The Big Four (5 page)

“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.”

O
n 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, M. 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 pocketbook, and threw ten notes on the table. They were for ten thousand francs each.

“That is merely 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, catlike 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 someone, 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 pocketbook 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 notepaper 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 today 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 pocketbook 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 nighttime 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 anyone, 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. Tonight, go to bed as usual, have no fears, and leave all to me. But not a word to anyone—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 anyone 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.