Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?"
Miss Monro said nothing-or everything.
The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady's glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart.
"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become of him."
"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"
"Oh, simply ages-not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie, very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr. Poirot?"
"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly.
"But you see, it may 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! / 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 ir 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?"
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.
15. Terrible Catastropfie
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 wellknown 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.
"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 today 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 MadameOlivier."
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."
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"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.
The Big Four hp-5 Page 13
