The Big Four

by Agatha Christie

  I was growing interested.

  “So you fancy you may be able to trace his identity through his connection with the stage?”

  “Your reasoning is always brilliant, Hastings.”

  “It might have been better,” I said coldly, “if the idea had come to you sooner. We have wasted a lot of time.”

  “You are in error, mon ami. No more time has been wasted than was unavoidable. For some months now my agents have been engaged on the task. Joseph Aarons is one of them. You remember him? They have compiled a list for me of men fulfilling the necessary qualifications—young men round about the age of thirty, of more or less nondescript appearance, and with a gift for playing character parts—men, moreover, who have definitely left the stage within the last three years.”

  “Well?” I said, deeply interested.

  “The list was, necessarily, rather a long one. For some time now, we have been engaged on the task of elimination. And finally we have boiled the whole thing down to four names. Here they are, my friend.”

  He tossed me over a sheet of paper. I read its contents aloud.

  “Ernest Luttrell. Son of a North Country parson. Always had a kink of some kind in his moral makeup. Was expelled from his public school. Went on the stage at the age of twenty-three. (Then followed a list of parts he had played, with dates and places.) Addicted to drugs. Supposed to have gone to Australia four years ago. Cannot be traced after leaving England. Age 32, height 5ft. 10½in., clean-shaven, hair brown, nose straight, complexion fair, eyes grey.

  “John St. Maur. Assumed name. Real name not known. Believed to be of cockney extraction. On stage since quite a child. Did music hall impersonations. Not been heard of for three years. Age, about 33, height 5ft. 10in., slim build, blue eyes, fair colouring.

  “Austen Lee. Assumed name. Real name Austen Foly. Good family. Always had taste for acting and distinguished himself in that way at Oxford. Brilliant war record. Acted in—(The usual list followed. It included many repertory plays.) An enthusiast on criminology. Had bad nervous breakdown as the result of a motor accident three and a half years ago, and has not appeared on the stage since. No clue to his present whereabouts. Age 35, height 5ft. 9½in., complexion fair, eyes blue, hair brown.

  “Claud Darrell. Supposed to be real name. Some mystery about his origin. Played at music halls, and also in repertory plays. Seems to have had no intimate friends. Was in China in 1919. Returned by way of America. Played a few parts in New York. Did not appear on stage one night, and has never been heard of since. New York police say most mysterious disappearance. Age about 33, hair brown, fair complexion, grey eyes. Height 5ft. 10½in.”

  “Most interesting,” I said, as I laid down the paper. “And so this is the result of the investigation of months? These four names. Which of them are you inclined to suspect?”

  Poirot made an eloquent gesture.

  “Mon ami, for the moment it is an open question. I would just point out to you that Claud Darrell has been in China and America—a fact not without significance, perhaps, but we must not allow ourselves to be unduly biased by that point. It may be a mere coincidence.”

  “And the next step?” I asked eagerly.

  “Affairs are already in train. Every day cautiously worded advertisements will appear. Friends and relatives of one or the other will be asked to communicate with my solicitor at his office. Even today we might—Aha, the telephone! Probably it is, as usual, the wrong number, and they will regret to have troubled us, but it may be—yes, it may be—that something has arisen.”

  I crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

  “Yes, yes. M. Poirot’s rooms. Yes, Captain Hastings speaking. Oh, it’s you, Mr. McNeil! (McNeil and Hodgson were Poirot’s solicitors.) I’ll tell him. Yes, we’ll come round at once.”

  I replaced the receiver and turned to Poirot, my eyes dancing with excitement.

  “I say, Poirot, there’s a woman there. Friend of Claud Darrell’s. Miss Flossie Monro. McNeil wants you to come round.”

  “At the instant!” cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and reappearing with a hat.

  A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr. McNeil’s private office. Sitting in the armchair facing the solicitor was a somewhat lurid-looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.

  “Ah, here is M. Poirot!” said Mr. McNeil. “M. Poirot, this is Miss—er—Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some information.”

  “Ah, but that is most kind!” cried Poirot.

  He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by the hand.

  “Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office,” he added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.

  This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and simpered.

  “Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!” she exclaimed. “I know what you Frenchmen are like.”

  “Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that I am a Frenchman—I am a Belgian, you see.”

  “I’ve been to Ostend myself,” said Miss Monro.

  The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.

  “And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?” continued Poirot.

  “I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time,” explained the lady. “And I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and, my time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about poor old Claudie—lawyers, too—maybe it’s a fortune looking for the rightful heir. I’d better go round at once.”

  Mr. McNeil rose.

  “Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?”

  “You are too amiable. But stay—a little idea presents itself to me. The hour of the déjeuner approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?”

  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.”

  “Is it 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 someone 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, madem
oiselle, 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-grey. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose. But oh, what an artist! I never saw anyone 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 tonight. I think I know where to lay my hands 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 handbag, 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 today. 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’s 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 someone 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 handbag 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 latchkey. But she must have had a latchkey 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 someone 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. A
ffixed 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.”

  Fifteen

  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 realized 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 passbook—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 a mistake to underestimate your adversary. Remember that, mon ami.” And I realized 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 has arranged for him to be present at our little conference this morning.”