The Big Four
"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