The Big Four
themselves--_tant mieux_! They will learn in due time. Meanwhile
we have learnt something, and to know is to be prepared."
This last was a favourite axiom of his lately; so much so that I had
begun to hate the sound of it.
"We know something, Hastings," he continued. "Yes, we know
something--and that is to the good--but we do not know nearly enough.
We must know more."
"In what way?"
Poirot settled himself back in his chair, straightened a box of matches
which I had thrown carelessly down on the table, and assumed an
attitude that I knew only too well. I saw that he was prepared to hold
forth at some length.
"See you, Hastings, we have to contend against four adversaries; that
is, against four different personalities. With Number One we have
never come into personal contact--we know him, as it were, only by
the impress of his mind--and in passing, Hastings, I will tell you
that I begin to understand that mind very well--a mind most subtle and
Oriental--every scheme and plot that we have encountered have emanated
from the brain of Li Chang Yen. Number Two and Number Three are so
powerful, so high up, that they are for the present immune from our
attacks. Nevertheless what is their safeguard is, by a perverse chance,
our safeguard also. They are so much in the limelight that their
movements must be carefully ordered. And so we come to the last member
of the gang--we come to the man known as Number Four."
Poirot's voice altered a little, as it always did when speaking of this
particular individual.
"Number Two and Number Three are able to succeed, to go on their
way unscathed, owing to their notoriety and their assured position.
Number Four succeeds for the opposite reason--he succeeds by the way
of obscurity. Who is he? Nobody knows. What does he look like? Again
nobody knows. How many times have we seen him, you and I? Five times,
is it not? And could either of us say truthfully that we could be sure
of recognising him again?"
I was forced to shake my head, as I ran back in my mind over those
five different people who, incredible as it seemed, were one and the
same man. The burly lunatic asylum keeper, the man in the buttoned up
overcoat in Paris, James, the footman, the quiet young medical man in
the Yellow Jasmine case, and the Russian Professor. In no way did any
two of these people resemble each other.
"No," I said hopelessly. "We've nothing to go by whatsoever."
Poirot smiled.
"Do not, I pray of you, give way to such enthusiastic despair. We know
one or two things."
"What kind of things?" I asked sceptically.
"We know that he is a man of medium height, and of medium or fair
colouring. If he were a tall man of swarthy complexion he could never
have passed himself off as the fair stocky doctor. It is child's play,
of course, to put on an additional inch or so for the part of James,
or the Professor. In the same way he must have a short straight nose.
Additions can be built on to a nose by skilful make up, but a large
nose cannot be successfully reduced at a moment's notice. Then again,
he must be a fairly young man, certainly not over thirty-five. You see,
we are getting somewhere. A man between thirty and thirty-five, of
medium height and colouring, an adept in the art of make up, and with
very few or any teeth of his own."
"What?"
"Surely, Hastings. As the keeper, his teeth were broken and
discoloured, in Paris they were even and white, as the doctor they
protruded slightly, and as Savaronoff they had unusually long canines.
Nothing alters the face so completely as a different set of teeth. You
see where all this is leading us?"
"Not exactly," I said cautiously.
"A man carries his profession written in his face, they say."
"He's a criminal," I cried.
"He is an adept in the art of making up."
"It's the same thing."
"Rather a sweeping statement, Hastings, and one which would hardly be
appreciated by the theatrical world. Do you not see that the man is, or
has been, at one time or another, an actor?"
"An actor?"
"But certainly. He has the whole technique at his fingertips. Now there
are two classes of actors, the one who sinks himself in his part, and
the one who manages to impress his personality upon it. It is from the
latter class that actor managers usually spring. They seize a part and
mould it to their own personality. The former class is quite likely
to spend its days doing Mr. Lloyd George at different music halls, or
impersonating old men with beards in repertory plays. It is among that
former class that we must look for our Number Four. He is a supreme
artist in the way he sinks himself in each part he plays."
I was growing interested.
"So you fancy you may be able to trace his identity through his
connection with the stage?"
"Your reasoning is always brilliant, Hastings."
"It might have been better," I said coldly, "if the idea had come to
you sooner. We have wasted a lot of time."
"You are in error, _mon ami_. No more time has been wasted
than was unavoidable. For some months now my agents have been
engaged on the task. Joseph Aarons is one of them. You remember him?
They have compiled a list for me of men fulfilling the necessary
qualifications--young men round about the age of thirty, of more or
less nondescript appearance, and with a gift for playing character
parts--men, moreover, who have definitely left the stage within the
last three years."
"Well?" I said, deeply interested.
"The list was, necessarily, rather a long one. For some time now, we
have been engaged on the task of elimination. And finally we have
boiled the whole thing down to four names. Here they are, my friend."
He tossed me over a sheet of paper. I read its contents aloud.
"Ernest Luttrell. Son of a North Country parson. Always had a kink of
some kind in his moral make-up. Was expelled from his public school.
Went on the stage at the age of twenty-three. (There followed a list
of parts he had played, with dates and places.) Addicted to drugs.
Supposed to have gone to Australia four years ago. Cannot be traced
after leaving England. Age 32, height 5 ft. 10-1/2 in., clean-shaven,
hair brown, nose straight, complexion fair, eyes gray.
"John St. Maur. Assumed name. Real name not known. Believed to be
of cockney extraction. On stage since quite a child. Did music hall
impersonations. Not been heard of for three years. Age, about 33,
height 5 ft. 10 in., slim build, blue eyes, fair colouring.
"Austen Lee. Assumed name. Real name Austen Foly. Good family. Always
had taste for acting and distinguished himself in that way at Oxford.
Brilliant war record. Acted in--(The usual list followed. It included
many Repertory plays.) An enthusiast on criminology. Had bad nervous
breakdown as the result of a motor accident three and a half years
ago, and has not appeared on the stage since. No clue to his present
whereabouts. Age 35, height 5 ft. 9-1/2 in., complexion fair, eyes
blue, hair brown.
"Claud Darrell. Supposed to be real name. Some mystery about his
origin. Played at music halls, and also in Repertory plays. Seems to
have had no intimate friends. Was in China in 1919. Returned by way of
America. Played a few parts in New York. Did not appear on the stage
one night, and has never been heard of since. New York police say most
mysterious disappearance. Age about 33, hair brown, fair complexion,
gray eyes. Height 5 ft. 10-1/2 in.
"Most interesting," I said, as I laid down the paper. "And so this is
the result of the investigation of months? These four names. Which of
them are you inclined to suspect?"
Poirot made an eloquent gesture.
"_Mon ami_, for the moment it is an open question. I would just
point out to you that Claud Darrell has been in China and America--a
fact not without significance, perhaps, but we must not allow ourselves
to be unduly biased by that point. It may be a mere coincidence."
"And the next step?" I asked eagerly.
"Affairs are already in train. Every day cautiously worded
advertisements will appear. Friends and relatives of one or the other
will be asked to communicate with my solicitor at his office. Even
to-day we might--Aha, the telephone! Probably it is, as usual, the
wrong number, and they will regret to have troubled us, but it may
be--yes, it may be--that something has arisen."
I crossed the room and picked up the receiver.
"Yes, yes. M. Poirot's rooms. Yes, Captain Hastings speaking. Oh, it's
you, Mr. McNeil! (McNeil and Hodgson were Poirot's solicitors.) I'll
tell him. Yes, we'll come round at once."
I replaced the receiver and turned to Poirot, my eyes dancing with
excitement.
"I say, Poirot, there's a woman there. Friend of Claud Darrell's. Miss
Flossie Monro. McNeil wants you to come round."
"At the instant!" cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and
reappearing with a hat.
A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr.
McNeil's private office. Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor
was a somewhat lurid looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her
hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each
ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means
forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.
"Ah, here is M. Poirot!" said Mr. McNeil. "M. Poirot, this is
Miss--er---Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some
information."
"Ah, but that is most kind!" cried Poirot.
He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by
the hand.
"Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office," he
added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.
This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and
simpered.
"Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you Frenchmen
are like."
"Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that
I am a Frenchman--I am a Belgian, you see."
"I've been to Ostend myself," said Miss Monro.
The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.
"And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?" continued
Poirot.
"I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time," explained the lady. "And
I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and my
time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about
poor old Claudie--lawyers, too--maybe it's a fortune looking for the
rightful heir, I'd better go round at once."
Mr. McNeil rose.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation
with Miss Monro?"
"You are too amiable. But stay--a little idea presents itself to me.
The hour of the _déjeuner_ approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps
honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?"
Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly
low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's
most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most
delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?"
Miss Monro said nothing--or everything.
The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady's glass with
thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his
heart.
"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become
of him."
"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"
"Oh, simply ages--not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie,
very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of
course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr.
Poirot?"
"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may