"You think--?"

He interrupted me.

"Carry him on to the bed in my room. I have not a minute to lose if I

would catch my train. Not that I want to catch it. Oh, that I could

miss it with a clear conscience! But I gave my word. Come, Hastings!"

Leaving our mysterious visitor in the charge of Mrs. Pearson, we drove

away, and duly caught the train by the skin of our teeth. Poirot was

alternately silent and loquacious. He would sit staring out of the

window like a man lost in a dream, apparently not hearing a word that

I said to him. Then, reverting to animation suddenly, he would shower

injunctions and commands upon me, and urge the necessity of constant

marconigrams.

We had a long fit of silence just after we passed Woking. The train,

of course, did not stop anywhere until Southampton; but just here it

happened to be held up by a signal.

"Ah! _Sacré mille tonnerres!_" cried Poirot suddenly. "But I have

been an imbecile. I see clearly at last. It is undoubtedly the blessed

saints who stopped the train. Jump, Hastings, but jump, I tell you."

In an instant he had unfastened the carriage door, and jumped out on

the line.

"Throw out the suit-cases and jump yourself."

I obeyed him. Just in time. As I alighted beside him, the train moved

on.

"And now Poirot," I said, in some exasperation, "perhaps you will tell

me what all this is about."

"It is, my friend, that I have seen the light."

"That," I said, "is very illuminating to me."

"It should be," said Poirot, "but I fear--I very much fear that it is

not. If you can carry two of these valises, I think I can manage the

rest."

2. THE MAN FROM THE ASYLUM

Fortunately the train had stopped near a station. A short walk brought

us to a garage where we were able to obtain a car, and half an hour

later we were spinning rapidly back to London. Then, and not till then,

did Poirot deign to satisfy my curiosity.

"You do not see? No more did I. But I see now. Hastings, _I was being

got out of the way_."

"What!"

"Yes. Very cleverly. Both the place and the method were chosen with

great knowledge and acumen. They were afraid of me."

"Who were?"

"Those four geniuses who have banded themselves together to work

outside the law. A Chinaman, an American, a Frenchwoman, and--another.

Pray the good God we arrive back in time, Hastings."

"You think there is danger to our visitor?"

"I am sure of it."

Mrs. Pearson greeted us on arrival. Brushing aside her ecstasies of

astonishment on beholding Poirot, we asked for information. It was

reassuring. No one had called, and our guest had not made any sign.

With a sigh of relief we went up to the rooms. Poirot crossed the outer

one and went through to the inner one. Then he called me, his voice

strangely agitated.

"Hastings, he's dead."

I came running to join him. The man was lying as we had left him, but

he was dead, and had been dead some time. I rushed out for a doctor.

Ridgeway, I knew, would not have returned yet. I found one almost

immediately, and brought him back with me.

"He's dead right enough, poor chap. Tramp you've been befriending, eh?"

"Something of the kind," said Poirot evasively. "What was the cause of

death, doctor?"

"Hard to say. Might have been some kind of fit. There are signs of

asphyxiation. No gas laid on, is there?"

"No, electric light--nothing else."

"And both windows wide open, too. Been dead about two hours, I should

say. You'll notify the proper people, won't you?"

He took his departure. Poirot did some necessary telephoning. Finally,

somewhat to my surprise, he rang up our old friend Inspector Japp, and

asked him if he could possibly come round.

No sooner were these proceedings completed than Mrs. Pearson appeared,

her eyes as round as saucers.

"There's a man here from 'Anwell--from the 'Sylum. Did you ever? Shall

I show him up?"

We signified assent, and a big burly man in uniform was ushered in.

"'Morning, gentlemen," he said cheerfully. "I've got reason to believe

you've got one of my birds here. Escaped last night, he did."

"He was here," said Poirot quietly.

"Not got away again, has he?" asked the keeper, with some concern.

"He is dead."

The man looked more relieved than otherwise.

"You don't say so. Well, I dare say it's best for all parties."

"Was he--dangerous?"

"'Omicidal, d'you mean? Oh, no. 'Armless enough. Persecution mania very

acute. Full of secret societies from China that had got him shut up.

They're all the same."

I shuddered.

"How long had he been shut up?" asked Poirot.

"A matter of two years now."

"I see," said Poirot quietly. "It never occurred to anybody that he

might--be sane?"

The keeper permitted himself to laugh.

"If he was sane, what would he be doing in a lunatic asylum? They all

_say_ they're sane, you know."

Poirot said no more. He took the man in to see the body. The

identification came immediately.

"That's him--right enough," said the keeper callously; "funny sort

of bloke, ain't he? Well, gentlemen, I had best go off now and make

arrangements under the circumstances. We won't trouble you with the

corpse much longer. If there's a hinquest, you will have to appear at

it, I dare say. Good morning, sir."

With a rather uncouth bow he shambled out of the room.

A few minutes later Japp arrived. The Scotland Yard Inspector was

jaunty and dapper as usual.

"Here I am Moosior Poirot. What can I do for you? Thought you were off

to the coral strands of somewhere or other to-day?"

"My good Japp, I want to know if you have ever seen this man before."

He led Japp into the bedroom. The inspector stared down at the figure

on the bed with a puzzled face.

"Let me see now--he seems sort of familiar--and I pride myself on my

memory, too. Why, God bless my soul, it's Mayerling!"

"And who is--or was--Mayerling?"

"Secret Service chap--not one of our people. Went to Russia five years

ago. Never heard of again. Always thought the Bolshies had done him in."

"It all fits in," said Poirot, when Japp had taken his leave, "except

for the fact that he seems to have died a natural death."

He stood looking down on the motionless figure with a dissatisfied

frown. A puff of wind set the window-curtains flying out, and he looked

up sharply.

"I suppose you opened the windows when you laid him down on the bed,

Hastings?"

"No, I didn't," I replied. "As far as I remember, they were shut."

Poirot lifted his head suddenly.

"Shut--and now they are open. What can that mean?"

"Somebody came in that way," I suggested.

"Possibly," agreed Poirot, but he spoke absently and without

conviction. After a minute or two he said:

"That is not exactly the point I had in mind, Hastings. If only one

window was open it would not intrigue me so much. It is both windows

being open that strikes me as curious."

He hurried into the other room.

"The sitting-room window is open, too. That also we left shut. Ah!"

He bent over the dead man, examining the corners of the mouth minutely.

Then he looked up suddenly.

"He has been gagged, Hastings. Gagged and then poisoned."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, shocked. "I suppose we shall find out all

about it from the post-mortem."

"We shall find out nothing. He was killed by inhaling strong prussic

acid. It was jammed right under his nose. Then the murderer went away

again, first opening all the windows. Hydrocyanic acid is exceedingly

volatile, but it has a pronounced smell of bitter almonds. With no

trace of the smell to guide them, and no suspicion of foul play, death

would be put down to some natural cause by the doctors. So this man was

in the Secret Service, Hastings. And five years ago he disappeared in

Russia."

"The last two years he's been in the Asylum," I said. "But what of the

three years before that?"

Poirot shook his head, and then caught my arm.

"The clock, Hastings, look at the clock."

I followed his gaze to the mantelpiece. The clock had stopped at four

o'clock.

"_Mon ami_, some one has tampered with it. It had still three days

to run. It is an eight-day clock, you comprehend?"

"But what should they want to do that for? Some idea of a false scent

by making the crime appear to have taken place at four o'clock?"

"No, no; rearrange your ideas, mon ami. Exercise your little gray

cells. You are Mayerling. You hear something, perhaps--and you know

well enough that your doom is sealed. You have just time to leave a

sign. _Four_ o'clock, Hastings. Number Four, the _destroyer_.

Ah! an idea!"

He rushed into the other room and seized the telephone. He asked for

Hanwell.

"You are the Asylum, yes? I understand there has been an escape to-day?

What is that you say? A little moment, if you please. Will you repeat

that? Ah! _parfaitement_."

He hung up the receiver, and turned to me.

"You heard, Hastings? _There has been no escape._"

"But the man who came--the keeper?" I said.

"I wonder--I very much wonder."

"You mean--?"

"Number Four--the destroyer."

I gazed at Poirot dumbfounded. A minute or two after, on recovering my

voice, I said:--

"We shall know him again, anywhere, that's one thing. He was a man of

very pronounced personality."

"Was he, _mon ami_? I think not. He was burly and bluff and

red-faced, with a thick moustache and a hoarse voice. He will

be none of those things by this time, and for the rest, he has

nondescript eyes, nondescript ears, and a perfect set of false teeth.

Identification is not such an easy matter as you seem to think. Next

time--"

"You think there will be a next time?" I interrupted.

Poirot's face grew very grave.

"It is a duel to the death, _mon ami_. You and I on the one side,

the Big Four on the other. They have won the first trick; but they have

failed in their plan to get me out of the way, and in the future they

have to reckon with Hercule Poirot!"

3. WE HEAR MORE ABOUT LI CHANG YEN

For a day or two after our visit from the fake Asylum attendant I was

in some hopes that he might return, and I refused to leave the flat

even for a moment. As far as I could see, he had no reason to suspect

that we had penetrated his disguise. He might, I thought, return and

try to remove the body, but Poirot scoffed at my reasoning.

"_Mon ami_," he said, "if you wish you may wait in to put salt on

the little bird's tail, but for me I do not waste my time so."

"Well then, Poirot," I argued, "why did he run the risk of coming

at all. If he intended to return later for the body, I can see some

point in his visit. He would at least be removing the evidence against

himself; as it is, he does not seem to have gained anything."

Poirot shrugged his most Gallic shrug. "But you do not see with the

eyes of Number Four, Hastings," he said. "You talk of evidence, but

what evidence have we against him? True, we have a body, but we have

no proof even that the man was murdered--prussic acid, when inhaled,

leaves no trace. Again, we can find no one who saw any one enter the

flat during our absence, and we have found out nothing about the

movements of our late friend, Mayerling....

"No, Hastings, Number Four has left no trace, and he knows it. His

visit we may call a reconnaissance. Perhaps he wanted to make quite

sure that Mayerling was dead, but more likely, I think, he came to see

Hercule Poirot, and to have speech with the adversary whom alone he

must fear."

Poirot's reasoning appeared to me typically egotistical, but I forbore

to argue.

"And what about the inquest?" I asked. "I suppose you will explain

things clearly there, and let the police have a full description of

Number Four."

"And to what end? Can we produce anything to impress a coroner's jury

of your solid Britishers? Is our description of Number Four of any

value? No; we shall allow them to call it 'Accidental Death,' and may

be, although I have not much hope, our clever murderer will pat himself

on the back that he deceived Hercule Poirot in the first round."

Poirot was right as usual. We saw no more of the man from the asylum,

and the inquest, at which I gave evidence, but which Poirot did not

even attend, aroused no public interest.

As, in view of his intended trip to South America, Poirot had wound up

his affairs before my arrival, he had at this time no cases on hand,

but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little

out of him. He remained buried in an arm-chair, and discouraged my

attempts at conversation.

And then one morning, about a week after the murder, he asked me if

I would care to accompany him on a visit he wished to make. I was

pleased, for I felt he was making a mistake in trying to work things

out so entirely on his own, and I wished to discuss the case with him.

But I found he was not communicative. Even when I asked where we were

going, he would not answer.

Poirot loves being mysterious. He will never part with a piece

of information until the last possible moment. In this instance,

having taken successively a 'bus and two trains, and arrived in the

neighbourhood of one of London's most depressing southern suburbs, he

consented at last to explain matters.

"We go, Hastings, to see the one man in England who knows most of the

underground life of China."

"Indeed! Who is he?"

"A man you have never heard of--a Mr. John Ingles. To all intents and

purposes, he is a retired Civil Servant of mediocre intellect, with

a house full of Chinese curios with which he bores his friends and

acquaintances. Nevertheless, I am assured by those who should know that

the only man capable of giving me the information I seek is this same

John Ingles."

A few moments more saw us ascending the steps of The Laurels, as Mr.

Ingles's residence was called. Personally, I did not notice a laurel

bush of any kind, so deduced that it had been named according to the

usual obscure nomenclature of the suburbs.

We were admitted by an impassive-faced Chinese servant and ushered

into the presence of his master. Mr. Ingles was a squarely-built man,

somewhat yellow of countenance, with deep-set eyes that were oddly

reflective in character. He rose to greet us, setting aside an open

letter which he had held in his hand. He referred to it after his

greeting.

"Sit down, won't you? Halsey tells me that you want some information

and that I may be useful to you in the matter."

"That is so, monsieur. I ask of you if you have any knowledge of a man

named Li Chang Yen?"

"That's rum--very rum indeed. How did you come to hear about the man?"

"You know him, then?"

"I've met him once. And I know something of him--not quite as much as I

should like to. But it surprises me that any one else in England should

even have heard of him. He's a great man in his way--mandarin class and

all that, you know--but that's not the crux of the matter. There's good

reason to suppose that he's the man behind it all."

"Behind what?"

"Everything. The world-wide unrest, the labour troubles that beset

every nation, and the revolutions that break out in some. There are

people, not scaremongers, who know what they are talking about, and

they say that there is a force behind the scenes which aims at nothing

less than the disintegration of civilisation. In Russia, you know,

there were many signs that Lenin and Trotsky were mere puppets whose

every action was dictated by another's brain. I have no definite proof

that would count with you, but I am quite convinced that this brain

was Li Chang Yen's."

"Oh, come," I protested, "isn't that a bit farfetched? How would a

Chinaman cut any ice in Russia?"

Poirot frowned at me irritably.

"For you, Hastings," he said, "everything is farfetched that comes not

from your own imagination; for me, I agree with this gentleman. But

continue, I pray, monsieur."

"What exactly he hopes to get out of it all I cannot pretend to say

for certain," went on Mr. Ingles; "but I assume his disease is one

that has attacked great brains from the time of Akbar and Alexander to

Napoleon--a lust for power and personal supremacy. Up to modern times

armed force was necessary for conquest, but in this century of unrest

a man like Li Chang Yen can use other means. I have evidence that he

has unlimited money behind him for bribery and propaganda, and there

are signs that he controls some scientific force more powerful than the

world has dreamed of."

Poirot was following Mr. Ingles's words with the closest attention.

"And in China?" he asked. "He moves there too?"

The other nodded in emphatic assent.

"There," he said, "although I can produce no proof that would count in

a court of law, I speak from my own knowledge. I know personally every

man who counts for anything in China to-day, and this I can tell you:

the men who loom most largely in the public eye are men of little or

no personality. They are marionettes who dance to the wires pulled by

a master hand, and that hand is Li Chang Yen's. His is the controlling

brain of the East to-day. We don't understand the East--we never shall;

but Li Chang Yen is its moving spirit. Not that he comes out into the

limelight--oh, not at all; he never moves from his palace in Pekin. But

he pulls strings--that's it, pulls strings--and things happen far away."

"And is there no one to oppose him?" asked Poirot.

Mr. Ingles leant forward in his chair.

"Four men have tried in the last four years," he said slowly; "men of

character, and honesty, and brain power. Any one of them might in time

have interfered with his plans." He paused.

"Well?" I queried.

"Well, they are dead. One wrote an article, and mentioned Li Chang

Yen's name in connection with the riots in Pekin, and within two days

he was stabbed in the street. His murderer was never caught. The

offences of the other two were similar. In a speech or an article,

or in conversation, each linked Li Chang Yen's name with rioting or

revolution, and within a week of his indiscretion each was dead. One

was poisoned; one died of cholera, an isolated case--not part of an

epidemic; and one was found dead in his bed. The cause of the last

death was never determined, but I was told by a doctor who saw the

corpse that it was burnt and shrivelled as though a wave of electrical

energy of incredible power had passed through it."

"And Li Chang Yen?" inquired Poirot. "Naturally nothing is traced to

him, but there are signs, eh?"

Mr. Ingles shrugged.

"Oh, signs--yes, certainly. And once I found a man who would talk, a

brilliant young Chinese chemist who was a protégé of Li Chang Yen's.

He came to me one day, this chemist, and I could see that he was on

the verge of a nervous breakdown. He hinted to me of experiments on

which he'd been engaged in Li Chang Yen's palace under the mandarin's

direction--experiments on coolies in which the most revolting disregard

for human life and suffering had been shown. His nerve had completely

broken, and he was in the most pitiable state of terror. I put him to

bed in a top room of my own house, intending to question him the next

day--and that, of course, was stupid of me."

"How did they get him?" demanded Poirot.

"That I shall never know. I woke that night to find my house in flames,

and was lucky to escape with my life. Investigation showed that a fire

of amazing intensity had broken out on the top floor, and the remains

of my young chemist friend were charred to a cinder."

I could see from the earnestness with which he had been speaking that

Mr. Ingles was a man mounted on his hobby horse, and evidently he, too,

realised that he had been carried away, for he laughed apologetically.

"But, of course," he said, "I have no proofs, and you, like the others,

will merely tell me that I have a bee in my bonnet."

"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "we have every reason to

believe your story. We ourselves are more than a little interested in

Li Chang Yen."

"Very odd your knowing about him. Didn't fancy a soul in England had

ever heard of him. I'd rather like to know how you did come to hear of

him--if it's not indiscreet."

"Not in the least, monsieur. A man took refuge in my rooms. He was

suffering badly from shock, but he managed to tell us enough to

interest us in this Li Chang Yen. He described four people--the Big

Four--an organisation hitherto undreamed of. Number One is Li Chang

Yen, Number Two is an unknown American, Number Three an equally

unknown Frenchwoman, Number Four may be called the executive of the

organisation--_the destroyer_. My informant died. Tell me,

monsieur, is that phrase known to you at all? The Big Four."

"Not in connection with Li Chang Yen. No, I can't say it is. But I've

heard it, or read it, just lately--and in some unusual connection too.

Ah, I've got it."

He rose and went across to an inlaid lacquer cabinet--an exquisite

thing, as even I could see. He returned with a letter in his hand.

"Here you are. Note from an old sea-faring man I ran against once in

Shanghai. Hoary old reprobate--maudlin with drink by now, I should say.

I took this to be the ravings of alcoholism."

He read it aloud:--

"DEAR SIR,--You may not remember me, but you did me a good

turn once in Shanghai. Do me another now. I must have money to get

out of the country. I'm well hid here, I hope, but any day they may

get me. The Big Four, I mean. It's life or death. I've plenty of

money, but I daren't get at it, for fear of putting them wise. Send

me a couple of hundred in notes. I'll repay it faithful--I swear to

that.--Your servant, sir,

"JONATHAN WHALLEY."

"Dated from Granite Bungalow, Hoppaton, Dartmoor. I'm afraid I regarded

it as rather a crude method of relieving me of a couple of hundred

which I can ill spare. If it's any use to you--" He held it out.

"_Je vous remercie_, monsieur. I start for Hoppaton _à l'heure

même._"

"Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I come along too? Any

objection?"

"I should be charmed to have your company, but we must start at once.

We shall not reach Dartmoor until close on nightfall, as it is."

John Ingles did not delay us more than a couple of minutes, and soon

we were in the train moving out of Paddington bound for the West

Country. Hoppaton was a small village clustering in a hollow right on

the fringe of the moorland. It was reached by a nine-mile drive from

Moretonhamstead. It was about eight o'clock when we arrived; but as the

month was July, the daylight was still abundant.

We drove into the narrow street of the village and then stopped to ask

our way of an old rustic.

"Granite Bungalow," said the old man reflectively, "it be Granite

Bungalow you do want? Eh?"

We assured him that this was what we did want.

The old man pointed to a small gray cottage at the end of the street.

"There be t'Bungalow. Do yee want to see t'Inspector?"

"What Inspector?" asked Poirot sharply; "what do you mean?"

"Haven't yee heard about t'murder, then? A shocking business t'was

seemingly. Pools of blood, they do say."

"_Mon Dieu!_" murmured Poirot. "This Inspector of yours, I must

see him at once."

Five minutes later we were closeted with Inspector Meadows. The

Inspector was inclined to be stiff at first, but at the magic name of

Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, he unbent.

"Yes, sir; murdered this morning. A shocking business. They 'phoned to

Moreton, and I came out at once. Looked a mysterious thing to begin

with. The old man--he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his

glass, from all I hear--was lying on the floor of the living-room.

There was a bruise on his head and his throat was cut from ear to ear.

Blood all over the place, as you can understand. The woman who cooks

for him, Betsy Andrews, she told us that her master had several little

Chinese jade figures, that he'd told her were very valuable, and these

had disappeared. That, of course, looked like assault and robbery;

but there were all sorts of difficulties in the way of that solution.

The old fellow had two people in the house; Betsy Andrews, who is a

Hoppaton woman, and a rough kind of man-servant, Robert Grant. Grant

had gone to the farm to fetch the milk, which he does every day, and

Betsy had stepped out to have a chat with a neighbour. She was only

away twenty minutes--between ten and half-past--and the crime must

have been done then. Grant returned to the house first. He went in by

the back door, which was open--no one locks up doors round here--not

in broad daylight, at all events--put the milk in the larder, and went

into his own room to read the paper and have a smoke. Had no idea

anything unusual had occurred--at least, that's what he says. Then

Betsy comes in, goes into the living-room, sees what's happened, and

lets out a screech to wake the dead. That's all fair and square. Some

one got in whilst those two were out, and did the poor old man in. But

it struck me at once that he must be a pretty cool customer. He'd have

to come right up the village street, or creep through some one's back

yard. Granite Bungalow has got houses all round it, as you can see. How

was it that no one had seen him?"

The Inspector paused with a flourish.

"Aha, I perceive your point," said Poirot. "To continue?"

"Well, sir, fishy, I said to myself--fishy. And I began to look about

me. Those jade figures, now. Would a common tramp ever suspect that

they were valuable? Anyway, it was madness to try such a thing in

broad daylight. Suppose the old man had yelled for help?"

"I suppose, Inspector," said Mr. Ingles, "that the bruise on the head

was inflicted before death?"

"Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then

cut his throat. That's clear enough. But how the dickens did he come

or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this.

It came to me all at once--nobody did come. I took a good look round.

It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough

going in and out of the kitchen. In the living-room there were two sets

of footprints only (Betsy Andrews' stopped at the door)---Mr. Whalley's

(he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man's. The other man had

stepped in the blood-stains, and I traced his bloody footprints--I beg

your pardon, sir."

"Not at all," said Mr. Ingles, with a faint smile; "the adjective is

perfectly understood."

"I traced them to the kitchen--but not beyond. Point Number One. On

the lintel of Robert Grant's door was a faint smear--a smear of blood.

That's point Number Two. Point Number Three was when I got hold of

Grant's boots--which he had taken off--and fitted them to the marks.

That settled it. It was an inside job. I warned Grant and took him into

custody; and what do you think I found packed away in his portmanteau?

The little jade figures and a ticket-of-leave. Robert Grant was also

Abraham Biggs, convicted for felony and housebreaking five years ago."

The Inspector paused triumphantly.

"What do you think of that, gentlemen?"

"I think," said Poirot, "that it appears a very clear case--of a

surprising clearness, in fact. This Biggs, or Grant, he must be a man

very foolish and uneducated, eh?"

"Oh, he is that--a rough, common sort of fellow. No idea of what a

footprint may mean."

"Clearly he reads not the detective fiction! Well, Inspector, I

congratulate you. We may look at the scene of the crime. Yes?"

"I'll take you there myself this minute. I'd like you to see those

footprints."

"I, too, should like to see them. Yes, yes, very interesting, very

ingenious."

We set out forthwith. Mr. Ingles and the Inspector forged ahead. I

drew Poirot back a little so as to be able to speak to him out of the

Inspector's hearing.

"What do you really think, Poirot. Is there more in this than meets the

eye?"

"That is just the question, _mon ami_. Whalley says plainly enough

in his letter that the Big Four are on his track, and we know, you

and I, that the Big Four is no bogey for the children. Yet everything

seems to say that this man Grant committed the crime. Why did he do so?

For the sake of the little jade figures? Or is he an agent of the Big

Four? I confess that this last seems more likely. However valuable the

jade, a man of that class was not likely to realise the fact--at any

rate, not to the point of committing murder for them. (That, _par

exemple_, ought to have struck the Inspector.) He could have stolen

the jade and made off with it instead of committing a brutal and quite

purposeless murder. Ah, yes; I fear our Devonshire friend has not used

his little gray cells. He has measured footprints, and has omitted to

reflect and arrange his ideas with the necessary order and method."

4. THE IMPORTANCE OF A LEG OF MUTTON

The inspector drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of

Granite Bungalow. The day had been fine and dry, so our feet were not

likely to leave any prints; nevertheless, we wiped them carefully on

the mat before entering.

A woman came up out of the gloom and spoke to the Inspector, and he

turned aside. Then he spoke over his shoulder.

"Have a good look round, Mr. Poirot, and see all there is to be seen.

I'll be back in about ten minutes. By the way, here's Grant's boot. I

brought it along with me for you to compare the impressions."

We went into the living-room, and the sound of the Inspector's

footsteps died away outside. Ingles was attracted immediately by some

Chinese curios on a table in the corner, and went over to examine them.

He seemed to take no interest in Poirot's doings. I, on the other

hand, watched him with breathless interest. The floor was covered with

a dark-green linoleum which was ideal for showing up footprints. A

door at the farther end led into the small kitchen. From there another

door led into the scullery (where the back door was situated), and

another into the bedroom which had been occupied by Robert Grant.

Having explored the ground, Poirot commented upon it in a low running

monologue.

"Here is where the body lay; that big dark stain and the splashes all

around mark the spot. Traces of carpet slippers and 'number nine'

boots, you observe, but all very confused. Then two sets of tracks

leading to and from the kitchen; whoever the murderer was, he came in

that way. You have the boot, Hastings? Give it to me." He compared it

carefully with the prints. "Yes, both made by the same man, Robert

Grant. He came in that way, killed the old man, and went back to the

kitchen. He had stepped in the blood; see the stains he left as he

went out? Nothing to be seen in the kitchen--all the village has been

walking about in it. He went into his own room--no, first he went

back again to the scene of the crime--was that to get the little jade

figures? Or had he forgotten something that might incriminate him?"

"Perhaps he killed the old man the second time he went in?" I suggested.

"_Mais non_, you do not observe. On one of the outgoing footmarks

stained with blood there is superimposed an ingoing one. I wonder what

he went back for--the little jade figures as an afterthought? It is

all ridiculous--stupid."

"Well, he's given himself away pretty hopelessly."

"_N'est-ce pas?_ I tell you, Hastings, it goes against reason.

It offends my little gray cells. Let us go into his bedroom--ah,

yes; there is the smear of blood on the lintel and just a trace of

footmarks--the blood-stained. Robert Grant's footmarks, and his only,

near the body--Robert Grant the only man who went near the house. Yes,

it must be so."

"What about the old woman?" I said suddenly. "She was in the house

alone after Grant had gone for the milk. She might have killed him

and then gone out. Her feet would leave no prints if she hadn't been

outside."

"Very good, Hastings. I wondered whether that hypothesis would occur

to you. I had already thought of it and rejected it. Betsy Andrews is

a local woman, well-known hereabouts. She can have no connection with

the Big Four; and, besides, old Whalley was a powerful fellow, by all

accounts. This is a man's work--not a woman's."

"I suppose the Big Four couldn't have had some diabolical contrivance

concealed in the ceiling--something which descended automatically and

cut the old man's throat and was afterwards drawn up again?"

"Like Jacob's ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of

the most fertile--but I implore of you to keep it within bounds."

I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into

rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his

face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian

dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic

attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!

"My dear Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone

mad?"

"Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!"

I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual

about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as

much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.

"But do you not see this--and this--and this--"

He illustrated each "this" with a jab at the unoffending joint,

dislodging small icicles as he did so.

Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that

he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think

these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the

only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.

"It's frozen meat," I explained gently. "Imported, you know. New

Zealand."

He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.

"How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything--but

everything! How do they say--Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my

friend Hastings."

He flung down the leg of mutton onto its dish again and left the

larder. Then he looked through the window.

"Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I

want to see here." He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though

absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, "What is the day of

the week, _mon ami_?"

"Monday," I said, rather astonished. "What--?"

"Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a

Monday is a mistake."

Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and

glanced at the thermometer.

"Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer's

day."

Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.

"You do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?" said Poirot.

The other gave a slow smile.

"It's not my job, you see. I'm a connoisseur of some things, but not

of this. So I just stand back and keep out of the way. I've learnt

patience in the East."

The Inspector came bustling in, apologising for having been so long

away. He insisted on taking us over most of the ground again, but

finally we got away.

"I must appreciate your thousand politenesses, Inspector," said Poirot,

as we were walking down the village street again. "There is just one

more request I should like to put to you."

"You want to see the body, perhaps, sir?"

"Oh, dear me, no! I have not the least interest in the body. I want to

see Robert Grant."

"You'll have to drive back with me to Moreton to see him, sir."

"Very well, I will do so. But I must see him and be able to speak to

him alone."

The Inspector caressed his upper lip.

"Well, I don't know about that, sir."

"I assure you that if you can get through to Scotland Yard you will

receive full authority."

"I've heard of you, of course, sir, and I know you've done us a good

turn now and again. But it's very irregular."

"Nevertheless, it is necessary," said Poirot calmly. "It is necessary

for this reason--Grant is not the murderer."

"What? Who is, then?"

"The murderer was, I should fancy, a youngish man. He drove up

to Granite Bungalow in a trap, which he left outside. He went

in, committed the murder, came out, and drove away again. He was

bare-headed, and his clothing was slightly blood-stained."

"But--but the whole village would have seen him!"

"Not under certain circumstances."

"Not if it was dark, perhaps; but the crime was committed in broad

daylight."

Poirot merely smiled.

"And the horse and trap, sir--how could you tell that? Any amount of

wheeled vehicles have passed along outside. There's no mark of one in

particular to be seen."

"Not with the eyes of the body, perhaps; but with the eyes of the mind,

yes."

The Inspector touched his forehead significantly with a grin at me. I

was utterly bewildered, but I had faith in Poirot. Further discussion

ended in our all driving back to Moreton with the Inspector. Poirot

and I were taken to Grant, but a constable was to be present during the

interview. Poirot went straight to the point.

"Grant, I know you to be innocent of this crime. Relate to me in your

own words exactly what happened."

The prisoner was a man of medium height, with a somewhat unpleasing

cast of features. He looked a jail-bird if ever a man did.

"Honest to God, I never did it," he whined. "Some one put those little

glass figures amongst my traps. It was a frame-up, that's what it was.

I went straight to my rooms when I came in, like I said. I never knew a

thing till Betsy screeched out. S'welp me, God, I didn't."

Poirot rose.

"If you can't tell me the truth, that is the end of it."

"But, guv'nor--"

"You _did_ go into the room--you _did_ know your master was

dead; and you were just preparing to make a bolt of it when the good

Betsy made her terrible discovery."

The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.

"Come now, is it not so? I tell you solemnly--on my word of

honour--that to be frank now is your only chance."

"I'll risk it," said the man suddenly. "It was just as you say. I came

in, and went straight to the master--and there he was, dead on the

floor and blood all round. Then I got the wind up proper. They'd ferret

out my record, and for a certainty they'd say it was me as had done him

in. My only thought was to get away--at once--before he was found--"

"And the jade figures?"

The man hesitated.

"You see--"

"You took them by a kind of reversion to instinct, as it were? You had

heard your master say that they were valuable, and you felt you might

as well go the whole hog. That, I understand. Now, answer me this.

Was it the second time that you went into the room that you took the

figures?"

"I didn't go in a second time. Once was enough for me."

"You are sure of that?"

"Absolutely certain."

"Good. Now, when did you come out of prison?"

"Two months ago."

"How did you obtain this job?"

"Through one of them Prisoners' Help Societies. Bloke met me when I

came out."

"What was he like?"

"Not exactly a parson, but looked like one. Soft black hat and mincing

way of talking. Got a broken front tooth. Spectacled chap. Saunders his

name was. Said he hoped I was repentant, and that he'd find me a good

post. I went to old Whalley on his recommendation."

Poirot rose once more.

"I thank you. I know all now. Have patience." He paused in the doorway

and added: "Saunders gave you a pair of boots, didn't he?"

Grant looked very astonished.

"Why, yes, he did. But how did you know?"

"It is my business to know things," said Poirot gravely.

After a word or two to the Inspector, the three of us went to the White

Hart and discussed eggs and bacon and Devonshire cider.

"Any elucidations yet?" asked Ingles, with a smile.

"Yes, the case is clear enough now; but, see you, I shall have a good

deal of difficulty in proving it. Whalley was killed by order of the

Big Four--but not by Grant. A very clever man got Grant the post

and deliberately planned to make him the scapegoat--an easy matter

with Grant's prison record. He gave him a pair of boots, one of two

duplicate pairs. The other he kept himself. It was all so simple. When

Grant is out of the house, and Betsy is chatting in the village (which

she probably did every day of her life), he drives up wearing the

duplicate boots, enters the kitchen, goes through into the living-room,

fells the old man with a blow, and then cuts his throat. Then he

returns to the kitchen, removes the boots, puts on another pair, and,

carrying the first pair, goes out to his trap and drives off again."

Ingles looked steadily at Poirot.

"There's a catch in it still. Why did nobody see him?"

"Ah! That is where the cleverness of Number Four, I am convinced, comes

in. Everybody saw him--and yet nobody saw him. You see, he drove up in

a butcher's cart!"

I uttered an exclamation.

"The leg of mutton?"

"Exactly, Hastings, the leg of mutton. Everybody swore that no one had

been to Granite Bungalow that morning, but, nevertheless, I found in

the larder a leg of mutton, still frozen. It was Monday, so the meat

must have been delivered that morning; for if on Saturday, in this hot

weather, it would not have remained frozen over Sunday. So some one

_had_ been to the Bungalow, and a man on whom a trace of blood

here and there would attract no attention."

"Damned ingenious!" cried Ingles approvingly.

"Yes, he is clever, Number Four."

"As clever as Hercule Poirot?" I murmured.

My friend threw me a glance of dignified reproach.

"There are some jests that you should not permit yourself, Hastings,"

he said sententiously. "Have I not saved an innocent man from being

sent to the gallows? That is enough for one day."

5. DISAPPEARANCE OF A SCIENTIST

Personally, I don't think that, even when a jury had acquitted Robert

Grant, alias Biggs, of the murder of Jonathan Whalley, Inspector

Meadows was entirely convinced of his innocence. The case which he

had built up against Grant--the man's record, the jade which he had

stolen, the boots which fitted the footprints so exactly--was to his

matter-of-fact mind too complete to be easily upset; but Poirot,

compelled much against his inclination to give evidence, convinced

the jury. Two witnesses were produced who had seen a butcher's cart

drive up to the bungalow on that Monday morning, and the local butcher

testified that his cart only called there on Wednesdays and Fridays.

A woman was actually found who, when questioned, remembered seeing the

butcher's man leaving the bungalow, but she could furnish no useful

description of him. The only impression he seemed to have left on her

mind was that he was clean-shaven, of medium height, and looked exactly

like a butcher's man. At this description Poirot shrugged his shoulders

philosophically.

"It is as I tell you, Hastings," he said to me, after the trial. "He is

an artist, this one. He disguises himself not with the false beard and

the blue spectacles. He alters his features, yes; but that is the least

part. For the time being he _is_ the man he would be. He lives in

his part."

Certainly I was compelled to admit that the man who had visited us from

Hanwell had fitted in exactly with my idea of what an Asylum attendant

should look like. I should never for a moment have dreamt of doubting

that he was genuine.

It was all a little discouraging, and our experience on Dartmoor did

not seem to have helped us at all. I said as much to Poirot, but he

would not admit that we had gained nothing.

"We progress," he said; "we progress. At every contact with this man

we learn a little of his mind and his methods. Of us and our plans he

knows nothing."

"And there, Poirot," I protested, "he and I seem to be in the same

boat. You don't seem to me to have any plans, you seem to sit and wait

for him to do something."

Poirot smiled.

"_Mon ami_, you do not change. Always the same Hastings, who would

be up and at their throats. Perhaps," he added, as a knock sounded on

the door, "you have here your chance; it may be our friend who enters."

And he laughed at my disappointment when Inspector Japp and another man

entered the room.

"Good-evening, moosior," said the Inspector. "Allow me to introduce

Captain Kent of the United States Secret Service."

Captain Kent was a tall, lean American, with a singularly impassive

face which looked as though it had been carved out of wood.

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen," he murmured, as he shook hands

jerkily.

Poirot threw an extra log on the fire, and brought forward more

easy-chairs. I brought out glasses and the whisky and soda. The captain

took a deep draught, and expressed appreciation.

"Legislation in your country is still sound," he observed.

"And now to business," said Japp. "Moosior Poirot here made a certain

request to me. He was interested in some concern that went by the name

of the Big Four, and he asked me to let him know at any time if I came

across a mention of it in my official line of business. I didn't take

much stock in the matter, but I remembered what he said, and when the

captain here came over with rather a curious story, I said at once,

'We'll go round to Moosior Poirot's.'"

Poirot looked across at Captain Kent, and the American took up the tale.

"You may remember reading, M. Poirot, that a number of torpedo

boats and destroyers were sunk by being dashed upon the rocks off

the American coast. It was just after the Japanese earthquake, and

the explanation given was that the disaster was the result of a

tidal wave. Now, a short time ago, a round-up was made of certain

crooks and gunmen, and with them were captured some papers which

put an entirely new face upon the matter. They appeared to refer

to some organisation called the 'Big Four,' and gave an incomplete

description of some powerful wireless installation--a concentration

of wireless energy far beyond anything so far attempted, and capable

of focusing a beam of great intensity upon some given spot. The

claims made for this invention seemed manifestly absurd, but I turned

them in to headquarters for what they were worth, and one of our

highbrow professors got busy on them. Now it appears that one of your

British scientists read a paper upon the subject before the British

Association. His colleagues didn't think great shakes of it, by all

accounts, thought it farfetched and fanciful, but your scientist stuck

to his guns, and declared that he himself was on the eve of success in

his experiments."

"_Eh, bien?_" demanded Poirot, with interest.

"It was suggested that I should come over here and get an interview

with this gentleman. Quite a young fellow, he is, Halliday by name.

He is the leading authority on the subject, and I was to get from him

whether the thing suggested was anyway possible."

"And was it?" I asked eagerly.

"That's just what I don't know. I haven't seen Mr. Halliday--and I'm

not likely to, by all accounts."

"The truth of the matter is," said Japp, shortly, "Halliday's

disappeared."

"When?"

"Two months ago."

"Was his disappearance reported?"

"Of course it was. His wife came to us in a great state. We did what we

could, but I knew all along it would be no good."

"Why not?"

"Never is--when a man disappears that way." Japp winked.

"What way?"

"Paris."

"So Halliday disappeared in Paris?"

"Yes. Went over there on scientific work--so he said. Of course, he'd

have to say something like that. But you know what it means when a man

disappears over there. Either it's Apache work, and that's the end

of it--or else it's voluntary disappearance--and that's a great deal

the commoner of the two, I can tell you. Gay Paree and all that, you

know. Sick of home life. Halliday and his wife had had a tiff before he

started, which all helps to make it a pretty clear case."

"I wonder," said Poirot thoughtfully.

The American was looking at him curiously.

"Say, mister," he drawled, "what's this Big Four idea?"

"The Big Four," said Poirot, "is an international organisation which

has at its head a Chinaman. He is known as Number One. Number Two is an

American. Number Three is a Frenchwoman. Number Four, the 'Destroyer,'

is an Englishman."

"A Frenchwoman, eh?" The American whistled. "And Halliday disappeared

in France. Maybe there's something in this. What's her name?"

"I don't know. I know nothing about her."

"But it's a mighty big proposition, eh?" suggested the other.

Poirot nodded, as he arranged the glasses in a neat row on the tray.

His love of order was as great as ever.

"What was the idea in sinking those boats? Are the Big Four a German

stunt?"

"The Big Four are for themselves--and for themselves only, M. le

Capitaine. Their aim is world domination."

The American burst out laughing, but broke off at the sight of Poirot's

serious face.

"You laugh, monsieur," said Poirot, shaking a finger at him. "You

reflect not--you use not the little gray cells of the brain. Who are

these men who send a portion of your navy to destruction simply as a

trial of their power? For that was all it was, Monsieur, a test of this

new force of magnetical attraction which they hold."

"Go on with you, moosior," said Japp good-humouredly. "I've read of

super criminals many a time, but I've never come across them. Well,

you've heard Captain Kent's story. Anything further I can do for you?"

"Yes, my good friend. You can give me the address of Mrs. Halliday--and

also a few words of introduction to her if you will be so kind."

Thus it was that the following day saw us bound for Chetwynd Lodge,

near the village of Chobham in Surrey.

Mrs. Halliday received us at once, a tall, fair woman, nervous and

eager in manner. With her was her little girl, a beautiful child of

five.

Poirot explained the purpose of our visit.

"Oh! Monsieur Poirot, I am so glad, so thankful. I have heard of you,

of course. You will not be like these Scotland Yard people, who will

not listen or try to understand. And the French Police are just as

bad--worse, I think. They are all convinced that my husband has gone

off with some other woman. But he wasn't like that! All he thought of

in life was his work. Half our quarrels came from that. He cared for it

more than he did for me."

"Englishmen, they are like that," said Poirot soothingly. "And if it is

not work, it is the games, the sport. All those things they take _au

grand sérieux. Now, madame, recount to me exactly, in detail, and

as methodically as you can, the exact circumstances of your husband's

disappearance."

"My husband went to Paris on Thursday, the 20th of July. He was to meet

and visit various people there connected with his work, amongst them

Madame Olivier."

Poirot nodded at the mention of the famous French woman chemist, who

had eclipsed even Madame Curie in the brilliance of her achievements.

She had been decorated by the French Government, and was one of the

most prominent personalities of the day.

"He arrived there in the evening and went at once to the Hotel

Castiglione in the Rue de Castiglione. On the following morning, he had

an appointment with Professor Bourgoneau, which he kept. His manner was

normal and pleasant. The two men had a most interesting conversation,

and it was arranged that he should witness some experiments in the

professor's laboratory on the following day. He lunched alone at the

Café Royal, went for a walk in the Bois, and then visited Madame

Olivier at her house at Passy. There, also, his manner was perfectly

normal. He left about six. Where he dined is not known, probably alone

at some restaurant. He returned to the hotel about eleven o'clock and

went straight up to his room, after inquiring if any letters had come

for him. On the following morning, he walked out of the hotel, and has

not been seen again."

"At what time did he leave the hotel? At the hour when he would

normally leave it to keep his appointment at Professor Bourgoneau's

laboratory?"

"We do not know. He was not remarked leaving the hotel. But no

_petit déjeuner_ was served to him, which seems to indicate that

he went out early."

"Or he might, in fact, have gone out again after he came in the night

before?"

"I do not think so. His bed had been slept in, and the night porter

would have remembered any one going out at that hour."

"A very just observation, madame. We may take it, then, that he left

early on the following morning--and that is reassuring from one point

of view. He is not likely to have fallen a victim to any Apache assault

at that hour. His baggage, now, was it all left behind?"

Mrs. Halliday seemed rather reluctant to answer, but at last she

said:---

"No--he must have taken one small suit-case with him."

"H'm," said Poirot thoughtfully, "I wonder where he was that evening.

If we knew that, we should know a great deal. Whom did he meet?--there

lies the mystery. Madame, myself I do not of necessity accept the view

of the police; with them is it always '_Cherchez la femme_.' Yet

it is clear that something occurred that night to alter your husband's

plans. You say he asked for letters on returning to the hotel. Did he

receive any?"

"One only, and that must have been the one I wrote him on the day he

left England."

Poirot remained sunk in thought for a full minute, then he rose briskly

to his feet.

"Well, madame, the solution of the mystery lies in Paris, and to find

it I myself journey to Paris on the instant."

"It is all a long time ago, monsieur."

"Yes, yes. Nevertheless, it is there that we must seek."

He turned to leave the room, but paused with his hand on the door.

"Tell me, madame, do you ever remember your husband mentioning the

phrase, 'The Big Four'?"

"The Big Four," she repeated thoughtfully. "No, I can't say I do."

6. THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS

That was all that could be elicited from Mrs. Halliday. We hurried

back to London, and the following day saw us _en route_ for the

Continent. With rather a rueful smile, Poirot observed:---

"This Big Four, they make me to bestir myself, _mon ami_. I run

up and down, all over the ground, like our old friend 'the human

foxhound.'"

"Perhaps you'll meet him in Paris," I said, knowing that he referred

to a certain Giraud, one of the most trusted detectives of the Sureté,

whom he had met on a previous occasion.

Poirot made a grimace. "I devoutly hope not. He loved me not, that one."

"Won't it be a very difficult task?" I asked. "To find out what an

unknown Englishman did on an evening two months ago?"

"Very difficult, _mon ami_. But, as you know well, difficulties

rejoice the heart of Hercule Poirot."

"You think the Big Four kidnapped him?"

Poirot nodded.

Our inquiries necessarily went over old ground, and we learnt little

to add to what Mrs. Halliday had already told us. Poirot had a lengthy

interview with Professor Bourgoneau, during which he sought to elicit

whether Halliday had mentioned any plan of his own for the evening, but

we drew a complete blank.

Our next source of information was the famous Madame Olivier. I was

quite excited as we mounted the steps of her villa at Passy. It has

always seemed to me extraordinary that a woman should go so far in the

scientific world. I should have thought a purely masculine brain was

needed for such work.

The door was opened by a young lad of seventeen or thereabouts, who

reminded me vaguely of an acolyte, so ritualistic was his manner.

Poirot had taken the trouble to arrange our interview beforehand, as

he knew Madame Olivier never received any one without an appointment,

being immersed in research work most of the day.

We were shown into a small _salon_, and presently the mistress

of the house came to us there. Madame Olivier was a very tall woman,

her tallness accentuated by the long white overall she wore, and a

coif like a nun's that shrouded her head. She had a long pale face,

and wonderful dark eyes that burnt with a light almost fanatical. She

looked more like a priestess of old than a modern Frenchwoman. One

cheek was disfigured by a scar, and I remembered that her husband and

co-worker had been killed in an explosion in the laboratory three years

before, and that she herself had been terribly burned. Ever since

then she had shut herself away from the world, and plunged with fiery

energy into the work of scientific research. She received us with cold

politeness.

"I have been interviewed by the police many times, messieurs. I think

it hardly likely that I can help you, since I have not been able to

help them."

"Madame, it is possible that I shall not ask you quite the same

questions. To begin with, of what did you talk together, you and M.

Halliday?"

She looked a trifle surprised.

"But of his work! His work--and also mine."

"Did he mention to you the theories he had embodied recently in his

paper read before the British Association?"

"Certainly he did. It was chiefly of those we spoke."

"His ideas were somewhat fantastic, were they not?" asked Poirot

carelessly.

"Some people have thought so. I do not agree."

"You considered them practicable?"

"Perfectly practicable. My own line of research has been somewhat

similar, though not undertaken with the same end in view. I have been

investigating the _gamma_ rays emitted by the substance usually

known as Radium C., a product of Radium emanation, and in doing so I

have come across some very interesting magnetical phenomena. Indeed, I

have a theory as to the actual nature of the force we call magnetism,

but it is not yet time for my discoveries to be given to the world. Mr.

Halliday's experiments and views were exceedingly interesting to me."

Poirot nodded. Then he asked a question which surprised me.

"Madame, where did you converse on these topics. In here?"

"No, monsieur. In the laboratory."

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

She led the way to the door from which she had entered. It opened on a

small passage. We passed through two doors and found ourselves in the

big laboratory, with its array of beakers and crucibles and a hundred

appliances of which I did not even know the names. There were two

occupants, both busy with some experiment. Madame Olivier introduced

them.

"Mademoiselle Claude, one of my assistants." A tall, serious-faced

young girl bowed to us. "Monsieur Henri, an old and trusted friend."

The young man, short and dark, bowed jerkily.

Poirot looked round him. There were two other doors besides the one by

which we had entered. One, madame explained, led into the garden, the

other into a smaller chamber also devoted to research. Poirot took all

this in, then declared himself ready to return to the salon.

"Madame, were you alone with M. Halliday during your interview?"

"Yes, monsieur. My two assistants were in the smaller room next door."

"Could your conversation be overheard--by them or any one else?"

Madame reflected, then shook her head.

"I do not think so. I am almost sure it could not. The doors were all

shut."

"Could any one have been concealed in the room?"

"There is the big cupboard in the corner--but the idea is absurd."

"_Pas tout à fait_, madame. One thing more: did M. Halliday make

any mention of his plans for the evening?"

"He said nothing whatever, monsieur."

"I thank you, madame, and I apologise for disturbing you. Pray do not

trouble--we can find our way out."

We stepped out into the hall. A lady was just entering the front door

as we did so. She ran quickly up the stairs, and I was left with an

impression of the heavy mourning that denotes a French widow.

"A most unusual type of woman, that," remarked Poirot, as we walked

away.

"Madame Olivier? Yes, she--"

"_Mais non_, not Madame Olivier. _Cela va sans dire!_ There

are not many geniuses of her stamp in the world. No, I referred to the

other lady--the lady on the stairs."

"I didn't see her face," I said, staring. "And I hardly see how you

could have done. She never looked at us."

"That is why I said she was an unusual type," said Poirot placidly.

"A woman who enters her home--for I presume that it is her home

since she enters with a key--and runs straight upstairs without even

looking at two strange visitors in the hall to see who they are, is a

_very_ unusual type of woman--quite unnatural, in fact. _Mille

tonnerres!_ what is that?"

He dragged me back--just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the

side walk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset.

"It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same--for I had no

suspicion--at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick

eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of

existence--a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too, _mon

ami_--though that would not be such a national catastrophe."

"Thank you," I said coldly. "And what are we going to do now?"

"Do?" cried Poirot. "We are going to think. Yes, here and now, we are

going to exercise our little gray cells. This M. Halliday now, was he

really in Paris? Yes, for Professor Bourgoneau, who knows him, saw and

spoke to him."

"What on earth are you driving at?" I cried.

"That was Friday morning. He was last seen at eleven Friday night--but

_was_ he seen then?"

"The porter--"

"A night porter--who had not previously seen Halliday. A man comes in,

sufficiently like Halliday---we may trust Number Four for that--asks

for letters, goes upstairs, packs a small suit-case, and slips out the

next morning. Nobody saw Halliday all that evening--no, because he

was already in the hands of his enemies. Was it Halliday whom Madame

Olivier received? Yes, for though she did not know him by sight, an

imposter could hardly deceive her on her own special subject. He came

here, he had his interview, he left. What happened next?"

Seizing me by the arm, Poirot was fairly dragging me back to the villa.

"Now, _mon ami_, imagine that it is the day after the

disappearance, and that we are tracking footprints. You love

footprints, do you not? See--here they go, a man's, Mr. Halliday's....

He turns to the right as we did, he walks briskly--ah! other footsteps

following behind--very quickly--small footsteps, a woman's. See,

she catches him up--a slim young woman, in a widow's veil. 'Pardon,

monsieur, Madame Olivier desires that I recall you.' He stops, he

turns. Now where would the young woman take him? She does not wish to

be seen walking with him. Is it coincidence that she catches up with

him just where a narrow alleyway opens, dividing two gardens? She leads

him down it. 'It is shorter this way, monsieur.' On the right is the

garden of Madame Olivier's villa, on the left the garden of another

villa--and from that garden, mark you, the tree fell--so nearly on us.

Garden doors from both open on the alley. The ambush is there. Men pour

out, overpower him, and carry him into the strange villa."

"Good gracious, Poirot," I cried, "are you pretending to see all this?"

"I see it with the eyes of the mind, _mon ami_. So, and only so,

could it have happened. Come, let us go back to the house."

"You want to see Madame Olivier again?"

Poirot gave a curious smile.

"No, Hastings, I want to see the face of the lady on the stairs."

"Who do you think she is, a relation of Madame Olivier's?"

"More probably a secretary--and a secretary engaged not very long ago."

The same gentle acolyte opened the door to us.

"Can you tell me," said Poirot, "the name of the lady, the widow lady,

who came in just now?"

"Madame Veroneau? Madame's secretary?"

"That is the lady. Would you be so kind as to ask her to speak to us

for a moment."

The youth disappeared. He soon reappeared.

"I am sorry. Madame Veroneau must have gone out again."

"I think not," said Poirot quietly. "Will you give her my name, M.

Hercule Poirot, and say that it is important I should see her at once,

as I am just going to the Prefecture."

Again our messenger departed. This time the lady descended. She walked

into the salon. We followed her. She turned and raised her veil. To my

astonishment I recognised our old antagonist, the Countess Rossakoff, a

Russian countess, who had engineered a particularly smart jewel robbery

in London.

"As soon as I caught sight of you in the hall, I feared the worst," she

observed plaintively.

"My dear Countess Rossakoff--"

She shook her head.

"Inez Veroneau now," she murmured. "A Spaniard, married to a Frenchman.

What do you want of me, M. Poirot? You are a terrible man. You hunted

me from London. Now, I suppose, you will tell our wonderful Madame

Olivier about me, and hunt me from Paris? We poor Russians, we must

live, you know."

"It is more serious than that, madame," said Poirot, watching her. "I

propose to enter the villa next door, and release M. Halliday, if he

is still alive. I know everything, you see."

I saw her sudden pallor. She bit her lip. Then she spoke with her usual

decision.

"He is still alive--but he is not at the villa. Come, monsieur, I will

make a bargain with you. Freedom for me--and M. Halliday, alive and

well, for you."

"I accept," said Poirot. "I was about to propose the same bargain

myself. By the way, are the Big Four your employers, madame?"

Again I saw that deathly pallor creep over her face, but she left his

question unanswered.

Instead, "You permit me to telephone?" she asked, and crossing to

the instrument she rang up a number. "The number of the villa," she

explained, "where our friend is now imprisoned. You may give it to the

police--the nest will be empty when they arrive. Ah! I am through. Is

that you, André? It is I, Inez. The little Belgian knows all. Send

Halliday to the hotel, and clear out."

She replaced the receiver, and came towards us, smiling.

"You will accompany us to the hotel, madame."

"Naturally. I expected that."

I got a taxi, and we drove off together. I could see by Poirot's face

that he was perplexed. The thing was almost too easy. We arrived at the

hotel. The porter came up to us.

"A gentleman has arrived. He is in your rooms. He seems very ill. A

nurse came with him, but she has left."

"That is all right," said Poirot, "he is a friend of mine."

We went upstairs together. Sitting in a chair by the window was a

haggard young fellow who looked in the last stages of exhaustion.

Poirot went over to him.

"Are you John Halliday?" The man nodded. "Show me your left arm. John

Halliday has a mole just below the left elbow."

The man stretched out his arm. The mole was there. Poirot bowed to the

countess. She turned and left the room.

A glass of brandy revived Halliday somewhat.

"My God!" he muttered. "I have been through hell--hell.... Those fiends

are devils incarnate. My wife, where is she? What does she think? They

told me that she would believe--would believe--"

"She does not," said Poirot firmly. "Her faith in you has never

wavered. She is waiting for you--she and the child."

"Thank God for that. I can hardly believe that I am free once more."

"Now that you are a little recovered, monsieur, I should like to hear

the whole story from the beginning."

Halliday looked at him with an indescribable expression.

"I remember--nothing," he said.

"What?"

"Have you ever heard of the Big Four?"

"Something of them," said Poirot dryly.

"You do not know what I know. They have unlimited power. If I remain

silent, I shall be safe--if I say one word--not only I, but my nearest

and dearest will suffer unspeakable things. It is no good arguing with

me. _I know_.... I remember--nothing."

And, getting up, he walked from the room.

* * * * *

Poirot's face wore a baffled expression.

"So it is like that, is it?" he muttered. "The Big Four win again. What

is that you are holding in your hand, Hastings?"

I handed it to him.

"The countess scribbled it before she left," I explained.

He read it.

"Au revoir.--I.V."

"Signed with her initials--I.V. Just a coincidence, perhaps, that they

also stand for _Four_. I wonder, Hastings, I wonder."

7. THE RADIUM THIEVES

On the night of his release, Halliday slept in the room next to ours at

the hotel, and all night long I heard him moaning and protesting in his

sleep. Undoubtedly his experience in the villa had broken his nerve,

and in the morning we failed completely to extract any information from

him. He would only repeat his statement about the unlimited power at

the disposal of the Big Four, and his assurance of the vengeance which

would follow if he talked.

After lunch he departed to rejoin his wife in England, but Poirot and I

remained behind in Paris. I was all for energetic proceedings of some

kind or other, and Poirot's quiescence annoyed me.

"For Heaven's sake, Poirot," I urged, "let us be up and at them."

"Admirable, _mon ami_, admirable! Up where, and at whom? Be

precise, I beg of you."

"At the Big Four, of course."

"_Cela va sans dire._ But how would you set about it?"

"The police," I hazarded doubtfully.

Poirot smiled.

"They would accuse us of romancing. We have nothing to go upon--nothing

whatever. We must wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Wait for them to make a move. See now, in England you all comprehend

and adore _la boxe_. If one man does not make a move, the other

must, and by permitting the adversary to make the attack one learns

something about him. That is our part--to let the other side make the

attack."

"You think they will?" I said doubtfully.

"I have no doubt whatever of it. To begin with, see, they try to get me

out of England. That fails. Then, in the Dartmoor affair, we step in

and save their victim from the gallows. And yesterday, once again, we

interfere with their plans. Assuredly, they will not leave the matter

there."

As I reflected on this, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting

for a reply, a man stepped into the room and closed the door behind

him. He was a tall, thin man, with a slightly hooked nose and a sallow

complexion. He wore an overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a soft hat

well pulled down over his eyes.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, for my somewhat unceremonious entry," he said in

a soft voice, "but my business is of a rather unorthodox nature."

Smiling, he advanced to the table and sat down by it. I was about to

spring up, but Poirot restrained me with a gesture.

"As you say, Monsieur, your entry is somewhat unceremonious. Will you

kindly state your business?"

"My dear M. Poirot, it is very simple. You have been annoying my

friends."

"In what way?"

"Come, come, Monsieur Poirot. You do not seriously ask me that? You

know as well as I do."

"It depends, monsieur, upon who these friends of yours are."

Without a word, the man drew from his pocket a cigarette case, and,

opening it, took out four cigarettes and tossed them on the table. Then

he picked them up and returned them to his case, which he replaced in

his pocket.

"Aha!" said Poirot, "so it is like that, is it? And what do your

friends suggest?"

"They suggest, monsieur, that you should employ your talents--your very

considerable talents--in the detection of legitimate crime--return

to your former avocations, and solve the problems of London society

ladies."

"A peaceful programme," said Poirot. "And supposing I do not agree?"

The man made an eloquent gesture.

"We should regret it, of course, exceedingly," he said. "So would all

the friends and admirers of the great M. Hercule Poirot. But regrets,

however poignant, do not bring a man to life again."

"Put very delicately," said Poirot, nodding his head. "And supposing

I--accept?"

"In that case I am empowered to offer you--compensation."

He drew out a pocket-book, and threw ten notes on the table. They were

for ten thousand francs each.

"That is merely as a guarantee of our good faith," he said. "Ten times

that amount will be paid you."

"Good God," I cried, springing up, "you dare to think--!"

"Sit down, Hastings," said Poirot autocratically. "Subdue your so

beautiful and honest nature and sit down. To you, monsieur, I will say

this. What is to prevent me ringing up the police and giving you into

their custody, whilst my friend here prevents you from escaping?"

"By all means do so if you think it advisable," said our visitor calmly.

"Oh! look here, Poirot," I cried. "I can't stand this. Ring up the

police and have done with it."

Rising swiftly, I strode to the door and stood with my back against it.

"It seems the obvious course," murmured Poirot, as though debating with

himself.

"But you distrust the obvious, eh?" said our visitor, smiling.

"Go on, Poirot," I urged.

"It will be your responsibility, _mon ami_."

As he lifted the receiver, the man made a sudden, cat-like jump at

me. I was ready for him. In another minute we were locked together,

staggering round the room. Suddenly I felt him slip and falter. I

pressed my advantage. He went down before me. And then, in the very

flush of victory, an extraordinary thing happened. I felt myself flying

forwards. Head first, I crashed into the wall in a complicated heap.

I was up in a minute, but the door was already closing behind my late

adversary. I rushed to it and shook it, it was locked on the outside. I

seized the telephone from Poirot.

"Is that the bureau? Stop a man who is coming out. A tall man, with a

buttoned-up overcoat and a soft hat. He is wanted by the police."

Very few minutes elapsed before we heard a noise in the corridor

outside. The key was turned and the door flung open. The manager

himself stood in the doorway.

"The man--you have got him?" I cried.

"No, monsieur. No one has descended."

"You must have passed him."

"We have passed no one, monsieur. It is incredible that he can have

escaped."

"You have passed some one, I think," said Poirot, in his gentle voice.

"One of the hotel staff, perhaps?"

"Only a waiter carrying a tray, monsieur."

"Ah!" said Poirot, in a tone that spoke infinities.

"So that was why he wore his overcoat buttoned up to his chin," mused

Poirot, when we had finally got rid of the excited hotel officials.

"I'm awfully sorry, Poirot," I murmured, rather crestfallen. "I thought

I'd downed him all right."

"Yes, that was a Japanese trick, I fancy. Do not distress yourself,

_mon ami_. All went according to plan--his plan. That is what I

wanted."

"What's this?" I cried, pouncing on a brown object that lay on the

floor.

It was a slim pocket-book of brown leather, and had evidently fallen

from our visitor's pocket during his struggle with me. It contained

two receipted bills in the name of M. Felix Laon, and a folded-up

piece of paper which made my heart beat faster. It was a half sheet of

note-paper on which a few words were scrawled in pencil but they were

words of supreme importance.

"The next meeting of the council will be on Friday at 34 Rue des

Echelles at 11 a.m."

It was signed with a big figure 4.

And to-day was Friday, and the clock on the mantelpiece showed the hour

to be 10:30.

"My God, what a chance!" I cried. "Fate is playing into our hands. We

must start at once--though. What stupendous luck."

"So that was why he came," murmured Poirot. "I see it all now."

"See what? Come on, Poirot, don't stay daydreaming there."

Poirot looked at me, and slowly shook his head, smiling as he did so.

"'Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly?' That

is your little English nursery rhyme, is it not? No, no--they are

subtle--but not so subtle as Hercule Poirot."

"What on earth are you driving at, Poirot?"

"My friend, I have been asking myself the reason of this morning's

visit. Did our visitor really hope to succeed in bribing me? Or,

alternatively, in frightening me into abandoning my task? It seemed

hardly credible. Why, then, did he come? And now I see the whole

plan--very neat--very pretty--the ostensible reason to bribe or

frighten me--the necessary struggle which he took no pains to

avoid, and which should make the dropped pocket-book natural and

reasonable--and finally--the pitfall! Rue des Echelles, 11 a.m.? I

think not, _mon ami_! One does not catch Hercule Poirot as easily

as that."

"Good heavens," I gasped.

Poirot was frowning to himself.

"There is still one thing I do not understand."

"What is that?"

"The time, Hastings--the time. If they wanted to decoy me away, surely

night time would be better? Why this early hour? Is it possible that

something is about to happen this morning? Something which they are

anxious Hercule Poirot should not know about?"

He shook his head.

"We shall see. Here I sit, _mon ami_. We do not stir out this

morning. We await events here."

It was at half-past eleven exactly that the summons came. A _petit

bleu_. Poirot tore it open, then handed it to me. It was from Madame

Olivier, the world-famous scientist, whom we had visited yesterday in

connection with the Halliday case. It asked us to come out to Passy at

once.

We obeyed the summons without an instant's delay. Madame Olivier

received us in the same small salon. I was struck anew with the

wonderful power of this woman, with her long nun's face and burning

eyes--this brilliant successor of Becquerel and the Curies. She came to

the point at once.

"Messieurs, you interviewed me yesterday about the disappearance of M.

Halliday. I now learn that you returned to the house a second time, and

asked to see my secretary, Inez Veroneau. She left the house with you,

and has not returned here since."

"Is that all, madame?"

"No, monsieur, it is not. Last night the laboratory was broken into,

and several valuable papers and memoranda were stolen. The thieves had

a try for something more precious still, but luckily they failed to

open the big safe."

"Madame, these are the facts of the case. Your late secretary, Madame

Veroneau, was really the Countess Rossakoff, an expert thief, and it

was she who was responsible for the disappearance of M. Halliday. How

long had she been with you?"

"Five months, monsieur. What you say amazes me."

"It is true, nevertheless. These papers, were they easy to find? Or do

you think an inside knowledge was shown?"

"It is rather curious that the thieves knew exactly where to look. You

think Inez--"

"Yes, I have no doubt that it was upon her information that they acted.

But what is this precious thing that the thieves failed to find?

Jewels?"

Madame Olivier shook her head with a faint smile.

"Something much more precious than that, monsieur." She looked round

her, then bent forward, lowering her voice. "Radium, monsieur."

"Radium?"

"Yes, monsieur. I am now at the crux of my experiments. I possess

a small portion of radium myself--more has been lent to me for the

process I am at work upon. Small though the actual quantity is, it

comprises a large amount of the world's stock and represents a value of

millions of francs."

"And where is it?"

"In its leaden case in the big safe--the safe purposely appears to

be of an old and worn-out pattern, but it is really a triumph of the

safe-maker's art. That is probably why the thieves were unable to open

it."

"How long are you keeping this radium in your possession?"

"Only for two days more, monsieur. Then my experiments will be

concluded."

Poirot's eyes brightened.

"And Inez Veroneau is aware of the fact? Good--then our friends will

come back. Not a word of me to any one, madame. But rest assured, I

will save your radium for you. You have a key of the door leading from

the laboratory to the garden?"

"Yes, monsieur. Here it is. I have a duplicate for myself. And here is

the key of the garden door leading out into the alleyway between this

villa and the next one."

"I thank you, madame. To-night, go to bed as usual, have no fears,

and leave all to me. But not a word to any one--not to your

two assistants--Mademoiselle Claude and Monsieur Henri, is it

not?--particularly not a word to them."

Poirot left the villa rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.

"What are we going to do now?" I asked.

"Now, Hastings, we are about to leave Paris--for England."

"What?"

"We will pack our effects, have lunch, and drive to the Gare du Nord."

"But the radium?"

"I said we were going to leave for England--I did not say we were going

to arrive there. Reflect a moment, Hastings. It is quite certain that

we are being watched and followed. Our enemies must believe that we are

going back to England, and they certainly will not believe that unless

they see us get on board the train and start."

"Do you mean we are to slip off again at the last minute?"

"No, Hastings. Our enemies will be satisfied with nothing less than a

_bona fide_ departure."

"But the train doesn't stop until Calais?"

"It will stop if it is paid to do so."

"Oh, come now, Poirot--surely you can't pay an express to stop--they'd

refuse."

"My dear friend, have you never remarked the little handle--the

_signal d'arrêt_--penalty for improper use, 100 francs, I think?"

"Oh! you are going to pull that?"

"Or rather a friend of mine, Pierre Combeau, will do so. Then, while he

is arguing with the guard, and making a big scene, and all the train is

agog with interest, you and I will fade quietly away."

We duly carried out Poirot's plan. Pierre Combeau, an old crony of

Poirot's, and who evidently knew my little friend's methods pretty

well, fell in with the arrangements. The communication cord was pulled

just as we got to the outskirts of Paris. Combeau "made a scene" in

the most approved French fashion and Poirot and I were able to leave

the train without any one being interested in our departure. Our

first proceeding was to make a considerable change in our appearance.

Poirot had brought the materials for this with him in a small case.

Two loafers in dirty blue blouses were the result. We had dinner in an

obscure hostelry, and started back to Paris afterwards.

It was close on eleven o'clock when we found ourselves once more in

the neighbourhood of Madame Olivier's villa. We looked up and down the

road before slipping into the alleyway. The whole place appeared to be

perfectly deserted. One thing we could be quite certain of, no one was

following us.

"I do not expect them to be here yet," whispered Poirot to me.

"Possibly they may not come until to-morrow night, but they know

perfectly well that there are only two nights on which the radium will

be there."

Very cautiously we turned the key in the garden door. It opened

noiselessly and we stepped into the garden.

And then, with complete unexpectedness, the blow fell. In a minute we

were surrounded, gagged and bound. At least ten men must have been

waiting for us. Resistance was useless. Like two helpless bundles we

were lifted up and carried along. To my intense astonishment, they

took us _towards_ the house and not away from it. With a key they

opened the door into the laboratory and carried us into it. One of the

men stooped down before the big safe. The door of it swung open. I felt

an unpleasant sensation down my spine. Were they going to bundle us

into it, and leave us there to asphyxiate slowly?

However, to my amazement, I saw that from the inside of the safe

steps led down beneath the floor. We were thrust down this narrow

way and eventually came out into a big subterranean chamber. A woman

stood there, tall and imposing, with a black velvet mask covering her

face. She was clearly in command of the situation by her gestures of

authority. The men slung us down on the floor and left us--alone with

the mysterious creature in the mask. I had no doubt who she was. This

was the unknown Frenchwoman--Number Three of the Big Four.

She knelt down beside us and removed the gags, but left us bound, then

rising and facing us, with a sudden swift gesture she removed her mask.

It was Madame Olivier!

"M. Poirot," she said, in a low mocking tone. "The great, the

wonderful, the unique M. Poirot. I sent a warning to you yesterday

morning. You chose to disregard it--you thought you could pit your wits

against US. And now, you are here!"

There was a cold malignity about her that froze me to the marrow.

It was so at variance with the burning fire of her eyes. She was

mad--mad--with the madness of genius!

Poirot said nothing. His jaw had dropped, and he was staring at her.

"Well," she said softly, "this is the end. WE cannot permit our plans

to be interfered with. Have you any last request to make?"

Never before, or since, have I felt so near death. Poirot was

magnificent. He neither flinched nor paled, just stared at her with

unabated interest.

"Your psychology interests me enormously, madame," he said quietly. "It

is a pity that I have so short a time to devote to studying it. Yes, I

have a request to make. A condemned man is always allowed a last smoke,

I believe. I have my cigarette case on me. If you would permit--" He

looked down at his bonds.

"Ah, yes!" she laughed. "You would like me to untie your hands, would

you not? You are clever, M. Hercule Poirot, I know that. I shall not

untie your hands--but I will find you a cigarette."

She knelt down by him, extracted his cigarette case, took out a

cigarette, and placed it between his lips.

"And now a match," she said, rising.

"It is not necessary, madame." Something in his voice startled me. She,

too, was arrested.

"Do not move, I pray of you, madame. You will regret it if you do. Are

you acquainted at all with the properties of cuare? The South American

Indians use it as an arrow poison. A scratch with it means death.

Some tribes use a little blow-pipe--I, too, have a little blow-pipe

constructed so as to look exactly like a cigarette. I have only to

blow.... Ah! you start. Do not move, madame. The mechanism of this

cigarette is most ingenious. One blows--and a tiny dart resembling a

fishbone flies through the air--to find its mark. You do not wish to

die, madame. Therefore, I beg of you, release my friend Hastings from

his bonds. I cannot use my hands, but I can turn my head--so--you are

still covered, madame. Make no mistake, I beg of you."

Slowly, with shaking hands, and rage and hate convulsing her face,

she bent down and did his bidding. I was free. Poirot's voice gave me

instructions.

"Your bonds will now do for the lady, Hastings. That is right. Is she

securely fastened? Then release me, I pray of you. It is a fortunate

circumstance she sent away her henchmen. With a little luck we may hope

to find the way out unobstructed."

In another minute, Poirot stood by my side. He bowed to the lady.

"Hercule Poirot is not killed so easily, madame. I wish you

good-night."

The gag prevented her from replying, but the murderous gleam in her

eyes frightened me. I hoped devoutly that we should never fall into her

power again.

Three minutes later we were outside the villa, and hurriedly traversing

the garden. The road outside was deserted, and we were soon clear of

the neighbourhood.

Then Poirot broke out.

"I deserve all that that woman said to me. I am a triple imbecile,

a miserable animal, thirty-six times an idiot. I was proud of

myself for not falling into their trap. And it was not even meant

as a trap--except exactly in the way in which I fell into it. They

knew I would see through it--they counted on my seeing through

it. This explains all--the ease with which they surrendered

Halliday--everything. Madame Olivier was the ruling spirit---Vera

Rossakoff only her lieutenant. Madame needed Halliday's ideas--she

herself had the necessary genius to supply the gaps that perplexed

him. Yes, Hastings, we know now who Number Three is--the woman who is

probably the greatest scientist in the world! Think of it. The brain

of the East, the science of the West--and two others whose identities

we do not yet know. But we must find out. To-morrow we will return to

London and set about it."

"You are not going to denounce Madame Olivier to the police?"

"I should not be believed. That woman is one of the idols of France.

And we can prove nothing. We are lucky if she does not denounce

_us_."

"What?"

"Think of it. We are found at night upon the premises with keys in our

possession which she will swear she never gave us. She surprises us at

the safe, and we gag and bind her and make away. Have no illusions,

Hastings. The boot is not upon the right leg--is that how you say it?"

8. IN THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY

After our adventure in the villa at Passy we returned post haste to

London. Several letters were awaiting Poirot. He read one of them with

a curious smile, and then handed it to me.

"Read this, _mon ami_."

I turned first to the signature, "Abe Ryland," and recalled Poirot's

words: "the richest man in the world." Mr. Ryland's letter was curt

and incisive. He expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied with

the reasons Poirot had given for withdrawing from the South American

proposition at the last moment.

"This gives one furiously to think, does it not?" said Poirot.

"I suppose it's only natural he should be a bit ratty."

"No, no, you comprehend not. Remember the words of Mayerling, the man

who took refuge here--only to die by the hands of his enemies. 'Number

Two is represented by an S with two lines through it--the sign for a

dollar, also by two stripes and a star. It may be conjectured therefore

that he is an American subject, and that he represents the power of

wealth.' Add to those words the fact that Ryland offered me a huge sum

to tempt me out of England--and--and what about it, Hastings?"

"You mean," I said, staring, "that you suspect Abe Ryland, the

multi-millionaire, of being Number Two of the Big Four."

"Your bright intellect has grasped the idea, Hastings. Yes, I do.

The tone in which you said multi-millionaire was eloquent--but let

me impress upon you one fact--this thing is being run by men at the

top--and Mr. Ryland has the reputation of being no beauty in his

business dealings. An able, unscrupulous man, a man who has all the

wealth that he needs, and is out for unlimited power."

There was undoubtedly something to be said for Poirot's view. I asked

him when he had made up his mind definitely upon the point.

"That is just it. I am not sure. I cannot be sure. _Mon ami_,

I would give anything to _know_. Let me but place Number Two

definitely as Abe Ryland, and we draw nearer to our goal."

"He has just arrived in London, I see by this," I said, tapping the

letter. "Shall you call upon him, and make your apologies in person?"

"I might do so."

Two days later, Poirot returned to our rooms in a state of boundless

excitement. He grasped me by both hands in his most impulsive manner.

"My friend, an occasion stupendous, unprecedented, never to be

repeated, has presented itself! But there is danger, grave danger. I

should not even ask you to attempt it."

If Poirot was trying to frighten me, he was going the wrong way to

work, and so I told him. Becoming less incoherent, he unfolded his plan.

It seemed that Ryland was looking for an English secretary, one with

a good social manner and presence. It was Poirot's suggestion that I

should apply for the post.

"I would do it, myself, _mon ami_," he explained apologetically.

"But, see you, it is almost impossible for me to disguise myself in

the needful manner. I speak the English very well--except when I am

excited--but hardly so as to deceive the ear; and even though I were

to sacrifice my moustaches, I doubt not but that I should still be

recognisable as Hercule Poirot."

I doubted it also, and declared myself ready and willing to take up the

part and penetrate into Ryland's household.

"Ten to one he won't engage me anyway," I remarked.

"Oh, yes, he will. I will arrange for you such testimonials as shall

make him lick his lips. The Home Secretary himself shall recommend

you."

This seemed to be carrying things a bit far, but Poirot waved aside my

remonstrances.

"Oh, yes, he will do it. I investigated for him a little matter which

might have caused a grave scandal. All was solved with discretion and

delicacy, and now, as you would say, he perches upon my hand like the

little bird and pecks the crumbs."

Our first step was to engage the services of an artist in "make up." He

was a little man, with a quaint bird-like turn of the head, not unlike

Poirot's own. He considered me some time in silence, and then fell to

work. When I looked at myself in the glass half an hour afterwards,

I was amazed. Special shoes caused me to stand at least two inches

taller, and the coat I wore was arranged so as to give me a long, lank,

weedy look. My eyebrows had been cunningly altered, giving a totally

different expression to my face, I wore pads in my cheeks, and the deep

tan of my face was a thing of the past. My moustache had gone, and a

gold tooth was prominent on one side of my mouth.

"Your name," said Poirot, "is Arthur Neville. God guard you, my

friend--for I fear that you go into perilous places."

It was with a beating heart that I presented myself at the Savoy, at an

hour named by Mr. Ryland, and asked to see the great man.

After being kept waiting a minute or two, I was shown upstairs to his

suite.

Ryland was sitting at a table. Spread out in front of him was a letter

which I could see out of the tail of my eye was in the Home Secretary's

handwriting. It was my first sight of the American millionaire, and, in

spite of myself, I was impressed. He was tall and lean, with a jutting

out chin and slightly hooked nose. His eyes glittered cold and gray

behind penthouse brows. He had thick grizzled hair, and a long black

cigar (without which, I learned later, he was never seen) protruded

rakishly from the corner of his mouth.

"Siddown," he grunted.

I sat. He tapped the letter in front of him.

"According to this piece here, you're the goods all right, and I don't

need to look further. Say, are you well up in the social matters?"

I said that I thought I could satisfy him in that respect.

"I mean to say, if I have a lot of dooks and earls and viscounts and

suchlike down to the country place I've gotten, you'll be able to sort

them out all right and put them where they should be round the dining

table?"

"Oh! quite easily," I replied, smiling.

We exchanged a few more preliminaries, and then I found myself engaged.

What Mr. Ryland wanted was a secretary conversant with English society,

as he already had an American secretary and a stenographer with him.

Two days later I went down to Hatton Chase, the seat of the Duke of

Loamshire, which the American millionaire had rented for a period of

six months.

My duties gave me no difficulty whatever. At one period of my life I

had been private secretary to a busy member of Parliament, so I was

not called upon to assume a role unfamiliar to me. Mr. Ryland usually

entertained a large party over the week-end, but the middle of the week

was comparatively quiet. I saw very little of Mr. Appleby, the American

secretary, but he seemed a pleasant, normal young American, very

efficient in his work. Of Miss Martin, the stenographer, I saw rather

more. She was a pretty girl of about twenty-three or four, with auburn

hair and brown eyes that could look mischievous enough upon occasion,

though they were usually cast demurely down. I had an idea that she

both disliked and distrusted her employer, though, of course, she was

careful never to hint at anything of the kind, but the time came when I

was unexpectedly taken into her confidence.

I had, of course, carefully scrutinised all the members of the

household. One or two of the servants had been newly engaged, one of

the footmen, I think, and some of the housemaids. The butler, the

housekeeper, and the chef were the duke's own staff, who had consented

to remain on in the establishment. The housemaids I dismissed as

unimportant; I scrutinised James, the second footman, very carefully;

but it was clear that he was an under-footman and an under-footman

only. He had, indeed, been engaged by the butler. A person of whom

I was far more suspicious was Deaves, Ryland's valet, whom he had

brought over from New York with him. An Englishman by birth, with an

irreproachable manner, I yet harboured vague suspicions about him.

I had been at Hatton Chase three weeks, and not an incident of any kind

had arisen which I could lay my finger on in support of our theory.

There was no trace of the activities of the Big Four. Mr. Ryland was a

man of overpowering force and personality, but I was coming to believe

that Poirot had made a mistake when he associated him with that dread

organisation. I even heard him mention Poirot in a casual way at dinner

one night.

"Wonderful little man, they say. But he's a quitter. How do I know?

I put him on a deal, and he turned me down the last minute. I'm not

taking any more of your Monsieur Hercule Poirot."

It was at moments such as these that I felt my cheek pads most

wearisome!

And then Miss Martin told me a rather curious story. Ryland had gone

to London for the day, taking Appleby with him. Miss Martin and I were

strolling together in the garden after tea. I liked the girl very

much, she was so unaffected and so natural. I could see that there was

something on her mind, and at last out it came.

"Do you know, Major Neville," she said, "I am really thinking of

resigning my post here."

I looked somewhat astonished, and she went on hurriedly.

"Oh! I know it's a wonderful job to have got, in a way. I suppose most

people would think me a fool to throw it up. But I can't stand abuse,

Major Neville. To be sworn at like a trooper is more than I can bear.

No gentleman would do such a thing."

"Has Ryland been swearing at you?"

She nodded.

"Of course, he's always rather irritable and short tempered. That one

expects. It's all in the day's work. But to fly into such an absolute

fury--over nothing at all. He really looked as though he could have

murdered me! And, as I say, over nothing at all!"

"Tell me about it?" I said, keenly interested.

"As you know, I open all Mr. Ryland's letters. Some I hand on to Mr.

Appleby, others I deal with myself, but I do all the preliminary

sorting. Now there are certain letters that come, written on blue

paper, and with a tiny 4 marked on the corner--I beg your pardon, did

you speak?"

I had been unable to repress a stifled exclamation, but I hurriedly

shook my head, and begged her to continue.

"Well, as I was saying, these letters come, and there are strict orders

that they are never to be opened, but to be handed over to Mr. Ryland

intact. And, of course, I always do so. But there was an unusually

heavy mail yesterday morning, and I was opening the letters in a

terrific hurry. By mistake I opened one of these letters. As soon as I

saw what I had done, I took it to Mr. Ryland and explained. To my utter

amazement he flew into the most awful rage. As I tell you, I was quite

frightened."

"What was there in the letter, I wonder, to upset him so?"

"Absolutely nothing--that's just the curious part of it. I had read

it before I discovered my mistake. It was quite short. I can still

remember it word for word, and there was nothing in it that could

possibly upset any one."

"You can repeat it, you say?" I encouraged her.

"Yes." She paused a minute and then repeated slowly, whilst I noted

down the words unobtrusively, the following:--

"DEAR SIR,--The essential thing now, I should say, is to

see the property. If you insist on the quarry being included, then

seventeen thousand seems reasonable. 11% commission too much, 4% is

ample.

"Yours truly,

"ARTHUR LEVERSHAM."

Miss Martin went on:--

"Evidently about some property Mr. Ryland was thinking of buying. But

really, I do feel that a man who can get into a rage over such a trifle

is, well, dangerous. What do you think I ought to do, Major Neville?

You've more experience of the world than I have."

I soothed the girl down, pointed out to her that Mr. Ryland had

probably been suffering from the enemy of his race--dyspepsia. In

the end I sent her away quite comforted. But I was not so easily

satisfied myself. When the girl had gone, and I was alone, I took out

my notebook, and ran over the letter which I had jotted down. What did

it mean--this apparently innocent-sounding missive? Did it concern some

business deal which Ryland was undertaking, and was he anxious that no

details about it should leak out until it was carried through? That was

a possible explanation. But I remembered the small figure 4 with which

the envelopes were marked, and I felt that, at last, I was on the track

of the thing we were seeking.

I puzzled over the letter all that evening, and most of the next

day--and then suddenly the solution came to me. It was so simple, too.

The figure 4 was the clue. Read every fourth word in the letter, and an

entirely different message appeared. "Essential should see you quarry

seventeen eleven four."

The solution of the figures was easy. Seventeen stood for the

seventeenth of October--which was to-morrow, eleven was the time, and

four was the signature--either referring to the mysterious Number Four

himself--or else it was the "trade-mark" so to speak, of the Big Four.

The quarry was also intelligible. There was a big disused quarry on the

estate about half a mile from the house--a lonely spot, ideal for a

secret meeting.

For a moment or two I was tempted to run the show myself. It would be

such a feather in my cap, for once, to have the pleasure of crowing

over Poirot.

But in the end I overcame the temptation. This was a big business--I

had no right to play a lone hand, and perhaps jeopardise our chances of

success. For the first time, we had stolen a march upon our enemies. We

must make good this time--and, disguise the fact as I might, Poirot had

the better brain of the two.

I wrote off post haste to him, laying the facts before him, and

explaining how urgent it was that we should overhear what went on at

the interview. If he liked to leave it to me, well and good, but I gave

him detailed instructions how to reach the quarry from the station in

case he should deem it wise to be present himself.

I took the letter down to the village and posted it myself. I had been

able to communicate with Poirot throughout my stay, by the simple

expedient of posting my letters myself, but we had agreed that he

should not attempt to communicate with me in case my letters should be

tampered with.

I was in a glow of excitement the following evening. No guests were

staying in the house, and I was busy with Mr. Ryland in his study all

the evening. I had foreseen that this would be the case, which was why

I had had no hope of being able to meet Poirot at the station. I was,

however, confident that I would be dismissed well before eleven o'clock.

Sure enough, just after ten-thirty, Mr. Ryland glanced at the clock,

and announced that he was "through." I took the hint and retired

discreetly. I went upstairs as though going to bed, but slipped quietly

down a side staircase and let myself out into the garden, having taken

the precaution to don a dark overcoat to hide my white shirt-front.

I had gone some way down the garden when I chanced to look over my

shoulder. Mr. Ryland was just stepping out from his study window into

the garden. He was starting to keep the appointment. I redoubled my

pace, so as to get a clear start. I arrived at the quarry somewhat out

of breath. There seemed no one about, and I crawled into a thick tangle

of bushes and awaited developments.

Ten minutes later, just on the stroke of eleven, Ryland stalked up,

his hat over his eyes and the inevitable cigar in his mouth. He

gave a quick look round, and then plunged into the hollows of the

quarry below. Presently I heard a low murmur of voices come up to me.

Evidently the other man--or men--whoever they were, had arrived first

at the rendezvous. I crawled cautiously out of the bushes, and inch

by inch, using the utmost precaution against noise, I wormed myself

down the steep path. Only a boulder now separated me from the talking

men. Secure in the blackness, I peeped round the edge of it and found

myself facing the muzzle of a black, murderous-looking automatic!

"Hands up!" said Mr. Ryland succinctly. "I've been waiting for you."

He was seated in the shadow of the rock, so that I could not see his

face, but the menace in his voice was unpleasant. Then I felt a ring of

cold steel on the back of my neck, and Ryland lowered his own automatic.

"That's right, George," he drawled. "March him around here."

Raging inwardly, I was conducted to a spot in the shadows, where the

unseen George (whom I suspected of being the impeccable Deaves), gagged

and bound me securely.

Ryland spoke again in a tone which I had difficulty in recognising, so

cold and menacing was it.

"This is going to be the end of you two. You've got in the way of the

Big Four once too often. Ever heard of land slides? There was one about

here two years ago. There's going to be another to-night. I've fixed

that good and square. Say, that friend of yours doesn't keep his dates

very punctually."

A wave of horror swept over me. Poirot! In another minute he would

walk straight into the trap. And I was powerless to warn him. I could

only pray that he had elected to leave the matter in my hands, and had

remained in London. Surely, if he had been coming, he would have been

here by now.

With every minute that passed, my hopes rose.

Suddenly they were dashed to pieces. I heard footsteps--cautious

footsteps, but footsteps nevertheless. I writhed in impotent agony.

They came down the path, paused, and then Poirot himself appeared, his

head a little on one side, peering into the shadows.

I heard the growl of satisfaction Ryland gave as he raised the big

automatic and shouted "Hands up." Deaves sprang forward as he did so,

and took Poirot in the rear. The ambush was complete.

"Please to meet you, Mr. Hercule Poirot," said the American grimly.

Poirot's self-possession was marvellous. He did not turn a hair. But I

saw his eyes searching in the shadows.

"My friend? He is here?"

"Yes, you are both in the trap--the trap of the Big Four."

He laughed.

"A trap?" queried Poirot.

"Say, haven't you tumbled to it yet?"

"I comprehend that there is a trap--yes," said Poirot gently. "But you

are in error, monsieur. It is _you_ who are in it--not I and my

friend."

"What?" Ryland raised the big automatic, but I saw his gaze falter.

"If you fire, you commit murder watched by ten pairs of eyes, and you

will be hanged for it. This place is surrounded--has been for the last

hour--by Scotland Yard men. It is checkmate, Mr. Abe Ryland."

He uttered a curious whistle, and as though by magic, the place was

alive with men. They seized Ryland and the valet and disarmed them.

After speaking a few words to the officer in charge, Poirot took me by

the arm, and led me away.

Once clear of the quarry he embraced me with vigour.

"You are alive--you are unhurt. It is magnificent. Often have I blamed

myself for letting you go."

"I'm perfectly all right," I said, disengaging myself. "But I'm just a

bit fogged. You tumbled to their little scheme, did you?"

"But I was waiting for it! For what else did I permit you to go there?

Your false name, your disguise, not for a moment was it intended to

deceive!"

"What?" I cried. "You never told me."

"As I have frequently told you, Hastings, you have a nature so

beautiful and so honest that unless you are yourself deceived, it is

impossible for you to deceive others. Good, then, you are spotted

from the first, and they do what I had counted on their doing--a

mathematical certainty to any one who uses his gray cells properly--use

you as a decoy. They set the girl on--By the way, _mon ami_, as an

interesting fact psychologically, has she got red hair?"

"If you mean Miss Martin," I said coldly. "Her hair is a delicate shade

of auburn, but--"

"They are _épatant_--these people! They have even studied your

psychology. Oh! yes, my friend, Miss Martin was in the plot--very

much so. She repeats the letter to you, together with her tale of Mr.

Ryland's wrath, you write it down, you puzzle your brains--the cipher

is nicely arranged, difficult, but not too difficult--you solve it, and

you send for me."

"But what they do not know is that I am waiting for just this very

thing to happen. I go post haste to Japp and arrange things. And so, as

you see, all is triumph!"

I was not particularly pleased with Poirot, and I told him so. We went

back to London on a milk train in the early hours of the morning, and a

most uncomfortable journey it was.

I was just out of my bath and indulging in pleasurable thoughts of

breakfast when I heard Japp's voice in the sitting-room. I threw on a

bathrobe and hurried in.

"A pretty mare's nest you've got us into this time," Japp was saying.

"It's too bad of you, M. Poirot. First time I've ever known you take a

toss."

Poirot's face was a study. Japp went on.

"There were we, taking all this Black Hand stuff seriously--and all the

time it was the footman."

"The footman?" I gasped.

"Yes, James, or whatever his name is. Seems he laid 'em a wager in

the servants' hall that he could get taken for the old man by his

nibs--that's you, Captain Hastings--and would hand him out a lot of spy

stuff about a Big Four gang."

"Impossible!" I cried.

"Don't you believe it. I marched our gentleman straight to Hatton

Chase, and there was the real Ryland in bed and asleep, and the butler

and the cook and God knows how many of them to swear to the wager. Just

a silly hoax--that's all it was--and the valet is with him."

"So that was why he kept in the shadow," murmured Poirot.

After Japp had gone we looked at each other.

"We _know_, Hastings," said Poirot at last. "Number Two of the Big

Four is Abe Ryland. The masquerading on the part of the footman was to

ensure a way of retreat in case of emergencies. And the footman--"

"Yes," I breathed.

"_Number Four_," said Poirot gravely.

9. THE YELLOW JASMINE MYSTERY

It was all very well for Poirot to say that we were acquiring

information all the time and gaining an insight into our adversaries'

minds--I felt myself that I required some more tangible success than

this.

Since we had come into contact with the Big Four, they had committed

two murders, abducted Halliday, and had been within an ace of killing

Poirot and myself; whereas so far we had hardly scored a point in the

game.

Poirot treated my complaints lightly.

"So far, Hastings," he said, "they laugh. That is true, but you have a

proverb, have you not: 'He laughs best who laughs at the end'? And at

the end, _mon ami_, you shall see.

"You must remember, too," he added, "that we deal with no ordinary

criminal, but with the second greatest brain in the world."

I forbore to pander to his conceit by asking the obvious question. I

knew the answer, at least I knew what Poirot's answer would be, and

instead I tried without success to elicit some information as to what

steps he was taking to track down the enemy. As usual he had kept me

completely in the dark as to his movements, but I gathered that he was

in touch with secret service agents in India, China, and Russia, and,

from his occasional bursts of self-glorification, that he was at least

progressing in his favourite game of gauging his enemy's mind.

He had abandoned his private practice almost entirely, and I know that

at this time he refused some remarkably handsome fees. True, he would

sometimes investigate cases which intrigued him, but he usually dropped

them the moment he was convinced that they had no connection with the

activities of the Big Four.

This attitude of his was remarkably profitable to our friend, Inspector

Japp. Undeniably he gained much kudos for solving several problems

in which his success was really due to a half-contemptuous hint from

Poirot.

In return for such service Japp supplied full details of any case which

he thought might interest the little Belgian, and when he was put in

charge of what the newspaper called "The Yellow Jasmine Mystery," he

wired Poirot, asking him whether he would care to come down and look

into the case.

It was in response to this wire that, about a month after my adventure

in Abe Ryland's house, we found ourselves alone in a railway

compartment whirling away from the smoke and dust of London, bound for

the little town of Market Handford in Worcestershire, the seat of the

mystery.

Poirot leant back in his corner.

"And what exactly is your opinion of the affair, Hastings?"

I did not at once reply to his question; I felt the need of going

warily.

"It all seems so complicated," I said cautiously.

"Does it not?" said Poirot delightedly.

"I suppose our rushing off like this is a pretty clear sign that you

consider Mr. Paynter's death to be murder--not suicide or the result of

an accident?"

"No, no; you misunderstand me, Hastings. Granting that Mr. Paynter died

as the result of a particularly terrible accident, there are still a

number of mysterious circumstances to be explained."

"That was what I meant when I said it was all so complicated."

"Let us go over all the main facts quietly and methodically. Recount

them to me, Hastings, in an orderly and lucid fashion."

I started forthwith, endeavouring to be as orderly and lucid as I could.

"We start," I said, "with Mr. Paynter. A man of fifty-five, rich,

cultured, and somewhat of a globetrotter. For the last twelve years

he has been little in England, but suddenly tiring of incessant

travelling, he bought a small place in Worcestershire, near Market

Handford, and prepared to settle down. His first action was to write

to his only relative, a nephew, Gerald Paynter, the son of his younger

brother, and to suggest to him that he should come and make his home

at Croftlands (as the place is called) with his uncle. Gerald Paynter,

who is an impecunious young artist, was glad enough to fall in with the

arrangement, and had been living with his uncle for about seven months

when the tragedy occurred."

"Your narrative style is masterly," murmured Poirot. "I say to myself,

it is a book that talks, not my friend Hastings."

Paying no attention to Poirot, I went on, warming to the story.

"Mr. Paynter kept up a fair staff at Croftlands--six servants as well

as his own Chinese body servant--Ah Ling."

"His Chinese servant, Ah Ling," murmured Poirot.

"On Tuesday last, Mr. Paynter complained of feeling unwell after

dinner, and one of the servants was despatched to fetch the doctor. Mr.

Paynter received the doctor in his study, having refused to go to bed.

What passed between them was not then known, but before Doctor Quentin

left, he asked to see the housekeeper, and mentioned that he had given

Mr. Paynter a hypodermic injection as his heart was in a very weak

state, recommended that he should not be disturbed, and then proceeded

to ask some rather curious questions about the servants--how long they

had been there, from whom they had come, etc.

"The housekeeper answered these questions as best she could, but was

rather puzzled as to their purport. A terrible discovery was made on

the following morning. One of the housemaids, on descending, was met

by a sickening odour of burned flesh which seemed to come from her

master's study. She tried the door, but it was locked on the inside.

With the assistance of Gerald Paynter and the Chinaman that was soon

broken in, but a terrible sight greeted them. Mr. Paynter had fallen

forward into the gas fire, and his face and head were charred beyond

recognition.

"Of course, at the moment, no suspicion was aroused as to its being

anything but a ghastly accident. If blame attached to any one, it was

to Doctor Quentin for giving his patient a narcotic and leaving him in

such a dangerous position. And then a rather curious discovery was made.

"There was a newspaper on the floor, lying where it had slipped from

the old man's knees. On turning it over, words were found to be

scrawled across it, feebly traced in ink. A writing-table stood close

to the chair in which Mr. Paynter had been sitting, and the forefinger

of the victim's right hand was ink-stained up to the second joint. It

was clear that, too weak to hold a pen, Mr. Paynter had dipped his

finger in the ink-pot and managed to scrawl these two words across

the surface of the newspaper he held--but the words themselves seemed

utterly fantastic: _Yellow Jasmine_--just that and nothing more.

"Croftlands has a large quantity of yellow jasmine growing up its

walls, and it was thought that this dying message had some reference to

them, showing that the poor old man's mind was wandering. Of course,

the newspapers, agog for anything out of the common, took up the story

hotly, calling it the Mystery of the Yellow Jasmine--though in all

probability the words are completely unimportant."

"They are unimportant, you say?" said Poirot. "Well, doubtless, since

you say so, it must be so."

I regarded him dubiously, but I could detect no mockery in his eye.

"And then," I continued, "there came the excitements of the inquest."

"This is where you lick your lips, I perceive."

"There was a certain amount of feeling evidenced against Dr. Quentin.

To begin with, he was not the regular doctor, only a locum, putting in

a month's work, whilst Dr. Bolitho was away on a well-earned holiday.

Then it was felt that his carelessness was the direct cause of the

accident. But his evidence was little short of sensational. Mr. Paynter

had been ailing in health ever since his arrival at Croftlands. Dr.

Bolitho had attended him for some time, but when Dr. Quentin first saw

his patient, he was mystified by some of the symptoms. He had only

attended him once before the night when he was sent for after dinner.

As soon as he was alone with Mr. Paynter, the latter had unfolded a

surprising tale. To begin with, he was not feeling ill at all, he

explained, but the taste of some curry that he had been eating at

dinner had struck him as peculiar. Making an excuse to get rid of Ah

Ling for a few minutes, he had turned the contents of his plate into a

bowl, and he now handed it over to the doctor with injunctions to find

out if there were really anything wrong with it.

"In spite of his statement that he was not feeling ill, the doctor

noted that the shock of his suspicions had evidently affected him,

and that his heart was feeling it. Accordingly he administered an

injection--not of a narcotic, but of strychnine.

"That, I think, completes the case--except for _the_ crux of the

whole thing--the fact that the uneaten curry, duly analysed, was found

to contain enough powdered opium to have killed two men!"

I paused.

"And your conclusions, Hastings?" asked Poirot quietly.

"It's difficult to say. It _might_ be an accident--the fact that

some one attempted to poison him the same night might be merely a

coincidence."

"But you don't think so? You prefer to believe it--murder!"

"Don't you?"

"_Mon ami_, you and I do not reason in the same way. I am not

trying to make up my mind between two opposite solutions--murder or

accident--that will come when we have solved the other problem--the

mystery of the 'Yellow Jasmine.' By the way, you have left out

something there."

"You mean the two lines at right angles to each other faintly indicated

under the words? I did not think they could be of any possible

importance."

"What you think is always so important to yourself, Hastings. But let

us pass from the mystery of the Yellow Jasmine to the Mystery of the

Curry."

"I know. Who poisoned it? Why? There are a hundred questions one can

ask. Ah Ling, of course, prepared it. But why should he wish to kill

his master? Is he a member of a _tong_, or something like that.

One reads of such things. The _tong_ of the Yellow Jasmine,

perhaps. Then there is Gerald Paynter."

I came to an abrupt pause.

"Yes," said Poirot, nodding his head. "There is Gerald Paynter, as you

say. He is his uncle's heir. He was dining out that night, though."

"He might have got at some of the ingredients of the curry," I

suggested. "And he would take care to be out, so as not to have to

partake of the dish."

I think my reasoning rather impressed Poirot. He looked at me with a

more respectful attention than he had given me so far.

"He returns late," I mused, pursuing a hypothetical case. "Sees the

light in his uncle's study, enters, and, finding his plan has failed,

thrusts the old man down into the fire."

"Mr. Paynter, who was a fairly hearty man of fifty-five, would not

permit himself to be burnt to death without a struggle, Hastings. Such

a reconstruction is not feasible."

"Well, Poirot," I cried, "we're nearly there, I fancy. Let us hear what

you think?"

Poirot threw me a smile, swelled out his chest, and began in a pompous

manner.

"Assuming murder, the question at once arises, why choose that

particular method? I can think of only one reason--to confuse identity,

the face being charred beyond recognition."

"What?" I cried. "You think--"

"A moment's patience, Hastings. I was going on to say that I examine

that theory. Is there any ground for believing that the body is not

that of Mr. Paynter? Is there any one else whose body it possibly could

be? I examine these two questions and finally I answer them both in the

negative."

"Oh!" I said, rather disappointed. "And then?"

Poirot's eyes twinkled a little.

"And then I say to myself, 'since there is here something that I do not

understand, it would be well that I should investigate the matter. I

must not permit myself to be wholly engrossed by the Big Four.' Ah! we

are just arriving. My little clothes brush, where does it hide itself?

Here it is--brush me down, I pray you, my friend, and then I will

perform the same service for you."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, as he put away the brush, "one must

not permit oneself to be obsessed by one idea. I have been in danger of

that. Figure to yourself, my friend, that even here, in this case, I am

in danger of it. Those two lines you mentioned, a downstroke and a line

at right angles to it, what are they but the beginning of a 4?"

"Good gracious, Poirot," I cried, laughing.

"Is it not absurd? I see the hand of the Big Four everywhere. It is

well to employ one's wits in a totally different _milieu_. Ah!

there is Japp come to meet us."

10. WE INVESTIGATE AT CROFTLANDS

The Scotland Yard Inspector was, indeed, waiting on the platform, and

greeted us warmly.

"Well, Moosior Poirot, this is good. Thought you'd like to be let in on

this. Tip-top mystery, isn't it?"

I read this aright as showing Japp to be completely puzzled and hoping

to pick up a pointer from Poirot.

Japp had a car waiting, and we drove up in it to Croftlands. It was a

square, white house, quite unpretentious, and covered with creepers,

including the starry yellow jasmine. Japp looked up at it as we did.

"Must have been balmy to go writing that, poor old cove," he remarked.

"Hallucinations, perhaps, and thought he was outside."

Poirot was smiling at him.

"Which was it, my good Japp?" he asked; "accident or murder?"

The Inspector seemed a little embarrassed by the question.

"Well, if it weren't for that curry business, I'd be for accident every

time. There's no sense in holding a live man's head in the fire--why,

he'd scream the house down."

"Ah!" said Poirot in a low voice. "Fool that I have been. Triple

imbecile! You are a cleverer man than I am, Japp."

Japp was rather taken aback by the compliment--Poirot being usually

given to exclusive self praise. He reddened and muttered something

about there being a lot of doubt about that.

He led the way through the house to the room where the tragedy had

occurred--Mr. Paynter's study. It was a wide, low room, with book-lined

walls and big leather arm-chairs.

Poirot looked across at once to the window which gave upon a gravelled

terrace.

"The window, it was unlatched?" he asked.

"That's the whole point, of course. When the doctor left this room,

he merely closed the door behind him. The next morning it was found

locked. Who locked it? Mr. Paynter? Ah Ling declares that the window

was closed and bolted. Dr. Quentin, on the other hand, has an

impression that it was closed, but not fastened, but he won't swear

either way. If he could, it would make a great difference. If the man

_was_ murdered, some one entered the room either through the door

or the window--if through the door, it was an inside job; if through

the window, it might have been any one. First thing when they had

broken the door down, they flung the window open, and the housemaid

who did it thinks that it wasn't fastened, but she's a precious bad

witness--will remember anything you ask her to!"

"What about the key?"

"There you are again. It was on the floor among the wreckage of the

door. Might have fallen from the keyhole, might have been dropped there

by one of the people who entered, might have been slipped underneath

the door from the outside."

"In fact everything is 'might have been'?"

"You've hit it, Moosior Poirot. That's just what it is."

Poirot was looking round him, frowning unhappily.

"I cannot see light," he murmured. "Just now---yes, I got a gleam, but

now all is darkness once more. I have not the clue--the motive."

"Young Gerald Paynter had a pretty good motive," remarked Japp grimly.

"He's been wild enough in his time, I can tell you. _And_

extravagant. You know what artists are, too--no morals at all."

Poirot did not pay much attention to Japp's sweeping strictures on the

artistic temperament. Instead he smiled knowingly.

"My good Japp, is it possible that you throw the mud in my eyes? I know

well enough that it is the Chinaman you suspect. But you are so artful.

You want me to help you--and yet you drag the red kipper across the

trail."

Japp burst out laughing.

"That's you all over, Mr. Poirot. Yes, I'd bet on the Chink, I'll admit

it now. It stands to reason that it was he who doctored the curry, and

if he'd try once in an evening to get his master out of the way, he'd

try twice."

"I wonder if he would," said Poirot softly.

"But it's the motive that beats me. Some heathen revenge or other, I

suppose."

"I wonder," said Poirot again. "There has been no robbery? Nothing has

disappeared? No jewellery, or money, or papers?"

"No--that is, not exactly."

I pricked up my ears; so did Poirot.

"There's been no robbery, I mean," explained Japp. "But the old

boy was writing a book of some sort. We only knew about it this

morning when there was a letter from the publishers asking about the

manuscript. It was just completed, it seems. Young Paynter and I have

searched high and low, but can't find a trace of it--he must have

hidden it away somewhere."

Poirot's eyes were shining with the green light I knew so well.

"How was it called, this book?" he asked.

"_The Hidden Hand in China_, I think it was called."

"Aha!" said Poirot, with almost a gasp. Then he said quickly, "Let me

see the Chinaman, Ah Ling."

The Chinaman was sent for and appeared, shuffling along, with his eyes

cast down, and his pigtail swinging. His impassive face showed no trace

of any kind of emotion.

"Ah Ling," said Poirot, "are you sorry your master is dead?"

"I welly sorry. He good master."

"You know who kill him?"

"I not know. I tell pleeceman if I know."

The questions and answers went on. With the same impassive face, Ah

Ling described how he had made the curry. The cook had had nothing to

do with it, he declared, no hand had touched it but his own. I wondered

if he saw where his admission was leading him. He stuck to it too,

that the window to the garden was bolted that evening. If it was open

in the morning, his master must have opened it himself. At last Poirot

dismissed him.

"That will do, Ah Ling." Just as the Chinaman had got to the door,

Poirot recalled him. "And you know nothing, you say, of the Yellow

Jasmine?"

"No, what should I know?"

"Nor yet of the sign that was written underneath it?"

Poirot leant forward as he spoke, and quickly traced something on the

dust of a little table. I was near enough to see it before he rubbed it

out. A down stroke, a line at right angles, and then a second line down

which completed a big 4. The effect on the Chinaman was electrical. For

one moment his face was a mask of terror. Then, as suddenly, it was

impassive again, and repeating his grave disclaimer, he withdrew.

Japp departed in search of young Paynter, and Poirot and I were left

alone together.

"The Big Four, Hastings," cried Poirot. "Once again, the Big Four.

Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some

vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen,

the head and brains of the Big Four."

"But who--how--"

"Hush, here they come."

Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had

a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot's

questions readily enough.

"I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherlys," he

explained. "What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a

latch-key, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally

thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I

caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar Ah Ling just whisking

round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken."

"When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came

to live with him."

"Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father)

quarrelled, you know."

"But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite

of all the years that had passed?"

"Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer's advertisement."

Poirot asked no more questions.

Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially

the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to

it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his

consulting patients. He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness

of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be

thoroughly modern in his methods.

"I wish I could remember about the window," he said frankly. "But it's

dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something

that never existed. That's psychology, isn't it, M. Poirot? You see,

I've read all about your methods, and I may say I'm an enormous admirer

of yours. No, I suppose it's pretty certain that the Chinaman put the

powdered opium in the curry, but he'll never admit it, and we shall

never know why. But holding a man down in a fire--that's not in keeping

with our Chinese friend's character, it seems to me."

I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main

street of Market Handford.

"Do you think he let a confederate in?" I asked. "By the way, I suppose

Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?" (The Inspector had passed

into the police station on some business or other.) "The emissaries of

the Big Four are pretty spry."

"Japp is keeping an eye on both of them," said Poirot grimly. "They

have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered."

"Well, at any rate _we_ know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do

with it."

"You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes

quite fatiguing."

"You old fox," I laughed. "You never will commit yourself."

"To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me--all but the

words, _Yellow Jasmine_--and I am coming to agree with you that

they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got

to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet--"

He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He

emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us,

and we all sought quarters at the inn.

I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting-room

reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his

face contorted with agony.

"Do not converse with me," he cried, waving an agitated hand. "Not

until I know that all is well--that the arrest is made. Ah! but my

psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it

is because it is important. Every one has said--'Yellow Jasmine? There

is yellow jasmine growing up the house--it means nothing.'"

"Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen." He held up a

little book he was holding.

"My friend, it struck me that it would be well to inquire into the

subject. What exactly is yellow jasmine? This little book has told me.

Listen."

He read.

"'_Gelsemini Radix._ Yellow Jasmine. Composition: Alkaloids

_gelseminine_ C_{22}H_{26}N_{2}O_{3}, a potent poison acting like

coniine; _gelsemine_ C_{12}H_{14}NO_{2}, acting like strychnine;

_gelsemic acid_, etc. Gelsemium is a powerful depressant to the

central nervous system. At a late stage in its action it paralyses the

motor nerve endings, and in large doses causes giddiness and loss of

muscular power. Death is due to paralysis of the respiratory centre.'

"You see, Hastings? At the beginning I had an inkling of the truth when

Japp made his remark about a live man being forced into the fire. I

realised then that it was a dead man who was burned."

"But why? What was the point?"

"My friend, if you were to shoot a man, or stab a man after he were

dead, or even knock him on the head, it would be apparent that the

injuries were inflicted after death. But with his head charred to a

cinder, no one is going to hunt about for obscure causes of death, and

a man who has apparently just escaped being poisoned at dinner, is not

likely to be poisoned just afterwards. _Who_ is lying, that is

always the question? I decided to believe Ah Ling--"

"What!" I exclaimed.

"You are surprised, Hastings? Ah Ling knew of the existence of the

Big Four, that was evident--so evident that it was clear he knew

nothing of their association with the crime until that moment. Had he

been the murderer, he would have been able to retain his impassive

face perfectly. So I decided then, to believe Ah Ling, and I fixed my

suspicions on Gerald Paynter. It seemed to me that Number Four would

have found an impersonation of a long lost nephew very easy."

"What!" I cried. "Number Four?"

"No, Hastings, _not_ Number Four. As soon as I had read up the

subject of yellow jasmine, I saw the truth. In fact, it leapt to the

eye."

"As always," I said coldly, "it doesn't leap to mine."

"Because you will not use your little gray cells. Who had a chance to

tamper with the curry?"

"Ah Ling. No one else."

"No one else? _What about the doctor?_"

"But that was _afterwards_."

"Of course it was afterwards. There was no trace of powdered opium

in the curry served to Mr. Paynter, but acting in obedience to the

suspicions Dr. Quentin had aroused, the old man eats none of it,

and preserves it to give to his medical attendant, whom he summons

according to plan. Dr. Quentin arrives, takes charge of the curry,

_and gives Mr. Paynter an injection_--of strychnine, he says,

but really of yellow jasmine--a poisonous dose. When the drug begins

to take effect, he departs, after unlatching the window. Then, in the

night, he returns by the window, finds the manuscript, and shoves Mr.

Paynter into the fire. He does not heed the newspaper that drops to the

floor and is covered by the old man's body. Paynter knew what drug he

had been given, and strove to accuse the Big Four of his murder. It is

easy for Quentin to mix powdered opium with the curry before handing it

over to be analysed. He gives his version of the conversation with the

old man, and mentions the strychnine injection casually, in case the

mark of the hypodermic needle is noticed. Suspicion at once is divided

between accident and the guilt of Ah Ling owing to the poison in the

curry."

"But Dr. Quentin cannot be Number Four?"

"I fancy he can. There is undoubtedly a real Dr. Quentin who is

probably abroad somewhere. Number Four has simply masqueraded as him

for a short time. The arrangements with Dr. Bolitho were all carried

out by correspondence, the man who was to do locum originally having

been taken ill at the last minute."

At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.

"You have got him?" cried Poirot anxiously.

Japp shook his head, very out of breath.

"Bolitho came back from his holiday this morning--recalled by

telegram. No one knows who sent it. The other man left last night.

We'll catch him yet, though."

Poirot shook his head quietly.

"I think not," he said, and absent-mindedly he drew a big 4 on the

table with a fork.

11. A CHESS PROBLEM

Poirot and I often dined at a small restaurant in Soho. We were there

one evening, when we observed a friend at an adjacent table. It was

Inspector Japp, and as there was room at our table, he came and joined

us. It was some time since either of us had seen him.

"Never do you stop in to see us nowadays," declared Poirot

reproachfully. "Not since the affair of the Yellow Jasmine have we met,

and that is nearly a month ago."

"I've been up north--that's why. How are things with you? Big Four

still going strong--eh?"

Poirot shook a finger at him reproachfully.

"Ah! you mock yourself at me--but the Big Four--they exist."

"Oh! I don't doubt that--but they're not the hub of the universe, as

you make out."

"My friend, you are very much mistaken. The greatest power for evil in

the world to-day is this 'Big Four.' To what end they are tending, no

one knows, but there has never been another such criminal organisation.

The finest brain in China at the head of it, an American millionaire,

and a French woman scientist as members, and for the fourth--"

Japp interrupted.

"I know--I know. Regular bee in your bonnet over it all. It's becoming

your little mania, Moosior Poirot. Let's talk of something else for a

change. Take any interest in chess?"

"I have played it, yes."

"Did you see that curious business yesterday? Match between two players

of world-wide reputation, and one died during the game?"

"I saw a mention of it. Dr. Savaronoff, the Russian champion, was one

of the players, and the other, who succumbed to heart failure, was the

brilliant young American, Gilmour Wilson."

"Quite right. Savaronoff beat Rubenstein and became Russian champion

some years ago. Wilson is said to be a second Capablanca."

"A very curious occurrence," mused Poirot. "If I mistake not, you have

a particular interest in the matter?"

Japp gave a rather embarrassed laugh.

"You've hit it, Moosior Poirot. I'm puzzled. Wilson was sound as a

bell--no trace of heart trouble. His death is quite inexplicable."

"You suspect Dr. Savaronoff of putting him out of the way?" I cried.

"Hardly that," said Japp dryly. "I don't think even a Russian would

murder another man in order not to be beaten at chess--and anyway, from

all I can make out, the boot was likely to be on the other leg. The

doctor is supposed to be very hot stuff--second to Lasker they say he

is."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Then what exactly is your little idea?" he asked. "Why should Wilson

be poisoned? For, I assume, of course, that it is poison you suspect."

"Naturally. Heart failure means your heart stops beating--that's all

there is to that. That's what a doctor says officially at the moment,

but privately he tips us the wink that he's not satisfied."

"When is the autopsy to take place?"

"To-night. Wilson's death was extraordinarily sudden. He seemed quite

as usual and was actually moving one of the pieces when he suddenly

fell forward--dead!"

"There are very few poisons would act in such a fashion," objected

Poirot.

"I know. The autopsy will help us, I expect. But why should any one

want Gilmour Wilson out of the way--that's what I'd like to know?

Harmless unassuming young fellow. Just come over here from the States,

and apparently hadn't an enemy in the world."

"It seems incredible," I mused.

"Not at all," said Poirot, smiling. "Japp has his theory, I can see."

"I have, Moosior Poirot. I don't believe the poison was meant for

Wilson--it was meant for the other man."

"Savaronoff?"

"Yes. Savaronoff fell foul of the Bolsheviks at the outbreak of the

Revolution. He was even reported killed. In reality he escaped, and

for three years endured incredible hardships in the wilds of Siberia.

His sufferings were so great that he is now a changed man. His friends

and acquaintances declare they would hardly have recognised him. His

hair is white, and his whole aspect that of a man terribly aged. He is

a semi-invalid, and seldom goes out, living alone with a niece, Sonia

Daviloff, and a Russian man-servant in a flat down Westminster way. It

is possible that he still considers himself a marked man. Certainly he

was very unwilling to agree to this chess contest. He refused several

times point blank, and it was only when the newspapers took it up

and began making a fuss about the 'unsportsmanlike refusal' that he

gave in. Gilmour Wilson had gone on challenging him with real Yankee

pertinacity, and in the end he got his way. Now I ask you, Moosior

Poirot, why wasn't he willing? Because he didn't want attention drawn

to him. Didn't want somebody or other to get on his track. That's my

solution--Gilmour Wilson got pipped by mistake."

"There is no one who has any private reason to gain by Savaronoff's

death?"

"Well, his niece, I suppose. He's recently come into an immense

fortune. Left him by Madame Gospoja whose husband was a sugar profiteer

under the old regime. They had an affair together once, I believe, and

she refused steadfastly to credit the reports of his death."

"Where did the match take place?"

"In Savaronoff's own flat. He's an invalid, as I told you."

"Many people there to watch it?"

"At least a dozen--probably more."

Poirot made an expressive grimace.

"My poor Japp, your task is not an easy one."

"Once I know definitely that Wilson was poisoned, I can get on."

"Has it occurred to you that, in the meantime, supposing your

assumption that Savaronoff was the intended victim to be correct, the

murderer may try again?"

"Of course it has. Two men are watching Savaronoff's flat."

"That will be very useful if any one should call with a bomb under his

arm," said Poirot dryly.

"You're getting interested, Moosior Poirot," said Japp, with a twinkle.

"Care to come round to the mortuary and see Wilson's body before the

doctors start on it? Who knows, his tie-pin may be askew, and that may

give you a valuable clue that will solve the mystery."

"My dear Japp, all through dinner my fingers have been itching to

rearrange your own tie-pin. You permit, yes? Ah! that is much more

pleasing to the eye. Yes, by all means, let us go to the mortuary."

I could see that Poirot's attention was completely captivated by this

new problem. It was so long since he had shown any interest over any

outside case that I was quite rejoiced to see him back in his old form.

For my own part, I felt a deep pity as I looked down upon the

motionless form and convulsed face of the hapless young American who

had come by his death in such a strange way. Poirot examined the body

attentively. There was no mark on it anywhere, except a small scar on

the left hand.

"And the doctor says that's a burn, not a cut," explained Japp.

Poirot's attention shifted to the contents of the dead man's pockets

which a constable spread out for our inspection. There was nothing

much--a handkerchief, keys, notecase filled with notes, and some

unimportant letters. But one object standing by itself filled Poirot

with interest.

"A chessman!" he exclaimed. "A white bishop. Was that in his pocket?"

"No, clasped in his hand. We had quite a difficulty to get it out of

his fingers. It must be returned to Dr. Savaronoff sometime. It's part

of a very beautiful set of carved ivory chessmen."

"Permit me to return it to him. It will make an excuse for my going

there."

"Aha!" cried Japp. "So you want to come in on this case?"

"I admit it. So skilfully have you aroused my interest."

"That's fine. Got you away from your brooding. Captain Hastings is

pleased, too, I can see."

"Quite right," I said, laughing.

Poirot turned back towards the body.

"No other little detail you can tell me about--him?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Not even--that he was left-handed?"

"You're a wizard, Moosior Poirot. How did you know that? He _was_

left-handed. Not that it's anything to do with the case."

"Nothing whatever," agreed Poirot hastily, seeing that Japp was

slightly ruffled. "My little joke--that was all. I like to play you the

trick, see you."

We went out upon an amicable understanding.

The following morning saw us wending our way to Dr. Savaronoff's flat

in Westminster.

"Sonia Daviloff," I mused. "It's a pretty name."

Poirot stopped, and threw me a look of despair.

"Always looking for romance! You are incorrigible. It would serve you

right if Sonia Daviloff turned out to be our friend and enemy the

Countess Vera Rossakoff."

At the mention of the countess, my face clouded over.

"Surely, Poirot, you don't suspect--"

"But, no, no. It was a joke! I have not the Big Four on the brain to

that extent, whatever Japp may say."

The door of the flat was opened to us by a man-servant with a

peculiarly wooden face. It seemed impossible to believe that that

impassive countenance could ever display emotion.

Poirot presented a card on which Japp had scribbled a few words of

introduction, and we were shown into a low, long room furnished with

rich hangings and curios. One or two wonderful ikons hung upon the

walls, and exquisite Persian rugs lay upon the floor. A samovar stood

upon a table.

I was examining one of the ikons which I judged to be of considerable

value, and turned to see Poirot prone upon the floor. Beautiful as the

rug was, it hardly seemed to me to necessitate such close attention.

"Is it such a very wonderful specimen?" I asked.

"Eh? Oh! the rug? But no, it was not the rug I was remarking. But it

_is_ a beautiful specimen, far too beautiful to have a large nail

wantonly driven through the middle of it. No, Hastings," as I came

forward, "the nail is not there now. But the hole remains."

A sudden sound behind us made me spin round, and Poirot spring nimbly

to his feet. A girl was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, full

upon us, were dark with suspicion. She was of medium height, with a

beautiful, rather sullen face, dark blue eyes, and very black hair

which was cut short. Her voice, when she spoke, was rich and sonorous,

and completely un-English.

"I fear my uncle will be unable to see you. He is a great invalid."

"That is a pity, but perhaps you will kindly help me instead. You are

Mademoiselle Daviloff, are you not?"

"Yes, I am Sonia Daviloff. What is it you want to know?"

"I am making some inquiries about that sad affair the night before

last--the death of M. Gilmour Wilson. What can you tell me about it?"

The girl's eyes opened wide.

"He died of heart failure--as he was playing chess."

"The police are not so sure that it was--heart failure, mademoiselle."

The girl gave a terrified gesture.

"It was true then," she cried. "Ivan was right."

"Who is Ivan, and why do you say he was right?"

"It was Ivan who opened the door to you--and he has already said to me

that in his opinion Gilmour Wilson did not die a natural death--that he

was poisoned by mistake."

"By mistake."

"Yes, the poison was meant for my uncle."

She had quite forgotten her first distrust now, and was speaking

eagerly.

"Why do you say that, mademoiselle. Who should wish to poison Dr.

Savaronoff?"

She shook her head.

"I do not know. I am all in the dark. And my uncle, he will not trust

me. It is natural, perhaps. You see, he hardly knows me. He saw me as

a child, and not since till I came to live with him here in London.

But this much I do know, he is in fear of something. We have many

secret societies in Russia, and one day I overheard something which

made me think it was of just such a society he went in fear. Tell me,

monsieur"--she came a step nearer, and dropped her voice--"have you

ever heard of a society called the 'Big Four'?"

Poirot jumped nearly out of his skin. His eyes positively bulged with

astonishment.

"Why do you--what do you know of the Big Four, mademoiselle?"

"There is such an association, then! I overheard a reference to them,

and asked my uncle about it afterwards. Never have I seen a man so

afraid. He turned all white and shaking. He was in fear of them,

monsieur, in great fear, I am sure of it. And, by mistake, they killed

the American, Wilson."

"The Big Four," murmured Poirot. "Always the Big Four! An astonishing

coincidence, mademoiselle, your uncle is still in danger. I must save

him. Now recount to me exactly the events of that fatal evening. Show

me the chess-board, the table, how the two men sat--everything."

She went to the side of the room and brought out a small table. The

top of it was exquisite, inlaid with squares of silver and black to

represent a chess-board.

"This was sent to my uncle a few weeks ago as a present, with the

request that he would use it in the next match he played. It was in the

middle of the room--so."

Poirot examined the table with what seemed to me quite unnecessary

attention. He was not conducting the inquiry at all as I would have

done. Many of his questions seemed to me pointless, and upon really

vital matters he seemed to have no questions to ask. I concluded that

the unexpected mention of the Big Four had thrown him completely off

his balance.

After a minute examination of the table and the exact position it had

occupied, he asked to see the chessmen. Sonia Daviloff brought them to

him in a box. He examined one or two of them in a perfunctory manner.

"An exquisite set," he murmured absent-mindedly.

Still not a question as to what refreshments there had been, or what

people had been present.

I cleared my throat significantly.

"Don't you think, Poirot, that--"

He interrupted me peremptorily.

"Do not think, my friend. Leave all to me. Mademoiselle, is it quite

impossible that I should see your uncle?"

A faint smile showed itself on her face.

"He will see you, yes. You understand, it is my part to interview all

strangers first."

She disappeared. I heard a murmur of voices in the next room, and a

minute later she came back and motioned us to pass into the adjoining

room.

The man who lay there on a couch was an imposing figure. Tall, gaunt,

with huge bushy eyebrows and white beard, and a face haggard as the

result of starvation and hardships. Dr. Savaronoff was a distinct

personality. I noted the peculiar formation of his head, its unusual

height. A great chess player must have a great brain, I knew. I could

easily understand Dr. Savaronoff being the second greatest player in

the world.

Poirot bowed.

"M. le Docteur, may I speak to you alone?"

Savaronoff turned to his niece.

"Leave us, Sonia."

She disappeared obediently.

"Now, sir, what is it?"

"Dr. Savaronoff, you have recently come into an enormous fortune. If

you should--die unexpectedly, who inherits it?"

"I have made a will leaving everything to my niece, Sonia Daviloff. You

do not suggest--"

"I suggest nothing, but you have not seen your niece since she was a

child. It would have been easy for any one to impersonate her."

Savaronoff seemed thunderstruck by the suggestion. Poirot went on

easily.

"Enough as to that. I give you the word of warning, that is all. What

I want you to do now is to describe to me the game of chess the other

evening."

"How do you mean--describe it?"

"Well, I do not play the chess myself, but I understand that there are

various regular ways of beginning--the gambit, do they not call it?"

Dr. Savaronoff smiled a little.

"Ah! I comprehend you now. Wilson opened Ruy Lopez--one of the soundest

openings there is, and one frequently adopted in tournaments and

matches."

"And how long had you been playing when the tragedy happened?"

"It must have been about the third or fourth move when Wilson suddenly

fell forward over the table, stone dead."

Poirot rose to depart. He flung out his last question as though it was

of absolutely no importance, but I knew better.

"Had he had anything to eat or drink?"

"A whisky and soda, I think."

"Thank you, Dr. Savaronoff. I will disturb you no longer."

Ivan was in the hall to show us out. Poirot lingered on the threshold.

"The flat below this, do you know who lives there?"

"Sir Charles Kingwell, a member of Parliament, sir. It has been let

furnished lately, though."

"Thank you."

We went out into the bright winter sunlight.

"Well, really, Poirot," I burst out. "I don't think you've

distinguished yourself this time. Surely your questions were very

inadequate."

"You think so, Hastings?" Poirot looked at me appealingly. "I was

_bouleversé_, yes. What would you have asked?"

I considered the question carefully, and then outlined my scheme to

Poirot. He listened with what seemed to be close interest. My monologue

lasted until we had nearly reached home.

"Very excellent, very searching, Hastings," said Poirot, as he

inserted his key in the door and preceded me up the stairs. "But quite

unnecessary."

"Unnecessary!" I cried, amazed. "If the man was poisoned--"

"Aha," cried Poirot, pouncing upon a note which lay on the table. "From

Japp. Just as I thought." He flung it over to me. It was brief and to

the point. No traces of poison had been found, and there was nothing to

show how the man came by his death.

"You see," said Poirot, "our questions would have been quite

unnecessary."

"You guessed this beforehand?"

"'Forecast the probable result of the deal,'" quoted Poirot from a

recent Bridge problem on which I had spent much time. "_Mon ami_,

when you do that successfully, you do not call it guessing."

"Don't let's split hairs," I said impatiently. "You foresaw this?"

"I did."

"Why?"

Poirot put his hand into his pocket and pulled out--a white bishop.

"Why," I cried, "you forgot to give it back to Dr. Savaronoff."

"You are in error, my friend. That bishop still reposes in my left-hand

pocket. I took its fellow from the box of chessmen Mademoiselle

Daviloff kindly permitted me to examine. The plural of one bishop is

two bishops."

He sounded the final "s" with a great hiss. I was completely mystified.

"But why did you take it?"

"_Parbleu_, I wanted to see if they were exactly alike."

He stood them on the table side by side.

"Well, they are, of course," I said, "exactly alike."

Poirot looked at them with his head on one side.

"They seem so, I admit. But one should take no fact for granted until

it is proved. Bring me, I pray you, my little scales."

With infinite care he weighed the two chessmen, then turned to me with

a face alight with triumph.

"I was right. See you, I was right. Impossible to deceive Hercule

Poirot!"

He rushed to the telephone--waited impatiently.

"Is that Japp? Ah! Japp, it is you. Hercule Poirot speaks. Watch the

man-servant, Ivan. On no account let him slip through your fingers.

Yes, yes, it is as I say."

He dashed down the receiver and turned to me.

"You see it not, Hastings? I will explain. Wilson was not poisoned,

he was electrocuted. A thin metal rod passes up the middle of one

of those chessmen. The table was prepared beforehand and set upon a

certain spot on the floor. When the bishop was placed upon one of the

silver squares, the current passed through Wilson's body, killing him

instantly. The only mark was the electric burn upon his hand--his left

hand, because he was left-handed. The 'special table' was an extremely

cunning piece of mechanism. The table I examined was a duplicate,

perfectly innocent. It was substituted for the other immediately

after the murder. The thing was worked from the flat below, which, if

you remember, was let furnished. But one accomplice at least was in

Savaronoff's flat. The girl is an agent of the Big Four, working to

inherit Savaronoff's money."

"And Ivan?"

"I strongly suspect that Ivan is none other than the famous Number

Four."

"_What?_"

"Yes. The man is a marvellous character actor. He can assume any part

he pleases."

I thought back over past adventures, the lunatic asylum keeper, the

butcher's young man, the suave doctor, all the same man, and all

totally unlike each other.

"It's amazing," I said at last. "Everything fits in. Savaronoff had an

inkling of the plot, and that's why he was so averse to playing the

match."

Poirot looked at me without speaking. Then he turned abruptly away, and

began pacing up and down.

"Have you a book on chess by any chance, _mon ami_?" he asked

suddenly.

"I believe I have somewhere."

It took me some time to ferret it out, but I found it at last, and

brought it to Poirot, who sank down in a chair and started reading it

with the greatest attention.

In about a quarter of an hour the telephone rang. I answered it. It was

Japp. Ivan had left the flat, carrying a large bundle. He had sprung

into a waiting taxi, and the chase had begun. He was evidently trying

to lose his pursuers. In the end he seemed to fancy that he had done

so, and had then driven to a big empty house at Hampstead. The house

was surrounded.

I recounted all this to Poirot. He merely stared at me as though he

scarcely took in what I was saying. He held out the chess book.

"Listen to this, my friend. This is the Ruy Lopez Opening. 1 P-K4,

P-K4; 2 Kt-KB3, Kt-QB3; 3B-Kt5;? Then there comes a question as to

Black's best third move. He has the choice of various defences. It was

White's third move that killed Gilmour Wilson, 3B-Kt5. Only the third

move--does that say nothing to you?"

I hadn't the least idea what he meant, and told him so.

"I suppose, Hastings, that while you were sitting in this chair, you

heard the front door being opened and shut, what would you think?"

"I should think some one had gone out, I suppose."

"Yes--but there are always two ways of looking at things. Some one gone

out--some one come _in_--two totally different things, Hastings.

But if you assumed the wrong one, presently some little discrepancy

would creep in and show you that you were on the wrong track."

"What does all this mean, Poirot?"

Poirot sprang to his feet with sudden energy.

"It means that I have been a triple imbecile. Quick, quick, to the flat

in Westminster. We may yet be in time."

We tore off in a taxi. Poirot returned no answer to my excited

questions. We raced up the stairs. Repeated rings and knocks brought no

reply, but listening closely I could distinguish a hollow groan coming

from within.

The hall porter proved to have a master key, and after a few

difficulties he consented to use it.

Poirot went straight to the inner room. A whiff of chloroform met us.

On the floor was Sonia Daviloff, gagged and bound, with a great wad of

saturated cotton wool over her nose and mouth. Poirot tore it off and

began to take measures to restore her. Presently a doctor arrived, and

Poirot handed her over to his charge and drew aside with me. There was

no sign of Dr. Savaronoff.

"What does it all mean?" I asked, bewildered.

"It means that before two equal deductions I chose the wrong one. You

heard me say that it would be easy for any one to impersonate Sonia

Daviloff because her uncle had not seen her for so many years?"

"Yes?"

"Well, precisely the opposite held good also. It was equally easy for

any one to impersonate the uncle."

"What?"

"Savaronoff _did_ die at the outbreak of the Revolution. The man

who pretended to have escaped with such terrible hardships, the man so

changed 'that his own friends could hardly recognise him,' the man who

successfully laid claim to an enormous fortune--"

"Yes. Who was he?"

"_Number Four._ No wonder he was frightened when Sonia let him

know she had overheard one of his private conversations about the 'Big

Four.' Again he has slipped through my fingers. He guessed I should

get on the right track in the end, so he sent off the honest Ivan

on a tortuous wild goose chase, chloroformed the girl, and got out,

having by now doubtless realised most of the securities left by Madame

Gospoja."

"But--but who tried to kill him then?"

"Nobody tried to kill _him_. Wilson was the intended victim all

along."

"But why?"

"My friend, Savaronoff was the second greatest chess player in the

world. In all probability Number Four did not even know the rudiments

of the game. Certainly he could not sustain the fiction of a match.

He tried all he knew to avoid the contest. When that failed, Wilson's

doom was sealed. At all costs he must be prevented from discovering

that the great Savaronoff did not even know how to play chess. Wilson

was fond of the Ruy Lopez opening, and was certain to use it. Number

Four arranged for death to come with the third move, before any

complications of defence set in."

"But, my dear Poirot," I persisted, "are we dealing with a lunatic? I

quite follow your reasoning, and admit that you must be right, but to

kill a man just to sustain his rôle! Surely there were simpler ways out

of the difficulty than that? He could have said that his doctor forbade

the strain of a match."

Poirot wrinkled his forehead.

"_Certainement_, Hastings," he said, "there were other ways, but

none so convincing. Besides, you are assuming that to kill a man is a

thing to avoid, are you not? Number Four's mind, it does not act that

way. I put myself in his place, a thing impossible for you. I picture

his thoughts. He enjoys himself as the professor at that match. I doubt

not he has visited the chess tourneys to study his part. He sits and

frowns in thought; he gives the impression that he is thinking great

plans, and all the time he laughs in himself. He is aware that two

moves are all that he knows--and all that he _need know_. Again,

it would appeal to his mind to foresee the events and to make the man

his own executioner at the exact time that suits Number Four.... Oh,

yes, Hastings, I begin to understand our friend and his psychology."

I shrugged.

"Well, I suppose you're right, but I can't understand any one running a

risk he could so easily avoid."

"Risk!" Poirot snorted. "Where then lay the risk? Would Japp have

solved the problem? No; if Number Four had not made one small mistake

he would have run no risk."

"And his mistake?" I asked, although I suspected the answer.

"_Mon ami_, he overlooked the little gray cells of Hercule Poirot."

Poirot has his virtues, but modesty is not one of them.

12. THE BAITED TRAP

It was mid-January--a typical English winter day in London, damp and

dirty. Poirot and I were sitting in two chairs well drawn up to the

fire. I was aware of my friend looking at me with a quizzical smile,

the meaning of which I could not fathom.

"A penny for your thoughts," I said lightly.

"I was thinking, my friend, that at midsummer, when you first arrived,

you told me that you proposed to be in this country for a couple of

months only."

"Did I say that?" I asked, rather awkwardly. "I don't remember."

Poirot's smile broadened.

"You did, _mon ami_. Since then, you have changed your plan, is it

not so?"

"Er--yes, I have."

"And why is that?"

"Dash it all, Poirot, you don't think I'm going to leave you all alone

when you're up against a thing like the 'Big Four,' do you?"

Poirot nodded gently.

"Just as I thought. You are a staunch friend, Hastings. It is to serve

me that you remain on here. And your wife--little Cinderella as you

call her, what does she say?"

"I haven't gone into details, of course, but she understands. She'd be

the last one to wish me to turn my back on a pal."

"Yes, yes, she, too, is a loyal friend. But it is going to be a long

business, perhaps."

I nodded, rather discouraged.

"Six months already," I mused, "and where are we? You know, Poirot, I

can't help thinking that we ought to--well, to do something."

"Always so energetic, Hastings! And what precisely would you have me

do?"

This was somewhat of a poser, but I was not going to withdraw from my

position.

"We ought to take the offensive," I urged. "What have we done all this

time?"

"More than you think, my friend. After all, we have established the

identity of Number Two and Number Three, and we have learnt more than a

little about the ways and methods of Number Four."

I brightened up a little. As Poirot put it, things didn't sound so bad.

"Oh! Yes, Hastings, we have done a great deal. It is true that I am

not in a position to accuse either Ryland or Madame Olivier--who would

believe me? You remember I thought once I had Ryland successfully

cornered? Nevertheless I have made my suspicions known in certain

quarters--the highest--Lord Aldington, who enlisted my help in the

matter of the stolen submarine plans, is fully cognisant of all my

information respecting the Big Four--and while others may doubt, he

believes. Ryland and Madame Olivier, and Li Chang Yen himself may go

their ways, but there is a searchlight turned on all their movements."

"And Number Four?" I asked.

"As I said just now--I am beginning to know and understand his methods.

You may smile, Hastings--but to penetrate a man's personality, to

know exactly what he will do under any given circumstances--that is

the beginning of success. It is a duel between us, and whilst he is

constantly giving away his mentality to me, I endeavour to let him

know little or nothing of mine. He is in the light, I in the shade. I

tell you, Hastings, that every day they fear me the more for my chosen

inactivity."

"They've let us alone, anyway," I observed. "There have been no more

attempts on your life, and no ambushes of any kind."

"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "On the whole, that rather surprises

me. Especially as there are one or two fairly obvious ways of getting

at us which I should have thought certain to have occurred to them. You

catch my meaning, perhaps?"

"An infernal machine of some kind?" I hazarded.

Poirot made a sharp click with his tongue expressive of impatience.

"But no! I appeal to your imagination, and you can suggest nothing

more subtle than bombs in the fireplace. Well, well, I have need of

some matches, I will promenade myself despite the weather. Pardon,

my friend, but is it possible that you read _The Future of the

Argentine_, _Mirror of Society_, _Cattle Breeding_, _The

Clue of Crimson_ and _Sport in the Rockies_ at one and the same

time?"

I laughed, and admitted that _The Clue of Crimson_ was at present

engaging my sole attention. Poirot shook his head sadly.

"But replace then the others on the bookshelf! Never, never shall I

see you embrace the order and the method. Mon Dieu, what then is a

bookshelf for?"

I apologised humbly, and Poirot, after replacing the offending volumes,

each in its appointed place, went out and left me to uninterrupted

enjoyment of my selected book.

I must admit, however, that I was half asleep when Mrs. Pearson's knock

at the door aroused me.

"A telegram for you, captain."

I tore the orange envelope open without much interest.

Then I sat as though turned to stone.

It was a cable from Bronsen, my manager out at the South American

ranch, and it ran as follows:--

"Mrs. Hastings disappeared yesterday, feared been kidnapped by some

gang calling itself big four cable instructions have notified police

but no clue as yet."

BRONSEN.

I waved Mrs. Pearson out of the room, and sat as though stunned,

reading the words over and over again. Cinderella--kidnapped! In the

hands of the infamous Big Four! God, what could I do?

Poirot! I must have Poirot. He would advise me. He would checkmate them

somehow. In a few minutes now, he would be back. I must wait patiently

until then. But Cinderella--in the hands of the Big Four!

Another knock. Mrs. Pearson put her head in once more.

"A note for you, captain--brought by a heathen Chinaman. He's a-waiting

downstairs."

I seized it from her. It was brief and to the point.

"If you ever wish to see your wife again, go with the bearer of this

note immediately. Leave no message for your friend or she will suffer."

It was signed with a big 4.

What ought I to have done? What would you who read have done in my

place?

I had no time to think. I saw only one thing--Cinderella in the power

of those devils. I must obey--I dare not risk a hair of her head. I

must go with this Chinaman and follow whither he led. It was a trap,

yes, and it meant certain capture and possible death, but it was baited

with the person dearest to me in the whole world, and I dared not

hesitate.

What irked me most was to leave no word for Poirot. Once set him on

my track, and all might yet be well? Dare I risk it? Apparently I was

under no supervision, but yet I hesitated. It would have been so easy

for the Chinaman to come up and assure himself that I was keeping to

the letter of the command. Why didn't he? His very abstention made me

more suspicious. I had seen so much of the omnipotence of the Big Four

that I credited them with almost super-human powers. For all I know,

even the little bedraggled servant girl might be one of their agents.

No, I dared not risk it. But one thing I could do, leave the telegram.

He would know then that Cinderella had disappeared, and who was

responsible for her disappearance.

All this passed through my head in less time than it takes to tell, and

I had clapped my hat on my head and was descending the stairs to where

my guide waited, in a little over a minute.

The bearer of the message was a tall impassive Chinaman, neatly but

rather shabbily dressed. He bowed and spoke to me. His English was

perfect, but he spoke with a slight sing-song intonation.

"You Captain Hastings?"

"Yes," I said.

"You give me note, please."

I had foreseen the request, and handed him over the scrap of paper

without a word. But that was not all.

"You have telegram to-day, yes? Come along just now? From South

America, yes?"

I realised anew the excellence of their espionage system--or it might

have been a shrewd guess. Bronsen was bound to cable me. They would

wait until the cable was delivered and would strike hard upon it.

No good could come of denying what was palpably true.

"Yes," I said. "I did get a telegram."

"You fetch him, yes? Fetch him now."

I ground my teeth, but what could I do. I ran upstairs again. As I

did so, I thought of confiding in Mrs. Pearson, at any rate as far as

Cinderella's disappearance went. She was on the landing, but close

behind her was the little maid-servant, and I hesitated. If she

_was_ a spy--the words of the note danced before my eyes. "... she

will suffer...." I passed into the sitting-room without speaking.

I took up the telegram and was about to pass out again when an idea

struck me. Could I not leave some sign which would mean nothing

to my enemies but which Poirot himself would find significant. I

hurried across to the bookcase and tumbled out four books on to the

floor. No fear of Poirot's not seeing them. They would outrage his

eyes immediately--and coming on top of his little lecture, surely

he would find them unusual. Next I put a shovelful of coal on the

fire and managed to spill four knobs into the grate. I had done all I

could--pray Heaven Poirot would read the sign aright.

I hurried down again. The Chinaman took the telegram from me, read it,

then placed it in his pocket and with a nod beckoned me to follow him.

It was a long weary march that he led me. Once we took a bus and once

we went for some considerable way in a train, and always our route led

us steadily eastward. We went through strange districts, the existence

of which I had never dreamed of. We were down by the docks now, I knew,

and I realised that I was being taken into the heart of Chinatown.

In spite of myself I shivered. Still my guide plodded on, turning and

twisting through mean streets and byways, until at last he stopped at a

dilapidated house and rapped four times upon the door.

It was opened immediately by another Chinaman who stood aside to let us

pass in. The clanging to of the door behind me was the knell of my last

hopes. I was indeed in the hands of the enemy.

I was now handed over to the second Chinaman. He led me down some

rickety stairs and into a cellar which was filled with bales and casks

and which exhaled a pungent odour, as of Eastern spices. I felt wrapped

all round with the atmosphere of the East, tortuous, cunning, sinister--

Suddenly my guide rolled aside two of the casks, and I saw a low

tunnel-like opening in the wall. He motioned me to go ahead. The tunnel

was of some length, and it was just too low for me to stand upright. At

last, however, it broadened out into a passage, and a few minutes later

we stood in another cellar.

My Chinaman went forward, and rapped four times on one of the walls. A

whole section of the wall swung out, leaving a narrow doorway. I passed

through, and to my utter astonishment found myself in a kind of Arabian

Nights' palace. A low long subterranean chamber hung with rich oriental

silks, brilliantly lighted and fragrant with perfumes and spices.

There five or six silk covered divans, and exquisite carpets of Chinese

workmanship covered the ground. At the end of the room was a curtained

recess. From behind these curtains came a voice.

"You have brought our honoured guest?"

"Excellency, he is here," replied my guide.

"Let our guest enter," was the answer.

At the same moment, the curtains were drawn aside by an unseen hand,

and I was facing an immense cushioned divan on which sat a tall thin

Oriental dressed in wonderfully embroidered robes, and clearly, by the

length of his finger nails, a great man.

"Be seated, I pray you, Captain Hastings," he said, with a wave of his

hand. "You acceded to my request to come immediately, I am glad to see."

"Who are you?" I asked. "Li Chang Yen?"

"Indeed no, I am but the humblest of the master's servants. I carry

out his behests, that is all--as do other of his servants in other

countries--in South America, for instance."

I advanced a step.

"Where is she? What have you done with her out there?"

"She is in a place of safety--where none will find her. As yet, she is

unharmed. You observe that I say--_as yet_!"

Cold shivers ran down my spine as I confronted this smiling devil.

"What do you want?" I cried. "Money?"

"My dear Captain Hastings. We have no designs on your small savings, I

can assure you. Not--pardon me--a very intelligent suggestion on your

part. Your colleague would not have made it, I fancy."

"I suppose," I said heavily, "you wanted to get me into your toils.

Well, you have succeeded. I have come here with my eyes open. Do what

you like with me, and let her go. She knows nothing, and she can be no

possible use to you. You've used her to get hold of me--you've got me

all right, and that settles it."

The smiling Oriental caressed his smooth cheek, watching me obliquely

out of his narrow eyes.

"You go too fast," he said purringly. "That does not quite--settle it.

In fact, to 'get hold of you' as you express it, is not really our

objective. But through you, we hope to get hold of your friend, M.

Hercule Poirot."

"I'm afraid you won't do that," I said, with a short laugh.

"What I suggest is this," continued the other, his words running on as

though he had not heard me.

"You will write M. Hercule Poirot a letter, such a letter as will

induce him to hasten hither and join you."

"I shall do no such thing," I said angrily.

"The consequences of refusal will be disagreeable."

"Damn your consequences."

"The alternative might be death!"

A nasty shiver ran down my spine, but I endeavoured to put a bold face

upon it.

"It's no good threatening me, and bullying me. Keep your threats for

Chinese cowards."

"My threats are very real ones, Captain Hastings. I ask you again, will

you write this letter?"

"I will not, and what's more, you daren't kill me. You'd have the

police on your tracks in no time."

My interlocutor clapped his hands swiftly. Two Chinese attendants

appeared as it were out of the blue, and pinioned me by both arms.

Their master said something rapidly to them in Chinese, and they

dragged me across the floor to a spot in one corner of the big chamber.

One of them stooped, and suddenly, without the least warning, the

flooring gave beneath my feet. But for the restraining hand of the

other man I should have gone down the yawning gap beneath me. It was

inky black, and I could hear the rushing of water.

"The river," said my questioner from his place on the divan. "Think

well, Captain Hastings. If you refuse again, you go headlong to

eternity, to meet your death in the dark waters below. For the last

time, will you write that letter?"

I'm not braver than most men. I admit frankly that I was scared to

death, and in a blue funk. That Chinese devil meant business, I was

sure of that. It was good-bye to the good old world. In spite of

myself, my voice wobbled a little as I answered.

"For the last time, no! To hell with your letter!"

Then involuntarily I closed my eyes and breathed a short prayer.

13. THE MOUSE WALKS IN

Not often in a life-time does a man stand on the edge of eternity,

but when I spoke those words in that East End cellar I was perfectly

certain that they were my last words on earth. I braced myself for

the shock of those black, rushing waters beneath, and experienced in

advance the horror of that breath-choking fall.

But to my surprise a low laugh fell on my ears. I opened my eyes.

Obeying a sign from the man on the divan, my two jailers brought me

back to my old seat facing him.

"You are a brave man, Captain Hastings," he said. "We of the East

appreciate bravery. I may say that I expected you to act as you have

done. That brings us to the appointed second act of our little drama.

Death for yourself you have faced--will you face death for another?"

"What do you mean?" I asked hoarsely, a horrible fear creeping over me.

"Surely you have not forgotten the lady who is in our power--the Rose

of the Garden."

I stared at him in dumb agony.

"I think, Captain Hastings, that you will write that letter. See, I

have a cable form here. The message I shall write on it depends on you,

and means life or death for your wife."

The sweat broke out on my brow. My tormentor continued, smiling

amiably, and speaking with perfect sangfroid:--

"There, captain, the pen is ready to your hand. You have only to write.

If not--"

"If not?" I echoed.

"If not, that lady that you love dies--and dies slowly. My master,

Li Chang Yen, amuses himself in his spare hours by devising new and

ingenious methods of tortures--"

"My God!" I cried. "You fiend! Not that--you wouldn't do that--"

"Shall I recount to you some of his devices?"

Without heeding my cry of protest, his speech flowed on--evenly,

serenely--till with a cry of horror I clapped my hands to my ears.

"It is enough, I see. Take up the pen and write."

"You would not dare--"

"Your speech is foolishness, and you know it. Take up the pen and

write."

"If I do?"

"Your wife goes free. The cable shall be despatched immediately."

"How do I know that you will keep faith with me?"

"I swear it to you on the sacred tombs of my ancestors. Moreover, judge

for yourself--why should I wish to do her harm? Her detention will have

answered its purpose."

"And--and Poirot?"

"We will keep him in safe custody until we have concluded our

operations. Then we will let him go."

"Will you swear that also on the tombs of your ancestors?"

"I have sworn one oath to you. That should be sufficient."

My heart sank. I was betraying my friend--to what? For a moment I

hesitated--then the terrible alternative rose like a nightmare before

my eyes. Cinderella--in the hands of these Chinese devils, dying by

slow torture--

A groan rose to my lips. I seized the pen. Perhaps by careful wording

of the letter, I could convey a warning, and Poirot would be enabled to

avoid the trap. It was the only hope.

But even that hope was not to remain. The Chinaman's voice rose, suave

and courteous.

"Permit me to dictate to you."

He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then

dictated as follows:--

"Dear Poirot, I think I'm on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman

came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message.

Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the

slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of

shadowing on my own account--rather neatly too, I flatter myself.

I'm getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him a

half a crown, will you? That's what I promised him if it was

delivered safely. I'm watching the house, and daren't leave. I

shall wait for you until six o'clock, and if you haven't come then,

I'll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It's too good

a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn't find you. But

if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover

up those precious moustaches of yours in case any one's watching

out from the house and might recognise you.

"Yours in haste,

"A. H."

Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was

diabolically clever. I realised how closely every detail of our life

must be known. It was just such an epistle as I might have penned

myself. The acknowledgment that the Chinaman who had called that

afternoon had endeavoured to "lure me away" discounted any good I might

have done by leaving my "sign" of four books. It _had_ been a

trap, and I had seen through it, that was what Poirot would think. The

time, too, was cleverly planned. Poirot, on receiving the note, would

have just time to rush off with his innocent-looking guide, and that

he would do so, I knew. My determination to make my way into the house

would bring him post haste. He always displayed a ridiculous distrust

of my capacities. He would be convinced that I was running into danger

without being equal to the situation, and would rush down to take

command of the situation.

But there was nothing to be done. I wrote as bidden. My captor took the

note from me, read it, then nodded his head approvingly and handed it

to one of the silent attendants who disappeared with it behind one of

the silken hangings on the wall which masked a doorway.

With a smile the man opposite to me picked up a cable form and wrote.

He handed it to me.

It read: "Release the white bird with all despatch."

I gave a sigh of relief.

"You will send it at once?" I urged.

He smiled, and shook his head.

"When M. Hercule Poirot is in my hands it shall be sent. Not until

then."

"But you promised--"

"If this device fails, I may have need of our white bird--to persuade

you to further efforts."

I grew white with anger.

"My God! If you--"

He waved a long slim yellow hand.

"Be reassured, I do not think it will fail. And the moment M. Poirot is

in our hands, I will keep my oath."

"If you play me false."

"I have sworn it by my honoured ancestors. Have no fear. Rest here

awhile. My servants will see to your needs whilst I am absent."

I was left alone in this strange underground nest of luxury. The second

Chinese attendant had reappeared. One of them brought food and drink

and offered it to me, but I waved them aside. I was sick--sick--at

heart--

And then suddenly the master reappeared tall and stately in his silken

robes. He directed operations. By his orders I was hustled back through

the cellar and tunnel into the original house I had entered. There they

took me into a ground floor room. The windows were shuttered, but one

could see through the cracks into the street. An old ragged man was

shuffling along the opposite side of the road, and when I saw him make

a sign to the window, I understood that he was one of the gang on watch.

"It is well," said my Chinese friend. "Hercule Poirot has fallen into

the trap. He approaches now--and alone except for the boy who guides

him. Now, Captain Hastings, you have still one more part to play.

Unless you show yourself he will not enter the house. When he arrives

opposite, you must go out on the step and beckon him in."

"What?" I cried, revolted.

"You play that part alone. Remember the price of failure. If Hercule

Poirot suspects anything is amiss and does not enter the house, your

wife dies by the Seventy lingering Deaths! Ah! Here he is."

With a beating heart, and a feeling of deathly sickness, I looked

through the crack in the shutters. In the figure walking along the

opposite side of the street I recognised my friend at once, though his

coat collar was turned up and an immense yellow muffler hid the bottom

part of his face. But there was no mistaking that walk, and the poise

of that egg-shaped head.

It was Poirot, coming to my aid in all good faith, suspecting nothing

amiss. By his side ran a typical London urchin, grimy of face and

ragged of apparel.

Poirot paused, looking across at the house, whilst the boy spoke to him

eagerly and pointed. It was the time for me to act. I went out in the

hall. At a sign from the tall Chinaman, one of the servants unlatched

the door.

"Remember the price of failure," said my enemy in a low voice.

I was outside on the steps. I beckoned to Poirot. He hastened across.

"Aha! So all is well with you, my friend. I was beginning to be

anxious. You managed to get inside? Is the house empty, then?"

"Yes," I said, in a voice I strove to make natural. "There must be a

secret way out of it somewhere. Come in and let us look for it."

I stepped back across the threshold. In all innocence Poirot prepared

to follow me.

And then something seemed to snap in my head. I saw only too clearly

the part I was playing--the part of Judas.

"Back, Poirot!" I cried. "Back for your life. It's a trap. Never mind

me. Get away at once."

Even as I spoke--or rather shouted my warning hands gripped me like a

vice. One of the Chinese servants sprang past me to grab Poirot.

I saw the latter spring back, his arm raised, then suddenly a dense

volume of smoke was rising round me, choking me--killing me--

I felt myself falling--suffocating--this was death--

* * * * *

I came to myself slowly and painfully--all my senses dazed. The first

thing I saw was Poirot's face. He was sitting opposite me watching me

with an anxious face. He gave a cry of joy when he saw me looking at

him.

"Ah, you revive--you return to yourself. All is well! My friend--my

poor friend!"

"Where am I?" I said painfully.

"Where? But _chez vous_!"

I looked round me. True enough, I was in the old familiar surroundings.

And in the grate were the identical four knobs of coal I had carefully

spilt there.

Poirot had followed my glance.

"But yes, that was a famous idea of yours--that and the books. See

you, if they should say to me any time. 'That friend of yours, that

Hastings, he has not the great brain, is it not so?' I shall reply to

them: 'You are in error.' It was an idea magnificent and superb that

occurred to you there."

"You understood their meaning then?"

"Am I an imbecile? Of course I understood. It gave me just the warning

I needed, and the time to mature my plans. Somehow or other the Big

Four had carried you off. With what object? Clearly not for your

_beaux yeux_--equally clearly not because they feared you and

wanted to get you out of the way. No, their object was plain. You would

be used as a decoy to get the great Hercule Poirot into their clutches.

I have long been prepared for something of the kind. I make my little

preparations, and presently, sure enough, the messenger arrives--such

an innocent little street urchin. Me, I swallow everything, and hasten

away with him, and, very fortunately, they permit you to come out on

the doorstep. That was my one fear, that I should have to dispose of

them before I had reached the place where you were concealed, and that

I should have to search for you--perhaps in vain--afterwards."

"Dispose of them, did you say?" I asked feebly. "Single-handed."

"Oh, there is nothing very clever about that. If one is prepared in

advance all is simple--the motto of the Boy Scout, is it not? And

a very fine one. Me, I was prepared. Not so long ago, I rendered a

service to a very famous chemist, who did a lot of work in connection

with poison gas during the war. He devised for me a little bomb--simple

and easy to carry about--one has but to throw it and poof, the

smoke--and then the unconsciousness. Immediately I blow a little

whistle and straightway some of Japp's clever fellows who were watching

the house here long before the boy arrived, and who managed to follow

us all the way to Limehouse, came flying up and took charge of the

situation."

"But how was it you weren't unconscious too?"

"Another piece of luck. Our friend Number Four (who certainly

composed that ingenious letter) permitted himself a little jest at

my moustaches, which rendered it extremely easy for me to adjust my

respirator under the guise of a yellow muffler."

"I remember," I cried eagerly, and then with the word "Remember" all

the ghastly horror that I had temporarily forgotten came back to me.

_Cinderella_--

I fell back with a groan.

I must have lost consciousness again for a minute or two. I awoke to

find Poirot forcing some brandy between my lips.

"What is it, _mon ami_? But what is it--then? Tell me." Word by

word, I got the thing told, shuddering as I did so. Poirot uttered a

cry.

"My friend! My friend! But what you must have suffered! And I who knew

nothing of all this! But reassure yourself! All is well!"

"You will find her, you mean? But she is in South America. And by the

time we get there--long before, she will be dead--and God knows how and

in what horrible way she will have died."

"No, no, you do not understand. She is safe and well. She has never

been in their hands for one instant."

"But I got a cable from Bronsen?"

"No, no, you did not. You may have got a cable from South America

signed Bronsen--that is a very different matter. Tell me, has it never

occurred to you that an organisation of this kind, with ramifications

all over the world, might easily strike at us through that little girl,

Cinderella, whom you love so well?"

"No, never," I replied.

"Well, it did to me. I said nothing to you because I did not want to

upset you unnecessarily--but I took measures of my own. Your wife's

letters all seem to have been written from the ranch, but in reality

she has been in a place of safety devised by me for over three months."

I looked at him for a long time.

"You are sure of that?"

"_Parbleu!_ I know it. They tortured you with a lie!"

I turned my head aside. Poirot put his hand on my shoulder. There was

something in his voice that I had never heard there before.

"You like not that I should embrace you or display the emotion, I know

well. I will be very British. I will say nothing--but nothing at all.

Only this--that in this last adventure of ours, the honours are all

with you, and happy is the man who has such a friend as I have!"

14. THE PEROXIDE BLONDE

I was very disappointed with the results of Poirot's bomb attack on

the premises in Chinatown. To begin with, the leader of the gang had

escaped. When Japp's men rushed up in response to Poirot's whistle

they found four Chinamen unconscious in the hall, but the man who had

threatened me with death was not among them. I remembered afterwards

that when I was forced out on to the doorstep, to decoy Poirot into the

house, this man had kept well in the background. Presumably he was out

of the danger zone of the gas bomb, and made good his escape by one of

the many exits which we afterwards discovered.

From the four who remained in our hands we learnt nothing. The fullest

investigation by the police failed to bring to light anything to

connect them with the Big Four. They were ordinary low-class residents

of the district, and they professed bland ignorance of the name Li

Chang Yen. A Chinese gentleman had hired them for service in the house

by the waterside, and they knew nothing whatever of his private affairs.

By the next day I had, except for a slight headache, completely

recovered from the effects of Poirot's gas bomb. We went down together

to Chinatown and searched the house from which I had been rescued.

The premises consisted of two ramshackle houses joined together by an

underground passage. The ground floors and the upper stories of each

were unfurnished and deserted, the broken windows covered by decaying

shutters. Japp had already been prying about in the cellars, and had

discovered the secret of the entrance to the subterranean chamber

where I had spent such an unpleasant half-hour. Closer investigation

confirmed the impression that it had made on me the night before. The

silks on the walls and divan and the carpets on the floors were of

exquisite workmanship. Although I know very little about Chinese art, I

could appreciate that every article in the room was perfect of its kind.

With the aid of Japp and some of his men we conducted a most thorough

search of the apartment. I had cherished high hopes that we would

find documents of importance. A list, perhaps, of some of the more

important agents of the Big Four, or cipher notes of some of their

plans, but we discovered nothing of the kind. The only papers we found

in the whole place were the notes which the Chinaman had consulted

whilst he was dictating the letter to Poirot. These consisted of a very

complete record of each of our careers, and estimate of our characters,

and suggestions about the weaknesses through which we might best be

attacked.

Poirot was most childishly delighted with this discovery. Personally I

could not see that it was of any value whatever, especially as whoever

compiled the notes was ludicrously mistaken in some of his opinions. I

pointed this out to my friend when we were back in our rooms.

"My dear Poirot," I said, "you know now what the enemy thinks of us. He

appears to have a grossly exaggerated idea of your brain power, and to

have absurdly underrated mine, but I do not see how we are better off

for knowing this."

Poirot chuckled in rather an offensive way.

"You do not see, Hastings, no? But surely now we can prepare ourselves

for some of their methods of attack now that we are warned of some

of our faults. For instance my friend, we know that you should think

before you act. Again, if you meet a red-haired young woman in trouble

you should eye her--what you say--askance, is it not?"

Their notes had contained some absurd references to my supposed

impulsiveness, and had suggested that I was susceptible to the charms

of young women with hair of a certain shade. I thought Poirot's

reference to be in the worst of taste, but fortunately I was able to

counter him.

"And what about you?" I demanded. "Are you going to try to cure your

'overweening vanity?' Your 'finicky tidiness?'"

I was quoting, and I could see that he was not pleased with my retort.

"Oh, without doubt, Hastings, in some things they deceive

themselves--_tant mieux_! They will learn in due time. Meanwhile

we have learnt something, and to know is to be prepared."

This last was a favourite axiom of his lately; so much so that I had

begun to hate the sound of it.

"We know something, Hastings," he continued. "Yes, we know

something--and that is to the good--but we do not know nearly enough.

We must know more."

"In what way?"

Poirot settled himself back in his chair, straightened a box of matches

which I had thrown carelessly down on the table, and assumed an

attitude that I knew only too well. I saw that he was prepared to hold

forth at some length.

"See you, Hastings, we have to contend against four adversaries; that

is, against four different personalities. With Number One we have

never come into personal contact--we know him, as it were, only by

the impress of his mind--and in passing, Hastings, I will tell you

that I begin to understand that mind very well--a mind most subtle and

Oriental--every scheme and plot that we have encountered have emanated

from the brain of Li Chang Yen. Number Two and Number Three are so

powerful, so high up, that they are for the present immune from our

attacks. Nevertheless what is their safeguard is, by a perverse chance,

our safeguard also. They are so much in the limelight that their

movements must be carefully ordered. And so we come to the last member

of the gang--we come to the man known as Number Four."

Poirot's voice altered a little, as it always did when speaking of this

particular individual.

"Number Two and Number Three are able to succeed, to go on their

way unscathed, owing to their notoriety and their assured position.

Number Four succeeds for the opposite reason--he succeeds by the way

of obscurity. Who is he? Nobody knows. What does he look like? Again

nobody knows. How many times have we seen him, you and I? Five times,

is it not? And could either of us say truthfully that we could be sure

of recognising him again?"

I was forced to shake my head, as I ran back in my mind over those

five different people who, incredible as it seemed, were one and the

same man. The burly lunatic asylum keeper, the man in the buttoned up

overcoat in Paris, James, the footman, the quiet young medical man in

the Yellow Jasmine case, and the Russian Professor. In no way did any

two of these people resemble each other.

"No," I said hopelessly. "We've nothing to go by whatsoever."

Poirot smiled.

"Do not, I pray of you, give way to such enthusiastic despair. We know

one or two things."

"What kind of things?" I asked sceptically.

"We know that he is a man of medium height, and of medium or fair

colouring. If he were a tall man of swarthy complexion he could never

have passed himself off as the fair stocky doctor. It is child's play,

of course, to put on an additional inch or so for the part of James,

or the Professor. In the same way he must have a short straight nose.

Additions can be built on to a nose by skilful make up, but a large

nose cannot be successfully reduced at a moment's notice. Then again,

he must be a fairly young man, certainly not over thirty-five. You see,

we are getting somewhere. A man between thirty and thirty-five, of

medium height and colouring, an adept in the art of make up, and with

very few or any teeth of his own."

"What?"

"Surely, Hastings. As the keeper, his teeth were broken and

discoloured, in Paris they were even and white, as the doctor they

protruded slightly, and as Savaronoff they had unusually long canines.

Nothing alters the face so completely as a different set of teeth. You

see where all this is leading us?"

"Not exactly," I said cautiously.

"A man carries his profession written in his face, they say."

"He's a criminal," I cried.

"He is an adept in the art of making up."

"It's the same thing."

"Rather a sweeping statement, Hastings, and one which would hardly be

appreciated by the theatrical world. Do you not see that the man is, or

has been, at one time or another, an actor?"

"An actor?"

"But certainly. He has the whole technique at his fingertips. Now there

are two classes of actors, the one who sinks himself in his part, and

the one who manages to impress his personality upon it. It is from the

latter class that actor managers usually spring. They seize a part and

mould it to their own personality. The former class is quite likely

to spend its days doing Mr. Lloyd George at different music halls, or

impersonating old men with beards in repertory plays. It is among that

former class that we must look for our Number Four. He is a supreme

artist in the way he sinks himself in each part he plays."

I was growing interested.

"So you fancy you may be able to trace his identity through his

connection with the stage?"

"Your reasoning is always brilliant, Hastings."

"It might have been better," I said coldly, "if the idea had come to

you sooner. We have wasted a lot of time."

"You are in error, _mon ami_. No more time has been wasted

than was unavoidable. For some months now my agents have been

engaged on the task. Joseph Aarons is one of them. You remember him?

They have compiled a list for me of men fulfilling the necessary

qualifications--young men round about the age of thirty, of more or

less nondescript appearance, and with a gift for playing character

parts--men, moreover, who have definitely left the stage within the

last three years."

"Well?" I said, deeply interested.

"The list was, necessarily, rather a long one. For some time now, we

have been engaged on the task of elimination. And finally we have

boiled the whole thing down to four names. Here they are, my friend."

He tossed me over a sheet of paper. I read its contents aloud.

"Ernest Luttrell. Son of a North Country parson. Always had a kink of

some kind in his moral make-up. Was expelled from his public school.

Went on the stage at the age of twenty-three. (There followed a list

of parts he had played, with dates and places.) Addicted to drugs.

Supposed to have gone to Australia four years ago. Cannot be traced

after leaving England. Age 32, height 5 ft. 10-1/2 in., clean-shaven,

hair brown, nose straight, complexion fair, eyes gray.

"John St. Maur. Assumed name. Real name not known. Believed to be

of cockney extraction. On stage since quite a child. Did music hall

impersonations. Not been heard of for three years. Age, about 33,

height 5 ft. 10 in., slim build, blue eyes, fair colouring.

"Austen Lee. Assumed name. Real name Austen Foly. Good family. Always

had taste for acting and distinguished himself in that way at Oxford.

Brilliant war record. Acted in--(The usual list followed. It included

many Repertory plays.) An enthusiast on criminology. Had bad nervous

breakdown as the result of a motor accident three and a half years

ago, and has not appeared on the stage since. No clue to his present

whereabouts. Age 35, height 5 ft. 9-1/2 in., complexion fair, eyes

blue, hair brown.

"Claud Darrell. Supposed to be real name. Some mystery about his

origin. Played at music halls, and also in Repertory plays. Seems to

have had no intimate friends. Was in China in 1919. Returned by way of

America. Played a few parts in New York. Did not appear on the stage

one night, and has never been heard of since. New York police say most

mysterious disappearance. Age about 33, hair brown, fair complexion,

gray eyes. Height 5 ft. 10-1/2 in.

"Most interesting," I said, as I laid down the paper. "And so this is

the result of the investigation of months? These four names. Which of

them are you inclined to suspect?"

Poirot made an eloquent gesture.

"_Mon ami_, for the moment it is an open question. I would just

point out to you that Claud Darrell has been in China and America--a

fact not without significance, perhaps, but we must not allow ourselves

to be unduly biased by that point. It may be a mere coincidence."

"And the next step?" I asked eagerly.

"Affairs are already in train. Every day cautiously worded

advertisements will appear. Friends and relatives of one or the other

will be asked to communicate with my solicitor at his office. Even

to-day we might--Aha, the telephone! Probably it is, as usual, the

wrong number, and they will regret to have troubled us, but it may

be--yes, it may be--that something has arisen."

I crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

"Yes, yes. M. Poirot's rooms. Yes, Captain Hastings speaking. Oh, it's

you, Mr. McNeil! (McNeil and Hodgson were Poirot's solicitors.) I'll

tell him. Yes, we'll come round at once."

I replaced the receiver and turned to Poirot, my eyes dancing with

excitement.

"I say, Poirot, there's a woman there. Friend of Claud Darrell's. Miss

Flossie Monro. McNeil wants you to come round."

"At the instant!" cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and

reappearing with a hat.

A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr.

McNeil's private office. Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor

was a somewhat lurid looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her

hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each

ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means

forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.

"Ah, here is M. Poirot!" said Mr. McNeil. "M. Poirot, this is

Miss--er---Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some

information."

"Ah, but that is most kind!" cried Poirot.

He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by

the hand.

"Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office," he

added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.

This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and

simpered.

"Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you Frenchmen

are like."

"Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that

I am a Frenchman--I am a Belgian, you see."

"I've been to Ostend myself," said Miss Monro.

The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.

"And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?" continued

Poirot.

"I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time," explained the lady. "And

I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and my

time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about

poor old Claudie--lawyers, too--maybe it's a fortune looking for the

rightful heir, I'd better go round at once."

Mr. McNeil rose.

"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation

with Miss Monro?"

"You are too amiable. But stay--a little idea presents itself to me.

The hour of the _déjeuner_ approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps

honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?"

Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly

low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.

A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's

most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most

delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.

"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?"

Miss Monro said nothing--or everything.

The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady's glass with

thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his

heart.

"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us."

"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become

of him."

"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"

"Oh, simply ages--not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie,

very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of

course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr.

Poirot?"

"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may

be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to

find some one who knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well,

did you not, mademoiselle."

"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You're a gentleman. You know

how to order a lunch for a lady--which is more than some of these

young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I

was saying, you being a Frenchman won't be shocked. Ah, you Frenchmen!

Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of

archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things--what

else could you expect? And I've still a kindly feeling for him. Though,

mind you, he didn't treat me well--no, he didn't--he didn't treat me

well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They're all the same when

it comes to a question of money."

"No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up

her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?"

"He wasn't anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro

dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up.

Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-gray. And more or less fair-haired,

I suppose. But oh, what an artist! _I_ never saw any one to touch

him in the profession! He'd have made his name before now if it hadn't

been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy--you wouldn't believe it,

you really wouldn't, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy.

Why, I remember once at Manchester--"

We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated

story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy.

Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.

"It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell

us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such wonderful

observers--they see everything, they notice the little detail that

escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a

dozen others--and why, do you think? She had observed that he had a

trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a man ever

have thought of noticing a thing like that?"

"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I

remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his

bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then

dab it round to pick up crumbs. I've seen him do it a hundred times.

Why, I'd know him anywhere by that one trick of his."

"Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman.

And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his,

mademoiselle?"

"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don't like you

to notice things especially if it should seem you were telling them off

about it. I never said a word--but many's the time I smiled to myself.

Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even."

Poirot nodded gently. I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little

as he stretched it out to his glass.

"Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity,"

he remarked. "Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr.

Darrell?"

Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.

"He was never one for writing. Never wrote me a line in his life."

"That is a pity," said Poirot.

"I tell you what, though," said Miss Monro suddenly. "I've got a

photograph if that would be any good?"

"You have a photograph?"

Poirot almost sprang from his seat with excitement.

"It's quite an old one--eight years old at least."

"_Ça ne fait rien!_ No matter how old and faded! Ah, _ma

foi_, but what stupendous luck! You will permit me to inspect that

photograph, mademoiselle?"

"Why, of course."

"Perhaps you will even permit me to have a copy made? It would not take

long."

"Certainly if you like."

Miss Monro rose.

"Well, I must run away," she declared archly. "Very glad to have met

you and your friend, Mr. Poirot."

"And the photograph? When may I have it?"

"I'll look it out to-night. I think I know where to lay my hand upon

it. And I'll send it to you right away."

"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. You are all that is of the most

amiable. I hope that we shall soon be able to arrange another little

lunch together."

"As soon as you like," said Miss Monro. "I'm willing."

"Let me see, I do not think that I have your address?"

With a grand air, Miss Monro drew a card from her hand-bag, and handed

it to him. It was a somewhat dirty card, and the original address had

been scratched out and another substituted in pencil.

Then, with a good many bows and gesticulations on Poirot's part, we

bade farewell to the lady and got away.

"Do you really think this photograph so important?" I asked Poirot.

"Yes, _mon ami_. The camera does not lie. One can magnify a

photograph, seize salient points that otherwise would remain unnoticed.

And then there are a thousand details--such as the structure of the

ears, which no one could ever describe to you in words. Oh, yes, it is

a great chance, this which has come our way! That is why I propose to

take precautions."

He went across to the telephone as he finished speaking, and gave a

number which I knew to be that of a private detective agency which he

sometimes employed. His instructions were clear and definite. Two men

were to go to the address he gave, and, in general terms, were to watch

over the safety of Miss Monro. They were to follow her wherever she

went.

Poirot hung up the receiver and came back to me.

"Do you really think that necessary, Poirot?" I asked.

"It may be. There is no doubt that we are watched, you and I, and since

that is so, they will soon know with whom we were lunching to-day. And

it is possible that Number Four will scent danger."

About twenty minutes later the telephone bell rang. I answered it. A

curt voice spoke into the phone.

"Is that Mr. Poirot? St. James Hospital speaking. A young woman was

brought in ten minutes ago. Street accident. Miss Flossie Monro. She

is asking very urgently for Mr. Poirot. But he must come at once. She

can't possibly last long."

I repeated the words to Poirot. His face went white.

"Quick, Hastings. We must go like the wind."

A taxi took us to the hospital in less than ten minutes. We asked for

Miss Monro, and were taken immediately to the accident ward. But a

white-capped sister met us in the doorway.

Poirot read the news in her face.

"It is over, eh?"

"She died six minutes ago."

Poirot stood as though stunned.

The nurse, mistaking his emotion, began speaking gently.

"She did not suffer, and she was unconscious towards the last. She was

run over by a motor, you know--and the driver of the car did not even

stop. Wicked, isn't it? I hope some one took the number."

"The stars fight against us," said Poirot, in a low voice.

"You would like to see her?"

The nurse led the way, and we followed.

Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there

very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.

"Yes," murmured Poirot. "The stars fight against us--but is it the

stars?" He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. "Is it

the stars, Hastings? If it is not--if it is not.... Oh, I swear to you,

my friend, standing here by this poor woman's body, that I will have no

mercy when the time comes!"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding

information. A list of the articles found in her hand-bag was finally

obtained. Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.

"You see, Hastings, you see?"

"See what?"

"There is no mention of a latch-key. But she must have had a latch-key

with her. No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who

bent over her took the key from her bag. But we may yet be in time. He

may not have been able to find at once what he sought."

Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a

squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood. It was some

time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro's flat, but we had at

least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we

were on guard outside.

Eventually we got in. It was plain that some one had been before us.

The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor.

Locks had been forced, and small tables had even been overthrown, so

violent had been the searcher's haste.

Poirot began to hunt through the débris. Suddenly he stood erect with

a cry, holding out something. It was an old fashioned photograph

frame--empty.

He turned it slowly over. Affixed to the back was a small round

label--a price label.

"It cost four shillings," I commented.

"_Mon Dieu!_ Hastings, use your eyes. That is a new clean label.

It was stuck there by the man who took out the photograph, the man who

was here before us, but knew that we should come, and so left this for

us--Claud Darrell--alias Number Four!"

15. THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE

It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to

be aware of a change in Poirot. Up to now, his invincible confidence

in himself had stood the test. But it seemed as though, at last, the

long strain was beginning to tell. His manner was grave and brooding,

and his nerves were on edge. In these days he was as jumpy as a cat.

He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and

seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old

ardour. Nevertheless, I knew that he was secretly active in the big

matter. Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to see

him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to these mysterious

activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or

weapon of opposition with the help of these somewhat repulsive-looking

foreigners. Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in

his pass-book--he had asked me to verify some small item--and I noticed

the paying out of a huge sum--a huge sum even for Poirot who was

coining money nowadays--to some Russian with apparently every letter of

the alphabet in his name.

But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed to operate.

Only over and over again he gave utterance to one phrase. "It is the

greatest mistake to underestimate your adversary. Remember that, _mon

ami_." And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at

all costs to avoid.

So matters went on until the end of March, and then one morning Poirot

made a remark which startled me considerably.

"This morning, my friend, I should recommend the best suit. We go to

call upon the Home Secretary."

"Indeed? That is very exciting. He has called you in to take up a case?"

"Not exactly. The interview is of my seeking. You may remember my

saying that I once did him some small service? He is inclined to be

foolishly enthusiastic over my capabilities in consequence, and I

am about to trade on this attitude of his. As you know, the French

Premier, M. Desjardeaux is over in London, and at my request the Home

Secretary had arranged for him to be present at our little conference

this morning."

The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty's Secretary of State

for Home Affairs, was a well-known and popular figure. A man of some

fifty years of age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes,

he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner which was well

known to be one of his principal assets.

Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin man with a

pointed black beard and a sensitive face.

"M. Desjardeaux," said Crowther. "Allow me to introduce to you M.

Hercule Poirot of whom you may, perhaps, already have heard."

The Frenchman bowed and shook hands.

"I have indeed heard of M. Hercule Poirot," he said pleasantly. "Who

has not?"

"You are too amiable, monsieur," said Poirot, bowing, but his face

flushed with pleasure.

"Any word for an old friend?" asked a quiet voice, and a man came

forward from a corner by a tall bookcase.

It was our old acquaintance, Mr. Ingles.

Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.

"And now, M. Poirot," said Crowther. "We are at your service. I

understood you to say that you had a communication of the utmost

importance to make to us."

"That is so, monsieur. There is in the world to-day a vast

organisation--an organisation of crime. It is controlled by four

individuals, who are known and spoken of as the Big Four. Number One is

a Chinaman, Li Chang Yen; Number Two is the American multi-millionaire,

Abe Ryland; Number Three is a Frenchwoman; Number Four I have every

reason to believe is an obscure English actor called Claud Darrell.

These four are banded together to destroy the existing social order,

and to replace it with an anarchy in which they would reign as

dictators."

"Incredible," muttered the Frenchman. "Ryland, mixed up with a thing of

that kind? Surely the idea is too fantastic."

"Listen, monsieur, whilst I recount to you some of the doings of this

Big Four."

It was an enthralling narrative which Poirot unfolded. Familiar as I

was with all the details, they thrilled me anew as I heard the bald

recital of our adventures and escapes.

M. Desjardeaux looked mutely at Mr. Crowther as Poirot finished. The