The Big Four
"Brain fever! Brain fever! No such thing as brain fever. An invention
of novelists. No; the man's had a shock of some kind. He's come here
under the force of a persistent idea--to find M. Hercule Poirot, 14
Farraway Street--and he repeats those words mechanically without in the
least knowing what they mean."
"Aphasia?" I said eagerly.
This suggestion did not cause the doctor to snort quite as violently as
my last one had done. He made no answer, but handed the man a sheet of
paper and a pencil.
"Let's see what he'll do with that," he remarked.
The man did nothing with it for some moments, then he suddenly began to
write feverishly. With equal suddenness he stopped and let both paper
and pencil fall to the ground. The doctor picked it up, and shook his
head.
"Nothing here. Only the figure 4 scrawled a dozen times, each one
bigger than the last. Wants to write 14 Farraway Street, I expect.
It's an interesting case--very interesting. Can you possibly keep him
here until this afternoon? I'm due at the hospital now, but I'll come
back this afternoon and make all arrangements about him. It's too
interesting a case to be lost sight of."
I explained Poirot's departure and the fact that I proposed to
accompany him to Southampton.
"That's all right. Leave the man here. He won't get into mischief. He's
suffering from complete exhaustion. Will probably sleep for eight hours
on end. I'll have a word with that excellent Mrs. Funnyface of yours,
and tell her to keep an eye on him."
And Dr. Ridgeway bustled out with his usual celerity. Poirot hastily
completed his packing, with one eye on the clock.
"The time, it marches with a rapidity unbelievable. Come now, Hastings,
you cannot say that I have left you with nothing to do. A most
sensational problem. The man from the unknown. Who is he? What is he?
Ah, _sapristi_, but I would give two years of my life to have
this boat go to-morrow instead of to-day. There is something here very
curious--very interesting. But one must have time--_time_. It may
be days--or even months--before he will be able to tell us what he came
to tell."
"I'll do my best, Poirot," I assured him. "I'll try to be an efficient
substitute."
"Ye-es."
His rejoinder struck me as being a shade doubtful. I picked up the
sheet of paper.
"If I were writing a story," I said lightly, "I should weave this in
with your latest idiosyncrasy and call it _The Mystery of the Big
Four_." I tapped the pencilled figures as I spoke.
And then I started, for our invalid, roused suddenly from his stupor,
sat up in his chair and said clearly and distinctly:
"Li Chang Yen."
He had the look of a man suddenly awakened from sleep. Poirot made a
sign to me not to speak. The man went on. He spoke in a clear, high
voice, and something in his enunciation made me feel that he was
quoting from some written report or lecture.
"Li Chang Yen may be regarded as representing the brains of the Big
Four. He is the controlling and motive force. I have designated him,
therefore, as Number One. Number Two is seldom mentioned by name. He is
represented by an 'S' with two lines through it--the sign for a dollar;
also by two stripes and a star. It may be conjectured, therefore, that
he is an American subject, and that he represents the power of wealth.
There seems no doubt that Number Three is a woman, and her nationality
French. It is possible that she may be one of the sirens of the
_demi-monde_ but nothing is known definitely. Number Four--"
His voice faltered and broke. Poirot leant forward.
"Yes," he prompted eagerly. "Number Four?"
His eyes were fastened on the man's face. Some overmastering terror
seemed to be gaining the day; the features were distorted and twisted.
"_The destroyer_," gasped the man. Then, with a final convulsive
movement, he fell back in a dead faint.
"_Mon Dieu!_" whispered Poirot, "I was right then. I was right."
"You think--?"
He interrupted me.
"Carry him on to the bed in my room. I have not a minute to lose if I
would catch my train. Not that I want to catch it. Oh, that I could
miss it with a clear conscience! But I gave my word. Come, Hastings!"
Leaving our mysterious visitor in the charge of Mrs. Pearson, we drove
away, and duly caught the train by the skin of our teeth. Poirot was
alternately silent and loquacious. He would sit staring out of the
window like a man lost in a dream, apparently not hearing a word that
I said to him. Then, reverting to animation suddenly, he would shower
injunctions and commands upon me, and urge the necessity of constant
marconigrams.
We had a long fit of silence just after we passed Woking. The train,
of course, did not stop anywhere until Southampton; but just here it
happened to be held up by a signal.
"Ah! _Sacré mille tonnerres!_" cried Poirot suddenly. "But I have
been an imbecile. I see clearly at last. It is undoubtedly the blessed
saints who stopped the train. Jump, Hastings, but jump, I tell you."
In an instant he had unfastened the carriage door, and jumped out on
the line.
"Throw out the suit-cases and jump yourself."
I obeyed him. Just in time. As I alighted beside him, the train moved
on.
"And now Poirot," I said, in some exasperation, "perhaps you will tell
me what all this is about."
"It is, my friend, that I have seen the light."
"That," I said, "is very illuminating to me."
"It should be," said Poirot, "but I fear--I very much fear that it is
not. If you can carry two of these valises, I think I can manage the
rest."
2. THE MAN FROM THE ASYLUM
Fortunately the train had stopped near a station. A short walk brought
us to a garage where we were able to obtain a car, and half an hour
later we were spinning rapidly back to London. Then, and not till then,
did Poirot deign to satisfy my curiosity.
"You do not see? No more did I. But I see now. Hastings, _I was being
got out of the way_."
"What!"
"Yes. Very cleverly. Both the place and the method were chosen with
great knowledge and acumen. They were afraid of me."
"Who were?"
"Those four geniuses who have banded themselves together to work
outside the law. A Chinaman, an American, a Frenchwoman, and--another.
Pray the good God we arrive back in time, Hastings."
"You think there is danger to our visitor?"
"I am sure of it."
Mrs. Pearson greeted us on arrival. Brushing aside her ecstasies of
astonishment on beholding Poirot, we asked for information. It was
reassuring. No one had called, and our guest had not made any sign.
With a sigh of relief we went up to the rooms. Poirot crossed the outer
one and went through to the inner one. Then he called me, his voice
strangely agitated.
"Hastings, he's dead."
I came running to join him. The man was lying as we had left him, but
he was dead, and had been dead some time. I rushed out for a doctor.
Ridgeway, I knew, would not have returned yet. I found one almost
immediately, and brought him back with me.
"He's dead right enough, poor chap. Tramp you've been befriending, eh?"
"Something of the kind," said Poirot evasively. "What was the cause of
death, doctor?"
"Hard to say. Might have been some kind of fit. There are signs of
asphyxiation. No gas laid on, is there?"
"No, electric light--nothing else."
"And both windows wide open, too. Been dead about two hours, I should
say. You'll notify the proper people, won't you?"
He took his departure. Poirot did some necessary telephoning. Finally,
somewhat to my surprise, he rang up our old friend Inspector Japp, and
asked him if he could possibly come round.
No sooner were these proceedings completed than Mrs. Pearson appeared,
her eyes as round as saucers.
"There's a man here from 'Anwell--from the 'Sylum. Did you ever? Shall
I show him up?"
We signified assent, and a big burly man in uniform was ushered in.
"'Morning, gentlemen," he said cheerfully. "I've got reason to believe
you've got one of my birds here. Escaped last night, he did."
"He was here," said Poirot quietly.
"Not got away again, has he?" asked the keeper, with some concern.
"He is dead."
The man looked more relieved than otherwise.
"You don't say so. Well, I dare say it's best for all parties."
"Was he--dangerous?"
"'Omicidal, d'you mean? Oh, no. 'Armless enough. Persecution mania very
acute. Full of secret societies from China that had got him shut up.
They're all the same."
I shuddered.
"How long had he been shut up?" asked Poirot.
"A matter of two years now."
"I see," said Poirot quietly. "It never occurred to anybody that he
might--be sane?"
The keeper permitted himself to laugh.
"If he was sane, what would he be doing in a lunatic asylum? They all
_say_ they're sane, you know."
Poirot said no more. He took the man in to see the body. The
identification came immediately.
"That's him--right enough," said the keeper callously; "funny sort
of bloke, ain't he? Well, gentlemen, I had best go off now and make
arrangements under the circumstances. We won't trouble you with the
corpse much longer. If there's a hinquest, you will have to appear at
it, I dare say. Good morning, sir."
With a rather uncouth bow he shambled out of the room.
A few minutes later Japp arrived. The Scotland Yard Inspector was
jaunty and dapper as usual.
"Here I am Moosior Poirot. What can I do for you? Thought you were off
to the coral strands of somewhere or other to-day?"
"My good Japp, I want to know if you have ever seen this man before."
He led Japp into the bedroom. The inspector stared down at the figure
on the bed with a puzzled face.
"Let me see now--he seems sort of familiar--and I pride myself on my
memory, too. Why, God bless my soul, it's Mayerling!"
"And who is--or was--Mayerling?"
"Secret Service chap--not one of our people. Went to Russia five years
ago. Never heard of again. Always thought the Bolshies had done him in."
"It all fits in," said Poirot, when Japp had taken his leave, "except
for the fact that he seems to have died a natural death."
He stood looking down on the motionless figure with a dissatisfied
frown. A puff of wind set the window-curtains flying out, and he looked
up sharply.
"I suppose you opened the windows when you laid him down on the bed,
Hastings?"
"No, I didn't," I replied. "As far as I remember, they were shut."
Poirot lifted his head suddenly.
"Shut--and now they are open. What can that mean?"
"Somebody came in that way," I suggested.
"Possibly," agreed Poirot, but he spoke absently and without
conviction. After a minute or two he said:
"That is not exactly the point I had in mind, Hastings. If only one
window was open it would not intrigue me so much. It is both windows
being open that strikes me as curious."
He hurried into the other room.
"The sitting-room window is open, too. That also we left shut. Ah!"
He bent over the dead man, examining the corners of the mouth minutely.
Then he looked up suddenly.
"He has been gagged, Hastings. Gagged and then poisoned."
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, shocked. "I suppose we shall find out all
about it from the post-mortem."
"We shall find out nothing. He was killed by inhaling strong prussic
acid. It was jammed right under his nose. Then the murderer went away
again, first opening all the windows. Hydrocyanic acid is exceedingly
volatile, but it has a pronounced smell of bitter almonds. With no
trace of the smell to guide them, and no suspicion of foul play, death
would be put down to some natural cause by the doctors. So this man was
in the Secret Service, Hastings. And five years ago he disappeared in
Russia."
"The last two years he's been in the Asylum," I said. "But what of the
three years before that?"
Poirot shook his head, and then caught my arm.