The Big Four
all in league against him."
"Quite so, quite so," said Poirot, in a preoccupied voice. "What about
food? Could you take no precautions about that?"
"I'm always doing what I can. But, of course, sometimes Mrs. Templeton
insists on bringing him his food herself, and then there are the times
when I am off duty."
"Exactly. And you are not sure enough of your ground to go to the
police?"
The nurse's face showed her horror at the mere idea.
"What I have done, M. Poirot, is this. Mr. Templeton had a very bad
attack after partaking of a bowl of soup. I took a little from the
bottom of the bowl afterwards, and have brought it up with me. I have
been spared for the day to visit a sick mother, as Mr. Templeton was
well enough to be left."
She drew out a little bottle of dark fluid and handed it to Poirot.
"Excellent, mademoiselle. We will have this analysed immediately. If
you will return here in, say, an hour's time I think that we shall be
able to dispose of your suspicions one way or another."
First extracting from our visitor her name and qualifications, he
ushered her out. Then he wrote a note and sent it off together with
the bottle of soup. Whilst we waited to hear the result, Poirot amused
himself by verifying the nurse's credentials, somewhat to my surprise.
"No, no, my friend," he declared. "I do well to be careful. Do not
forget the Big Four are on our track."
However, he soon elicited the information that a nurse of the name of
Mabel Palmer was a member of the Lark Institute and had been sent to
the case in question.
"So far, so good," he said, with a twinkle. "And now here comes Nurse
Palmer back again, and here also is our analyst's report."
Both the nurse and I waited anxiously whilst Poirot read the analyst's
report.
"Is there arsenic in it?" she asked breathlessly.
Poirot shook his head, refolding the paper.
"No."
We were both immeasurably surprised.
"There is no arsenic in it," continued Poirot. "But there is antimony.
And that being the case, we will start immediately for Hertfordshire.
Pray Heaven that we are not too late."
It was decided that the simplest plan was for Poirot to represent
himself truly as a detective, but that the ostensible reason of his
visit should be to question Mrs. Templeton about a servant formerly in
her employment whose name he obtained from Nurse Palmer, and who he
could represent as being concerned in a jewel robbery.
It was late when we arrived at Elmstead, as the house was called. We
had allowed Nurse Palmer to precede us by about twenty minutes, so that
there should be no question of our all arriving together.
Mrs. Templeton, a tall dark woman, with sinuous movements and uneasy
eyes, received us. I noticed that as Poirot announced his profession,
she drew in her breath with a sudden hiss, as though badly startled,
but she answered his question about the maid-servant readily enough.
And then, to test her, Poirot embarked upon a long history of a
poisoning case in which a guilty wife had figured. His eyes never left
her face as he talked, and try as she would, she could hardly conceal
her rising agitation. Suddenly, with an incoherent word of excuse, she
hurried from the room.
We were not long left alone. A squarely-built man with a small red
moustache and pince-nez came in.
"Dr. Treves," he introduced himself. "Mrs. Templeton asked me to make
her excuses to you. She's in a very bad state, you know. Nervous
strain. Worry over her husband and all that. I've prescribed bed and
bromide. But she hopes you'll stay and take pot luck, and I'm to do
host. We've heard of you down here, M. Poirot, and we mean to make the
most of you. Ah, here's Micky!"
A shambling young man entered the room. He had a very round face, and
foolish-looking eyebrows raised as though in perpetual surprise. He
grinned awkwardly as he shook hands. This was clearly the "wanting"
son.
Presently we all went in to dinner. Dr. Treves left the room--to open
some wine, I think---and suddenly the boy's physiognomy underwent a
startling change. He leant forward, staring at Poirot.
"You've come about father," he said, nodding his head. "_I_ know.
I know lots of things--but nobody thinks I do. Mother will be glad when
father's dead and she can marry Dr. Treves. She isn't my own mother,
you know. I don't like her. She wants father to die."
It was all rather horrible. Luckily, before Poirot had time to reply,
the doctor came back, and we had to carry on a forced conversation.
And then suddenly Poirot lay back in his chair with a hollow groan. His
face was contorted with pain.
"My dear sir, what's the matter?" cried the doctor.
"A sudden spasm. I am used to them. No, no, I require no assistance
from you, doctor. If I might lie down upstairs."
His request was instantly acceded to, and I accompanied him upstairs,
where he collapsed on the bed, groaning heavily.
For the first minute or two I had been taken in, but I had quickly
realised that Poirot was--as he would have put it--playing the comedy,
and that his object was to be left alone upstairs near the patient's
room.
Hence I was quite prepared when, the instant we were alone, he sprang
up.
"Quick, Hastings, the window. There is ivy outside. We can climb down
before they begin to suspect."
"Climb down?"
"Yes, we must get out of this house at once. You saw him at dinner?"
"The doctor?"
"No, young Templeton. His trick with his bread. Do you remember what
Flossie Monro told us before she died? That Claud Darrell had a
habit of dabbing his bread on the table to pick up crumbs. Hastings,
this is a vast plot, and that vacant-looking young man is our arch
enemy--Number Four! Hurry."
I did not wait to argue. Incredible as the whole thing seemed, it was
wiser not to delay. We scrambled down the ivy as quietly as we could
and made a bee-line for the small town and the railway station. We were
just able to catch the last train, the 8.34 which would land us in town
about eleven o'clock.
"A plot," said Poirot thoughtfully. "How many of them were in it, I
wonder? I suspect that the whole Templeton family are just so many
agents of the Big Four. Did they simply want to decoy us down there? Or
was it more subtle than that. Did they intend to play the comedy down
there and keep me interested until they had had time to do--what? I
wonder now."
He remained very thoughtful.
Arrived at our lodgings, he restrained me at the door of the
sitting-room.
"Attention, Hastings. I have my suspicions. Let me enter first."
He did so, and, to my slight amusement, took the precaution to press
on the electric switch with an old galosh. Then he went round the room
like a strange cat, cautiously, delicately, on the alert for danger. I
watched him for some time, remaining obediently where I had been put by
the wall.
"It's all right, Poirot," I said impatiently.
"It seems so, _mon ami_, it seems so. But let us make sure."
"Rot," I said. "I shall light the fire, anyway, and have a pipe. I've
caught you out for once. You had the matches last and you didn't put
them back in the holder as usual--the very thing you're always cursing
me for doing."
I stretched out my hand. I heard Poirot's warning cry--saw him leaping
towards me--my hand touched the match-box.
Then--a flash of blue flame--an ear-rending crash--and darkness--
I came to myself to find the familiar face of our old friend Dr.
Ridgeway bending over me. An expression of relief passed over his
features.
"Keep still," he said soothingly. "You're all right. There's been an
accident, you know."
"Poirot?" I murmured.
"You're in my digs. Everything's quite all right."
A cold fear clutched at my heart. His evasion woke a horrible fear.
"Poirot?" I reiterated. "What of Poirot."
He saw that I had to know and that further evasions were useless.
"By a miracle you escaped--Poirot--did not!"
A cry burst from my lips.
"Not dead? Not dead?"
Ridgeway bowed his head, his features working with emotion.
With desperate energy I pulled myself to a sitting position.
"Poirot may be dead," I said weakly. "But his spirit lives on. I will
carry on his work! Death to the Big Four!"
Then I fell back, fainting.
16. THE DYING CHINAMAN
Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in March.
Poirot--the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot--dead! There was a
particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was
certain to catch his eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange--and
thereby touch off the explosion. That, as a matter of fact, it was I
who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with
unavailing remorse. It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle
that I had not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.
Although it had seemed to me as though I regained consciousness almost
immediately, it was in reality over twenty-four hours before I came
back to life. It was not until the evening of the day following that I
was able to stagger feebly into an adjoining room, and view with deep
emotion the plain elm coffin which held the remains of one of the most
marvellous men this world has ever known.
From the very first moment of regaining consciousness I had only one
purpose in mind--to avenge Poirot's death, and to hunt down the Big
Four remorselessly.
I had thought that Ridgeway would have been of one mind with me about
this, but to my surprise the good doctor seemed unaccountably lukewarm.
"Get back to South America" was his advice, tendered on every occasion.
Why attempt the impossible? Put as delicately as possible, his opinion
amounted to this:--If Poirot, the unique Poirot, had failed, was it
likely that I should succeed?
But I was obstinate. Putting aside any question as to whether I had the
necessary qualifications for the task (and I may say in passing that
I did not entirely agree with his views on this point), I had worked
so long with Poirot that I knew his methods by heart, and felt fully
capable of taking up the work where he had laid it down; it was, with
me, a question of feeling. My friend had been foully murdered. Was
I to go tamely back to South America without an effort to bring his
murderers to justice?
I said all this and more to Ridgeway, who listened attentively enough.
"All the same," he said when I had finished, "my advice does not vary.
I am earnestly convinced that Poirot himself, if he were here, would
urge you to return. In his name, I beg of you, Hastings, abandon these
wild ideas and go back to your ranch."
To that only one answer was possible, and, shaking his head sadly, he
said no more.
It was a month before I was fully restored to health. Towards the end
of April, I sought, and obtained, an interview with the Home Secretary.
Mr. Crowther's manner was reminiscent of that of Dr. Ridgeway. It was
soothing and negative. Whilst appreciating the offer of my services,
he gently and considerately declined them. The papers referred to by
Poirot had passed into his keeping, and he assured me that all possible
steps were being taken to deal with the approaching menace.
With that cold comfort I was forced to be satisfied. Mr. Crowther ended
the interview by urging me to return to South America. I found the
whole thing profoundly unsatisfactory.
I should, I suppose, in its proper place, have described Poirot's
funeral. It was a solemn and moving ceremony, and the extraordinary
number of floral tributes passed belief. They came from high and low
alike, and bore striking testimony to the place my friend had made
for himself in the country of his adoption. For myself, I was frankly
overcome by emotion as I stood by the grave side and thought of all our