The Big Four
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