The Big Four

by Agatha Christie

  Japp departed in search of young Paynter, and Poirot and I were left alone together.

  “The Big Four, Hastings,” cried Poirot. “Once again, the Big Four. Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen, the head and brains of the Big Four.”

  “But who—how—”

  “Hush, here they come.”

  Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot’s questions readily enough.

  “I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherleys,” he explained. “What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a latchkey, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar, Ah Ling, just whisking round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken.”

  “When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came to live with him?”

  “Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father) quarrelled, you know.”

  “But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite of all the years that had passed?”

  “Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer’s advertisement.”

  Poirot asked no more questions.

  Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his consulting patients. He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be thoroughly modern in his methods.

  “I wish I could remember about the window,” he said frankly. “But it’s dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something that never existed. That’s psychology, isn’t it, M. Poirot? You see, I’ve read all about your methods, and I may say I’m an enormous admirer of yours. No, I suppose it’s pretty certain that the Chinaman put the powdered opium in the curry, but he’ll never admit it, and we shall never know why. But holding a man down in a fire—that’s not in keeping with our Chinese friend’s character, it seems to me.”

  I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main street of Market Handford.

  “Do you think he let a confederate in?” I asked. “By the way, I suppose Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?” (The Inspector had passed into the police station on some business or other.) “The emissaries of the Big Four are pretty spry.”

  “Japp is keeping an eye on both of them,” said Poirot grimly. “They have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered.”

  “Well, at any rate we know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do with it.”

  “You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes quite fatiguing.”

  “You old fox,” I laughed. “You never will commit yourself.”

  “To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me—all but the words, Yellow Jasmine—and I am coming to agree with you that they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet—”

  He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us, and we all sought quarters at the inn.

  I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting room reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his face contorted with agony.

  “Do not converse with me,” he cried, waving an agitated hand. “Not until I know that all is well—that the arrest is made. Ah! but my psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it is because it is important. Everyone has said—‘Yellow Jasmine? There is yellow jasmine growing up the house—it means nothing.’”

  “Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen.” He held up a little book he was holding.

  “My friend, it struck me that it would be well to inquire into the subject. What exactly is yellow jasmine? This little book has told me. Listen.”

  He read.

  “Gelsemini Radix. Yellow Jasmine. Composition: Alkaloids gelseminine C22H26N2O3, a potent poison acting like coniine; gelsemine C12H14NO2, acting like strychnine; gelsemic acid, etc. Gelsemium is a powerful depressant to the central nervous system. At a late stage in its action it paralyses the motor nerve endings, and in large doses causes giddiness and loss of muscular power. Death is due to paralysis of the respiratory centre.”

  “You see, Hastings? At the beginning I had an inkling of the truth when Japp made his remark about a live man being forced into the fire. I realized then that it was a dead man who was burned.”

  “But why? What was the point?”

  “My friend, if you were to shoot a man, or stab a man after he were dead, or even knock him on the head, it would be apparent that the injuries were inflicted after death. But with his head charred to a cinder, no one is going to hunt about for obscure causes of death, and a man who has apparently just escaped being poisoned at dinner is not likely to be poisoned just afterwards. Who is lying, that is always the question? I decided to believe Ah Ling—”

  “What!” I exclaimed.

  “You are surprised, Hastings? Ah Ling knew of the existence of the Big Four, that was evident—so evident that it was clear he knew nothing of their association with the crime until that moment. Had he been the murderer, he would have been able to retain his impassive face perfectly. So I decided, then, to believe Ah Ling, and I fixed my suspicions on Gerald Paynter. It seemed to me that Number Four would have found an impersonation of a long-lost nephew very easy.”

  “What!” I cried. “Number Four?”

  “No, Hastings, not Number Four. As soon as I had read up the subject of yellow jasmine, I saw the truth. In fact, it leapt to the eye.”

  “As always,” I said coldly, “it doesn’t leap to mine.”

  “Because you will not use your little grey cells. Who had a chance to tamper with the curry?”

  “Ah Ling. No one else.”

  “No one else? What about the doctor?”

  “But that was afterwards.”

  “Of course it was afterwards. There was no trace of powdered opium in the curry served to Mr. Paynter, but acting in obedience to the suspicions Dr. Quentin had aroused, the old man eats none of it, and preserves it to give to his medical attendant, whom he summons according to plan. Dr. Quentin arrives, takes charge of the curry, and gives Mr. Paynter an injection—of strychnine, he says, but really of yellow jasmine—a poisonous dose. When the drug begins to take effect, he departs, after unlatching the window. Then, in the night, he returns by the window, finds the manuscript, and shoves Mr. Paynter into the fire. He does not heed the newspaper that drops to the floor and is covered by the old man’s body. Paynter knew what drug he had been given, and strove to accuse the Big Four of his murder. It is easy for Quentin to mix powdered opium with the curry before handing it over to be analysed. He gives his version of the conversation with the old man, and mentions the strychnine injection casually, in case the mark of the hypodermic needle is noticed. Suspicion at once is divided between accident and the guilt of Ah Ling owing to the poison of the curry.”

  “But Dr. Quentin cannot be Number Four?”

  “I fancy he can. There is undoubtedly a real Dr. Quentin who is probably abroad somewhere. Number Four has simply masqueraded as him for a short time. The arrangements with Dr. Bolitho were all carried out by correspondence, the man who was to do locum orginally having been taken ill at the last minute.”

  At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.

  “Have you got him?” cried Poirot anxiously.

  Japp shook his head, very out of breath.

  “Bolitho came back from his holiday this morning—recalled by telegram. No one knows w
ho sent it. The other man left last night. We’ll catch him yet, though.”

  Poirot shook his head quietly.

  “I think not,” he said, and absentmindedly he drew a big 4 on the table with a fork.

  Eleven

  A CHESS PROBLEM

  Poirot and I often dined at a small restaurant in Soho. We were there one evening, when we observed a friend at an adjacent table. It was Inspector Japp, and as there was room at our table, he came and joined us. It was some time since either of us had seen him.

  “Never do you drop in to see us nowadays,” declared Poirot reproachfully. “Not since the affair of the Yellow Jasmine have we met, and that is nearly a month ago.”

  “I’ve been up north—that’s why. How are things with you? Big Four still going strong—eh?”

  Poirot shook a finger at him reproachfully.

  “Ah! You mock yourself at me—but the Big Four—they exist.”

  “Oh! I don’t doubt that—but they’re not the hub of the universe, as you make out.”

  “My friend, you are very much mistaken. The greatest power for evil in the world today is this ‘Big Four.’ To what end they are tending, no one knows, but there has never been another such criminal organization. The finest brain in China at the head of it, an American millionaire, and a French woman scientist as members, and for the fourth—”

  Japp interrupted.

  “I know—I know. Regular bee in your bonnet over it all. It’s becoming your little mania, Moosior Poirot. Let’s talk of something else for a change. Take any interest in chess?”

  “I have played it, yes.”

  “Did you see that curious business yesterday? Match between two players of worldwide reputation, and one died during the game?”

  “I saw mention of it. Dr. Savaronoff, the Russian champion, was one of the players, and the other, who succumbed to heart failure, was the brilliant young American, Gilmour Wilson.”

  “Quite right. Savaronoff beat Rubinstein and became Russian champion some years ago. Wilson was said to be a second Capablanca.”

  “A very curious occurrence,” mused Poirot. “If I mistake not, you have a particular interest in the matter?”

  Japp gave a rather embarrassed laugh.

  “You’ve hit it, Moosior Poirot. I’m puzzled. Wilson was sound as a bell—no trace of heart trouble. His death is quite inexplicable.”

  “You suspect Dr. Savaronoff of putting him out of the way?” I cried.

  “Hardly that,” said Japp dryly. “I don’t think even a Russian would murder another man in order not to be beaten at chess—and anyway, from all I can make out, the boot was likely to be on the other leg. The doctor is supposed to be very hot stuff—second to Lasker they say he is.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  “Then what exactly is your little idea?” he asked. “Why should Wilson be poisoned? For, I assume, of course, that it is poison you suspect.”

  “Naturally. Heart failure means your heart stops beating—that’s all there is to that. That’s what a doctor says officially at the moment, but privately he tips us the wink that he’s not satisfied.”

  “When is the autopsy to take place?”

  “Tonight. Wilson’s death was extraordinarily sudden. He seemed quite as usual and was actually moving one of the pieces when he suddenly fell forward—dead!”

  “There are very few poisons would act in such a fashion,” objected Poirot.

  “I know. The autopsy will help us, I expect. But why should anyone want Gilmour Wilson out of the way—that’s what I’d like to know? Harmless, unassuming young fellow. Just come over here from the States, and apparently hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

  “It seems incredible,” I mused.

  “Not at all,” said Poirot, smiling. “Japp has his theory, I can see.”

  “I have, Moosior Poirot. I don’t believe the poison was meant for Wilson—it was meant for the other man.”

  “Savaronoff?”

  “Yes. Savaronoff fell foul of the Bolsheviks at the outbreak of the Revolution. He was even reported killed. In reality he escaped, and for three years endured incredible hardships in the wilds of Siberia. His sufferings were so great that he is now a changed man. His friends and acquaintances declare they would hardly have recognized him. His hair is white, and his whole aspect that of a man terribly aged. He is a semi-invalid, and seldom goes out, living alone with a niece, Sonia Daviloff, and a Russian manservant in a flat down Westminster way. It is possible that he still considers himself a marked man. Certainly he was very unwilling to agree to this chess contest. He refused several times point blank, and it was only when the newspapers took it up and began making a fuss about the ‘unsportsmanlike refusal’ that he gave in. Gilmour Wilson had gone on challenging him with real Yankee pertinacity, and in the end he got his way. Now I ask you, Moosior Poirot, why wasn’t he willing? Because he didn’t want attention drawn to him. Didn’t want somebody or other to get on his track. That’s my solution—Gilmour Wilson got pipped by mistake.”

  “There is no one who has any private reason to gain by Savaronoff’s death?”

  “Well, his niece, I suppose. He’s recently come into an immense fortune. Left him by Madame Gospoja whose husband was a sugar profiteer under the old regime. They had an affair together once, I believe, and she refused steadfastly to credit the reports of his death.”

  “Where did the match take place?”

  “In Savaronoff’s own flat. He’s an invalid, as I told you.”

  “Many people there to watch it?”

  “At least a dozen—probably more.”

  Poirot made an expressive grimace.

  “My poor Japp, your task is not an easy one.”

  “Once I know definitely that Wilson was poisoned, I can get on.”

  “Has it occurred to you that, in the meantime, supposing your assumption that Savaronoff was the intended victim to be correct, the murderer may try again?”

  “Of course it has. Two men are watching Savaronoff’s flat.”

  “That will be very useful if anyone should call with a bomb under his arm,” said Poirot dryly.

  “You’re getting interested, Moosior Poirot,” said Japp, with a twinkle. “Care to come round to the mortuary and see Wilson’s body before the doctors start on it? Who knows, his tie pin may be askew, and that may give you a valuable clue that will solve the mystery.”

  “My dear Japp, all through dinner my fingers have been itching to rearrange your own tie pin. You permit, yes? Ah! that is much more pleasing to the eye. Yes, by all means, let us go to the mortuary.”

  I could see that Poirot’s attention was completely captivated by this new problem. It was so long since he had shown any interest over any outside case that I was quite rejoiced to see him back in his old form.

  For my own part, I felt a deep pity as I looked down upon the motionless form and convulsed face of the hapless young American who had come by his death in such a strange way. Poirot examined the body attentively. There was no mark on it anywhere, except a small scar on the left hand.

  “And the doctor says that’s a burn, not a cut,” explained Japp.

  Poirot’s attention shifted to the contents of the dead man’s pockets which a constable spread out for our inspection. There was nothing much—a handkerchief, keys, notecase filled with notes, and some unimportant letters. But one object standing by itself filled Poirot with interest.

  “A chessman!” he exclaimed. “A white bishop. Was that in his pocket?”

  “No, clasped in his hand. We had quite a difficulty to get it out of his fingers. It must be returned to Dr. Savaronoff sometime. It’s part of a very beautiful set of carved ivory chessmen.”

  “Permit me to return it to him. It will make an excuse for my going there.”

  “Aha!” cried Japp. “So you want to come in on this case?”

  “I admit it. So skilfully have you aroused my interest.”

  “That’s fine. Got you away from
your brooding. Captain Hastings is pleased, too, I can see.”

  “Quite right,” I said, laughing.

  Poirot turned back towards the body.

  “No other little detail you can tell me about—him?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not even—that he was left-handed?”

  “You’re a wizard, Moosior Poirot. How did you know that? He was left-handed. Not that it’s anything to do with the case.”

  “Nothing whatever,” agreed Poirot hastily, seeing that Japp was slightly ruffled. “My little joke—that was all. I like to play you the trick, see you.”

  We went out upon an amicable understanding.

  The following morning saw us wending our way to Dr. Savaronoff’s flat in Westminster.

  “Sonia Daviloff,” I mused. “It’s a pretty name.”

  Poirot stopped, and threw me a look of despair.

  “Always looking for romance! You are incorrigible. It would serve you right if Sonia Daviloff turned out to be our friend and enemy the Countess Vera Rossakoff.”

  At the mention of the countess, my face clouded over.

  “Surely, Poirot, you don’t suspect—”

  “But, no, no. It was a joke! I have not the Big Four on the brain to that extent, whatever Japp may say.”

  The door of the flat was opened to us by a manservant with a peculiarly wooden face. It seemed impossible to believe that that impassive countenance could ever display emotion.

  Poirot presented a card on which Japp had scribbled a few words of introduction, and we were shown into a low, long room furnished with rich hangings and curios. One or two wonderful ikons hung upon the walls, and exquisite Persian rugs lay upon the floor. A samovar stood upon a table.

  I was examining one of the ikons which I judged to be of considerable value, and turned to see Poirot prone upon the floor. Beautiful as the rug was, it hardly seemed to me to necessitate such close attention.

  “Is it such a very wonderful specimen?” I asked.

  “Eh? Oh! the rug? But no, it was not the rug I was remarking. But it is a beautiful specimen, far too beautiful to have a large nail wantonly driven through the middle of it. No, Hastings,” as I came forward, “the nail is not there now. But the hole remains.”