The Big Four
"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