The Big Four
"I have indeed heard of M. Hercule Poirot," he said pleasantly. "Who
has not?"
"You are too amiable, monsieur," said Poirot, bowing, but his face
flushed with pleasure.
"Any word for an old friend?" asked a quiet voice, and a man came
forward from a corner by a tall bookcase.
It was our old acquaintance, Mr. Ingles.
Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
"And now, M. Poirot," said Crowther. "We are at your service. I
understood you to say that you had a communication of the utmost
importance to make to us."
"That is so, monsieur. There is in the world to-day a vast
organisation--an organisation of crime. It is controlled by four
individuals, who are known and spoken of as the Big Four. Number One is
a Chinaman, Li Chang Yen; Number Two is the American multi-millionaire,
Abe Ryland; Number Three is a Frenchwoman; Number Four I have every
reason to believe is an obscure English actor called Claud Darrell.
These four are banded together to destroy the existing social order,
and to replace it with an anarchy in which they would reign as
dictators."
"Incredible," muttered the Frenchman. "Ryland, mixed up with a thing of
that kind? Surely the idea is too fantastic."
"Listen, monsieur, whilst I recount to you some of the doings of this
Big Four."
It was an enthralling narrative which Poirot unfolded. Familiar as I
was with all the details, they thrilled me anew as I heard the bald
recital of our adventures and escapes.
M. Desjardeaux looked mutely at Mr. Crowther as Poirot finished. The
other answered the look.
"Yes, M. Desjardeaux, I think we must admit the existence of a 'Big
Four.' Scotland Yard was inclined to jeer at first, but they have been
forced to admit that M. Poirot was right in many of his claims. The
only question is the extent of its aims. I cannot but feel that M.
Poirot--er--exaggerates a little."
For answer Poirot set forth ten salient points. I have been asked not
to give them to the public even now, and so I refrain from doing so,
but they included the extraordinary disasters to submarines which
occurred in a certain month, and also a series of aeroplane accidents
and forced landings. According to Poirot, these were all the work of
the Big Four, and bore witness to the fact that they were in possession
of various scientific secrets unknown to the world at large.
This brought us straight to the question which I had been waiting for
the French Premier to ask.
"You say that the third member of this organisation is a Frenchwoman.
Have you any idea of her name?"
"It is a well-known name, monsieur. An honoured name. Number Three is
no less than the famous Madame Olivier."
At the mention of the world-famous scientist, successor to the Curies,
M. Desjardeaux positively bounded from his chair, his face purple with
emotion.
"Madame Olivier! Impossible! Absurd! It is an insult what you say
there!"
Poirot shook his head gently, but made no answer.
Desjardeaux looked at him in stupefaction for some moments. Then his
face cleared, and he glanced at the Home Secretary and tapped his
forehead significantly.
"M. Poirot is a great man," he observed. "But even the great
man--sometimes he has his little mania, does he not? And seeks in high
places for fancied conspiracies. It is well known. You agree with me,
do you not, Mr. Crowther?"
The Home Secretary did not answer for some minutes. Then he spoke
slowly and heavily.
"Upon my soul, I don't know," he said at last. "I have always had and
still have the utmost belief in M. Poirot, but--well, this takes a bit
of believing."
"This Li Chang Yen, too," continued M. Desjardeaux. "Who has ever heard
of him?"
"I have," said the unexpected voice of Mr. Ingles.
The Frenchman stared at him, and he stared placidly back again, looking
more like a Chinese idol than ever. "Mr. Ingles," explained the Home
Secretary, "is the greatest authority we have on the interior of China."
"And you have heard of this Li Chang Yen?"
"Until M. Poirot here came to me, I imagined that I was the only man
in England who had. Make no mistake, M. Desjardeaux, there is only one
man in China who counts to-day--Li Chang Yen. He has, perhaps, I only
say perhaps, the finest brain in the world at the present time."
M. Desjardeaux sat as though stunned. Presently, however, he rallied.
"There may be something in what you say, M. Poirot," he said coldly.
"But as regards Madame Olivier, you are most certainly mistaken. She is
a true daughter of France, and devoted solely to the cause of science."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders and did not answer.
There was a minute or two's pause, and then my little friend rose to
his feet, with an air of dignity that sat rather oddly upon his quaint
personality.
"That is all I have to say, messieurs--to warn you. I thought it
likely that I should not be believed. But at least you will be on your
guard. My words will sink in, and each fresh event that comes along
will confirm your wavering faith. It was necessary for me to speak
now--later I might not have been able to do so."
"You mean--?" asked Crowther, impressed in spite of himself by the
gravity of Poirot's tone.
"I mean, monsieur, that since I have penetrated the identity of Number
Four, my life is not worth an hour's purchase. He will seek to destroy
me at all costs--and not for nothing is he named 'The Destroyer.'
Messieurs, I salute you. To you, M. Crowther, I deliver this key, and
this sealed envelope. I have got together all my notes on the case,
and my ideas as to how best to meet the menace that any day may break
upon the world, and have placed them in a certain safe deposit. In the
event of my death, M. Crowther, I authorise you to take charge of those
papers and make what use you can of them. And now, messieurs, I wish
you good day."
Desjardeaux merely bowed coldly, but Crowther sprang up and held out
his hand.
"You have converted me, M. Poirot. Fantastic as the whole thing seems,
I believe utterly in the truth of what you have told us."
Ingles left at the same time as we did.
"I am not disappointed with the interview," said Poirot, as we walked
along. "I did not expect to convince Desjardeaux, but I have at least
ensured that, if I die, my knowledge does not die with me. And I have
made one or two converts. _Pas si mal!_"
"I'm with you, as you know," said Ingles. "By the way, I'm going out to
China as soon as I can get off."
"Is that wise?"
"No," said Ingles dryly. "But it's necessary. One must do what one can."
"Ah, you are a brave man!" cried Poirot with emotion. "If we were not
in the street, I would embrace you."
I fancied that Ingles looked rather relieved.
"I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you
are in London," he growled.
"That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will
not succeed in massacring Hastings also, that is all. That would annoy
me greatly."
I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark that I had no
intention of letting myself be massacred, and shortly afterwards Ingles
parted from us.
For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot at length broke by
uttering a totally unexpected remark.
"I think--I really think--that I shall have to bring my brother into
this."
"Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"
"You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that all celebrated
detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated then they
are were it not for constitutional indolence?"
Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it wellnigh
impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. That manner was
very evident at the moment.
"What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this
new idea.
"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in
Belgium."
"What does he do?" I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a
half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late
Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.
"He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent
disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own--which is
saying a great deal."
"Is he like you to look at?"
"Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches."
"Is he older than you, or younger?"
"He happens to have been born on the same day."
"A twin," I cried.
"Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing
accuracy. But here we are at home again. Let us at once get to work on
that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."
But the Duchess's necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite
another description was waiting for us.
Our landlady, Mrs. Pearson, at once informed us that a hospital nurse
had called and was waiting to see Poirot.
We found her sitting in the big arm-chair facing the window, a
pleasant-faced woman of middle age, in a dark blue uniform. She was a
little reluctant to come to the point, but Poirot soon put her at her
ease, and she embarked upon her story.
"You see, M. Poirot, I've never come across anything of the kind
before. I was sent for, from the Lark Sisterhood, to go down to a case
in Hertfordshire. An old gentleman, it is, Mr. Templeton. Quite a
pleasant house, and quite pleasant people. The wife, Mrs. Templeton, is
much younger than her husband, and he has a son by his first marriage
who lives there. I don't know that the young man and the step-mother
always get on together. He's not quite what you'd call normal--not
'wanting' exactly, but decidedly dull in the intellect. Well, this
illness of Mr. Templeton's seemed to me from the first to be very
mysterious. At times there seemed really nothing the matter with him,
and then he suddenly has one of these gastric attacks with pain and
vomiting. But the doctor seemed quite satisfied, and it wasn't for me
to say anything. But I couldn't help thinking about it. And then--"
She paused, and became rather red.
"Something happened which aroused your suspicions?" suggested Poirot.
"Yes."
But she still seemed to find it difficult to go on.
"I found the servants were passing remarks too."
"About Mr. Templeton's illness?"
"Oh, no! About--about this other thing--"
"Mrs. Templeton?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Templeton and the doctor, perhaps?"
Poirot had an uncanny flair in these things. The nurse threw him a
grateful glance and went on.
"They _were_ passing remarks. And then one day I happened to see
them together myself--in the garden--"
It was left at that. Our client was in such an agony of outraged
propriety that no one could feel it necessary to ask exactly what she
had seen in the garden. She had evidently seen quite enough to make up
her own mind on the situation.
"The attacks got worse and worse. Dr. Treves said it was all perfectly
natural and to be expected, and that Mr. Templeton could not possibly
live long, but I've never seen anything like it before myself--not in
all my long experience of nursing. It seemed to me much more like some
form of--"
She paused, hesitating.
"Arsenical poisoning?" said Poirot helpfully.
She nodded.
"And then, too, he, the patient, I mean, said something queer. 'They'll
do for me, the four of them. They'll do for me yet.'"
"Eh?" said Poirot quickly.
"Those were his very words, M. Poirot. He was in great pain at the
time, of course, and hardly knew what he was saying."
"'They'll do for me, the four of them,'" repeated Poirot thoughtfully.
"What did he mean by 'the four of them,' do you think?"
"That I can't say, M. Poirot. I thought perhaps he meant his wife
and son, and the doctor, and perhaps Miss Clark, Mrs. Templeton's
companion. That would make four, wouldn't it? He might think they were