The Big Four
dilapidated house and rapped four times upon the door.
It was opened immediately by another Chinaman who stood aside to let us
pass in. The clanging to of the door behind me was the knell of my last
hopes. I was indeed in the hands of the enemy.
I was now handed over to the second Chinaman. He led me down some
rickety stairs and into a cellar which was filled with bales and casks
and which exhaled a pungent odour, as of Eastern spices. I felt wrapped
all round with the atmosphere of the East, tortuous, cunning, sinister--
Suddenly my guide rolled aside two of the casks, and I saw a low
tunnel-like opening in the wall. He motioned me to go ahead. The tunnel
was of some length, and it was just too low for me to stand upright. At
last, however, it broadened out into a passage, and a few minutes later
we stood in another cellar.
My Chinaman went forward, and rapped four times on one of the walls. A
whole section of the wall swung out, leaving a narrow doorway. I passed
through, and to my utter astonishment found myself in a kind of Arabian
Nights' palace. A low long subterranean chamber hung with rich oriental
silks, brilliantly lighted and fragrant with perfumes and spices.
There five or six silk covered divans, and exquisite carpets of Chinese
workmanship covered the ground. At the end of the room was a curtained
recess. From behind these curtains came a voice.
"You have brought our honoured guest?"
"Excellency, he is here," replied my guide.
"Let our guest enter," was the answer.
At the same moment, the curtains were drawn aside by an unseen hand,
and I was facing an immense cushioned divan on which sat a tall thin
Oriental dressed in wonderfully embroidered robes, and clearly, by the
length of his finger nails, a great man.
"Be seated, I pray you, Captain Hastings," he said, with a wave of his
hand. "You acceded to my request to come immediately, I am glad to see."
"Who are you?" I asked. "Li Chang Yen?"
"Indeed no, I am but the humblest of the master's servants. I carry
out his behests, that is all--as do other of his servants in other
countries--in South America, for instance."
I advanced a step.
"Where is she? What have you done with her out there?"
"She is in a place of safety--where none will find her. As yet, she is
unharmed. You observe that I say--_as yet_!"
Cold shivers ran down my spine as I confronted this smiling devil.
"What do you want?" I cried. "Money?"
"My dear Captain Hastings. We have no designs on your small savings, I
can assure you. Not--pardon me--a very intelligent suggestion on your
part. Your colleague would not have made it, I fancy."
"I suppose," I said heavily, "you wanted to get me into your toils.
Well, you have succeeded. I have come here with my eyes open. Do what
you like with me, and let her go. She knows nothing, and she can be no
possible use to you. You've used her to get hold of me--you've got me
all right, and that settles it."
The smiling Oriental caressed his smooth cheek, watching me obliquely
out of his narrow eyes.
"You go too fast," he said purringly. "That does not quite--settle it.
In fact, to 'get hold of you' as you express it, is not really our
objective. But through you, we hope to get hold of your friend, M.
Hercule Poirot."
"I'm afraid you won't do that," I said, with a short laugh.
"What I suggest is this," continued the other, his words running on as
though he had not heard me.
"You will write M. Hercule Poirot a letter, such a letter as will
induce him to hasten hither and join you."
"I shall do no such thing," I said angrily.
"The consequences of refusal will be disagreeable."
"Damn your consequences."
"The alternative might be death!"
A nasty shiver ran down my spine, but I endeavoured to put a bold face
upon it.
"It's no good threatening me, and bullying me. Keep your threats for
Chinese cowards."
"My threats are very real ones, Captain Hastings. I ask you again, will
you write this letter?"
"I will not, and what's more, you daren't kill me. You'd have the
police on your tracks in no time."
My interlocutor clapped his hands swiftly. Two Chinese attendants
appeared as it were out of the blue, and pinioned me by both arms.
Their master said something rapidly to them in Chinese, and they
dragged me across the floor to a spot in one corner of the big chamber.
One of them stooped, and suddenly, without the least warning, the
flooring gave beneath my feet. But for the restraining hand of the
other man I should have gone down the yawning gap beneath me. It was
inky black, and I could hear the rushing of water.
"The river," said my questioner from his place on the divan. "Think
well, Captain Hastings. If you refuse again, you go headlong to
eternity, to meet your death in the dark waters below. For the last
time, will you write that letter?"
I'm not braver than most men. I admit frankly that I was scared to
death, and in a blue funk. That Chinese devil meant business, I was
sure of that. It was good-bye to the good old world. In spite of
myself, my voice wobbled a little as I answered.
"For the last time, no! To hell with your letter!"
Then involuntarily I closed my eyes and breathed a short prayer.
13. THE MOUSE WALKS IN
Not often in a life-time does a man stand on the edge of eternity,
but when I spoke those words in that East End cellar I was perfectly
certain that they were my last words on earth. I braced myself for
the shock of those black, rushing waters beneath, and experienced in
advance the horror of that breath-choking fall.
But to my surprise a low laugh fell on my ears. I opened my eyes.
Obeying a sign from the man on the divan, my two jailers brought me
back to my old seat facing him.
"You are a brave man, Captain Hastings," he said. "We of the East
appreciate bravery. I may say that I expected you to act as you have
done. That brings us to the appointed second act of our little drama.
Death for yourself you have faced--will you face death for another?"
"What do you mean?" I asked hoarsely, a horrible fear creeping over me.
"Surely you have not forgotten the lady who is in our power--the Rose
of the Garden."
I stared at him in dumb agony.
"I think, Captain Hastings, that you will write that letter. See, I
have a cable form here. The message I shall write on it depends on you,
and means life or death for your wife."
The sweat broke out on my brow. My tormentor continued, smiling
amiably, and speaking with perfect sangfroid:--
"There, captain, the pen is ready to your hand. You have only to write.
If not--"
"If not?" I echoed.
"If not, that lady that you love dies--and dies slowly. My master,
Li Chang Yen, amuses himself in his spare hours by devising new and
ingenious methods of tortures--"
"My God!" I cried. "You fiend! Not that--you wouldn't do that--"
"Shall I recount to you some of his devices?"
Without heeding my cry of protest, his speech flowed on--evenly,
serenely--till with a cry of horror I clapped my hands to my ears.
"It is enough, I see. Take up the pen and write."
"You would not dare--"
"Your speech is foolishness, and you know it. Take up the pen and
write."
"If I do?"
"Your wife goes free. The cable shall be despatched immediately."
"How do I know that you will keep faith with me?"
"I swear it to you on the sacred tombs of my ancestors. Moreover, judge
for yourself--why should I wish to do her harm? Her detention will have
answered its purpose."
"And--and Poirot?"
"We will keep him in safe custody until we have concluded our
operations. Then we will let him go."
"Will you swear that also on the tombs of your ancestors?"
"I have sworn one oath to you. That should be sufficient."
My heart sank. I was betraying my friend--to what? For a moment I
hesitated--then the terrible alternative rose like a nightmare before
my eyes. Cinderella--in the hands of these Chinese devils, dying by
slow torture--
A groan rose to my lips. I seized the pen. Perhaps by careful wording
of the letter, I could convey a warning, and Poirot would be enabled to
avoid the trap. It was the only hope.
But even that hope was not to remain. The Chinaman's voice rose, suave
and courteous.
"Permit me to dictate to you."
He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then
dictated as follows:--
"Dear Poirot, I think I'm on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman
came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message.
Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the
slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of
shadowing on my own account--rather neatly too, I flatter myself.
I'm getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him a
half a crown, will you? That's what I promised him if it was
delivered safely. I'm watching the house, and daren't leave. I
shall wait for you until six o'clock, and if you haven't come then,
I'll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It's too good
a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn't find you. But
if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover
up those precious moustaches of yours in case any one's watching
out from the house and might recognise you.
"Yours in haste,
"A. H."
Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was
diabolically clever. I realised how closely every detail of our life
must be known. It was just such an epistle as I might have penned
myself. The acknowledgment that the Chinaman who had called that
afternoon had endeavoured to "lure me away" discounted any good I might
have done by leaving my "sign" of four books. It _had_ been a
trap, and I had seen through it, that was what Poirot would think. The
time, too, was cleverly planned. Poirot, on receiving the note, would
have just time to rush off with his innocent-looking guide, and that
he would do so, I knew. My determination to make my way into the house
would bring him post haste. He always displayed a ridiculous distrust
of my capacities. He would be convinced that I was running into danger
without being equal to the situation, and would rush down to take
command of the situation.
But there was nothing to be done. I wrote as bidden. My captor took the
note from me, read it, then nodded his head approvingly and handed it
to one of the silent attendants who disappeared with it behind one of
the silken hangings on the wall which masked a doorway.
With a smile the man opposite to me picked up a cable form and wrote.
He handed it to me.
It read: "Release the white bird with all despatch."
I gave a sigh of relief.
"You will send it at once?" I urged.
He smiled, and shook his head.
"When M. Hercule Poirot is in my hands it shall be sent. Not until
then."
"But you promised--"
"If this device fails, I may have need of our white bird--to persuade
you to further efforts."
I grew white with anger.
"My God! If you--"
He waved a long slim yellow hand.
"Be reassured, I do not think it will fail. And the moment M. Poirot is
in our hands, I will keep my oath."
"If you play me false."
"I have sworn it by my honoured ancestors. Have no fear. Rest here
awhile. My servants will see to your needs whilst I am absent."
I was left alone in this strange underground nest of luxury. The second
Chinese attendant had reappeared. One of them brought food and drink
and offered it to me, but I waved them aside. I was sick--sick--at
heart--
And then suddenly the master reappeared tall and stately in his silken