The Big Four
be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to
find some one who knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well,
did you not, mademoiselle."
"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You're a gentleman. You know
how to order a lunch for a lady--which is more than some of these
young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I
was saying, you being a Frenchman won't be shocked. Ah, you Frenchmen!
Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of
archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things--what
else could you expect? And I've still a kindly feeling for him. Though,
mind you, he didn't treat me well--no, he didn't--he didn't treat me
well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They're all the same when
it comes to a question of money."
"No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up
her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?"
"He wasn't anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro
dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up.
Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-gray. And more or less fair-haired,
I suppose. But oh, what an artist! _I_ never saw any one to touch
him in the profession! He'd have made his name before now if it hadn't
been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy--you wouldn't believe it,
you really wouldn't, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy.
Why, I remember once at Manchester--"
We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated
story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy.
Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.
"It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell
us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such wonderful
observers--they see everything, they notice the little detail that
escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a
dozen others--and why, do you think? She had observed that he had a
trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a man ever
have thought of noticing a thing like that?"
"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I
remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his
bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then
dab it round to pick up crumbs. I've seen him do it a hundred times.
Why, I'd know him anywhere by that one trick of his."
"Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman.
And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his,
mademoiselle?"
"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don't like you
to notice things especially if it should seem you were telling them off
about it. I never said a word--but many's the time I smiled to myself.
Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even."
Poirot nodded gently. I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little
as he stretched it out to his glass.
"Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity,"
he remarked. "Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr.
Darrell?"
Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.
"He was never one for writing. Never wrote me a line in his life."
"That is a pity," said Poirot.
"I tell you what, though," said Miss Monro suddenly. "I've got a
photograph if that would be any good?"
"You have a photograph?"
Poirot almost sprang from his seat with excitement.
"It's quite an old one--eight years old at least."
"_Ça ne fait rien!_ No matter how old and faded! Ah, _ma
foi_, but what stupendous luck! You will permit me to inspect that
photograph, mademoiselle?"
"Why, of course."
"Perhaps you will even permit me to have a copy made? It would not take
long."
"Certainly if you like."
Miss Monro rose.
"Well, I must run away," she declared archly. "Very glad to have met
you and your friend, Mr. Poirot."
"And the photograph? When may I have it?"
"I'll look it out to-night. I think I know where to lay my hand upon
it. And I'll send it to you right away."
"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. You are all that is of the most
amiable. I hope that we shall soon be able to arrange another little
lunch together."
"As soon as you like," said Miss Monro. "I'm willing."
"Let me see, I do not think that I have your address?"
With a grand air, Miss Monro drew a card from her hand-bag, and handed
it to him. It was a somewhat dirty card, and the original address had
been scratched out and another substituted in pencil.
Then, with a good many bows and gesticulations on Poirot's part, we
bade farewell to the lady and got away.
"Do you really think this photograph so important?" I asked Poirot.
"Yes, _mon ami_. The camera does not lie. One can magnify a
photograph, seize salient points that otherwise would remain unnoticed.
And then there are a thousand details--such as the structure of the
ears, which no one could ever describe to you in words. Oh, yes, it is
a great chance, this which has come our way! That is why I propose to
take precautions."
He went across to the telephone as he finished speaking, and gave a
number which I knew to be that of a private detective agency which he
sometimes employed. His instructions were clear and definite. Two men
were to go to the address he gave, and, in general terms, were to watch
over the safety of Miss Monro. They were to follow her wherever she
went.
Poirot hung up the receiver and came back to me.
"Do you really think that necessary, Poirot?" I asked.
"It may be. There is no doubt that we are watched, you and I, and since
that is so, they will soon know with whom we were lunching to-day. And
it is possible that Number Four will scent danger."
About twenty minutes later the telephone bell rang. I answered it. A
curt voice spoke into the phone.
"Is that Mr. Poirot? St. James Hospital speaking. A young woman was
brought in ten minutes ago. Street accident. Miss Flossie Monro. She
is asking very urgently for Mr. Poirot. But he must come at once. She
can't possibly last long."
I repeated the words to Poirot. His face went white.
"Quick, Hastings. We must go like the wind."
A taxi took us to the hospital in less than ten minutes. We asked for
Miss Monro, and were taken immediately to the accident ward. But a
white-capped sister met us in the doorway.
Poirot read the news in her face.
"It is over, eh?"
"She died six minutes ago."
Poirot stood as though stunned.
The nurse, mistaking his emotion, began speaking gently.
"She did not suffer, and she was unconscious towards the last. She was
run over by a motor, you know--and the driver of the car did not even
stop. Wicked, isn't it? I hope some one took the number."
"The stars fight against us," said Poirot, in a low voice.
"You would like to see her?"
The nurse led the way, and we followed.
Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there
very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.
"Yes," murmured Poirot. "The stars fight against us--but is it the
stars?" He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. "Is it
the stars, Hastings? If it is not--if it is not.... Oh, I swear to you,
my friend, standing here by this poor woman's body, that I will have no
mercy when the time comes!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding
information. A list of the articles found in her hand-bag was finally
obtained. Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.
"You see, Hastings, you see?"
"See what?"
"There is no mention of a latch-key. But she must have had a latch-key
with her. No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who
bent over her took the key from her bag. But we may yet be in time. He
may not have been able to find at once what he sought."
Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a
squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood. It was some
time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro's flat, but we had at
least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we
were on guard outside.
Eventually we got in. It was plain that some one had been before us.
The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor.
Locks had been forced, and small tables had even been overthrown, so
violent had been the searcher's haste.
Poirot began to hunt through the débris. Suddenly he stood erect with
a cry, holding out something. It was an old fashioned photograph
frame--empty.
He turned it slowly over. Affixed to the back was a small round
label--a price label.
"It cost four shillings," I commented.
"_Mon Dieu!_ Hastings, use your eyes. That is a new clean label.
It was stuck there by the man who took out the photograph, the man who
was here before us, but knew that we should come, and so left this for
us--Claud Darrell--alias Number Four!"
15. THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE
It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to
be aware of a change in Poirot. Up to now, his invincible confidence
in himself had stood the test. But it seemed as though, at last, the
long strain was beginning to tell. His manner was grave and brooding,
and his nerves were on edge. In these days he was as jumpy as a cat.
He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and
seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old
ardour. Nevertheless, I knew that he was secretly active in the big
matter. Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to see
him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to these mysterious
activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or
weapon of opposition with the help of these somewhat repulsive-looking
foreigners. Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in
his pass-book--he had asked me to verify some small item--and I noticed
the paying out of a huge sum--a huge sum even for Poirot who was
coining money nowadays--to some Russian with apparently every letter of
the alphabet in his name.
But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed to operate.
Only over and over again he gave utterance to one phrase. "It is the
greatest mistake to underestimate your adversary. Remember that, _mon
ami_." And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at
all costs to avoid.
So matters went on until the end of March, and then one morning Poirot
made a remark which startled me considerably.
"This morning, my friend, I should recommend the best suit. We go to
call upon the Home Secretary."
"Indeed? That is very exciting. He has called you in to take up a case?"
"Not exactly. The interview is of my seeking. You may remember my
saying that I once did him some small service? He is inclined to be
foolishly enthusiastic over my capabilities in consequence, and I
am about to trade on this attitude of his. As you know, the French
Premier, M. Desjardeaux is over in London, and at my request the Home
Secretary had arranged for him to be present at our little conference
this morning."
The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty's Secretary of State
for Home Affairs, was a well-known and popular figure. A man of some
fifty years of age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes,
he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner which was well
known to be one of his principal assets.
Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin man with a
pointed black beard and a sensitive face.
"M. Desjardeaux," said Crowther. "Allow me to introduce to you M.
Hercule Poirot of whom you may, perhaps, already have heard."
The Frenchman bowed and shook hands.