The Big Four

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, someone 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 grey 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 today? 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!’

CHAPTER 3 (#ud95f1b2c-81fa-527c-9c50-348340aebb34)

We Hear More About Li Chang Yen (#ud95f1b2c-81fa-527c-9c50-348340aebb34)

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 anyone 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 be typically egotistical, but I forebore 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 maybe, 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 in hand, but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little out of him. He remained buried in an armchair, 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’ 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.