"Wonderful little man, they say. But he's a quitter.
How do I know? I put him on a deal, and he turned me down the last minute. I'm not taking any more of your Monsieur Hercule Poirot."
It was at moments such as these that I felt my cheek pads most wearisome!
And then Miss Martin told me a rather curious story.
Ryland had gone to London for the day, taking Appleby with him. Miss Martin and I were strolling together in the garden after tea. I liked the girl very much, she was so unaffected and so natural. I could see that there was something on her mind, and at last out it came.
"Do you know. Major Neville," she said, "I am really thinking of resigning my post here."
I looked somewhat astonished, and she went on hur riedly.
"Oh! I know it's a wonderful job to have got, in a way. I suppose most people would think me a fool to throw it up. But I can't stand abuse. Major Neville. To be sworn at like a trooper is more than I can bear. No gentleman would do such a thing.''
"Has Ryland been swearing at you?"
She nodded.
"Of course, he's always rather irritable and shorttempered.
That one expects. It's all in the day's work.
But to fly into such an absolute fury-over nothing at all. He really looked as though he could have murdered me! And, as I say, over nothing at all!"
"Tell me about it?" I said, keenly interested.
"As you know, I open all Mr. Ryland's letters. Some I hand on to Mr. Appleby, others I deal with myself, but I do all the preliminary sorting. Now there are certain letters that come, written on blue paper, and with a tiny 4 marked on the corner-I beg your pardon, did you speak?"
I had been unable to repress a stifled exclamation, but I hurriedly shook my head, and begged her to continue.
"Well, as I was saying, these letters come, and there are strict orders that they are never to be opened, but to be handed over to Mr. Ryland intact. And, of course, I always do so. But there was an unusually heavy mail yesterday morning, and I was opening the letters in a terrific hurry. By mistake I opened one of these letters.
As soon as I saw what I had done, I took it to Mr.
Ryland and explained. To my utter amazement he flew into the most awful rage. As I tell you, I was quite frightened."
"What was there in the letter, I wonder, to upset him so?"
"Absolutely nothing-that's just the curious part of it. I had read it before I discovered my mistake. It was quite short. I can still remember it word for word, and there was nothing in it that could possibly upset any one."
"You can repeat it, you say?" I encouraged her.
"Yes." She paused a minute and then repeated slowly, whilst I noted down the words unobtrusively, the following:-"dear sir,-The essential thing now, I should say, is to see the property. If you insist on the quarry being included, then seventeen thousand seems reasonable. 11% commission too much, 4% is ample.
"Yours truly,
"arthur leversham."
Miss Martin went on:-"Evidently about some property Mr. Ryland was thinking of buying. But really, I do feel that a man who can get into a rage over such a trifle is, well, dangerous.
What do you think I ought to do. Major Neville?
You've more experience of the world than I have."
I soothed the girl down, pointed out to her that Mr.
Ryland had probably been suffering from the enemy of his race-dyspepsia. In the end I sent her away quite comforted. But I was not so easily satisfied myself.
When the girl had gone, and I was alone, I took out my notebook, and ran over the letter which I had jotted down. What did it mean-this apparently innocentsounding missive? Did it concern some business deal which Ryland was undertaking, and was he anxious that no details about it should leak out until it was carried through? That was a possible explanation. But I remembered the small figure 4 with which the envelopes were marked, and I felt that, at last, I was on the track of the thing we were seeking.
I puzzled over the letter all that evening, and most of the next day-and then suddenly the solution came to me. It was so simple, too. The figure 4 was the clue.
Read every fourth word in the letter, and an entirely different message appeared. "Essential should see you quarry seventeen eleven four."
The solution of the figures was easy. Seventeen stood for the seventeenth of October-which was tomorrow, eleven was the time, and four was the signature-either referring to the mysterious Number Four himself-or else it was the "trade-mark" so to speak, of the Big Four. The quarry was also intelligible. There was a big disused quarry on the estate about half a mile from the house-a lonely spot, ideal for a secret meeting.
For a moment or two I was tempted to run the show myself. It would be such a feather in my cap, for once, to have the pleasure of crowing over Poirot.
But in the end I overcame the temptation. This was a big business-I had no right to play a lone hand, and perhaps jeopardise our chances of success. For the first time, we had stolen a march upon our enemies. We must make good this time-and, disguise the fact as I might, Poirot had the better brain of the two.
I wrote off post haste to him, laying the facts before him, and explaining how urgent it was that we should overhear what went on at the interview. If he liked to leave it to me, well and good, but I gave him detailed instructions how to reach the quarry from the station in case he should deem it wise to be present himself.
I took the letter down to the village and posted it myself. I had been able to communicate with Poirot throughout my stay, by the simple expedient of posting my letters myself, but we had agreed that he should not attempt to communicate with me in case my letters should be tampered with.
I was in a glow of excitement the following evening.
No guests were staying in the house, and I was busy with Mr. Ryland in his study all the evening. I had foreseen that this would be the case, which was why I had had no hope of being able to meet Poirot at the station. I was, however, confident that I would be dismissed well before eleven o'clock.
Sure enough, just after- ten-thirty, Mr. Ryland glanced at the clock, and announced that he was "through." I took the hint and retired discreetly. I went upstairs as though going to bed, but slipped quietly down a side staircase and let myself out into the garden, having taken the precaution to don a dark overcoat to hide my white shirtfront.
I had gone some way down the garden when I chanced to look over my shoulder. Mr. Ryland was just stepping out from his study window into the garden. He was starting to keep the appointment. I redoubled my pace, so as to get a clear start. I arrived at the quarry somewhat out of breath. There seemed no one about, and I crawled into a thick tangle of bushes and awaited developments.
Ten minutes later, just on the stroke of eleven, Ryland stalked up, his hat over his eyes and the inevitable cigar in his mouth. He gave a quick look round, and then plunged into the hollows of the quarry below.
Presently I heard a low murmur of voices come up to me. Evidently the other man-or men-whoever they were, had arrived first at the rendezvous. I crawled cautiously out of the bushes, and inch by inch, using the utmost precaution against noise, I wormed myself down the steep path. Only a boulder now separated me from the talking men. Secure in the blackness, I peeped round the edge of it and found myself facing the muzzle of a black, murderous-looking automatic!
"Hands up!" said Mr. Ryland succinctly. "I've been waiting for you."
He was seated in the shadow of the rock, so that I could not see his face, but the menace in his voice was unpleasant. Then I felt a ring of cold steel on the back of my neck, and Ryland lowered his own automatic.
"That's right, George," he drawled. "March him around here."
Raging inwardly, I was conducted to a spot in the shadows, where the unseen George (whom I suspected of being the impeccable Deaves), gagged and bound me securely.
Ryland spoke again in a tone which I had difficulty in recognising, so cold and menacing was
it.
"This is going to be the end of you two. You've got in the way of the Big Four once too often. Ever heard of land slides? There was one about here two years ago.
There's going to be another to-night. I've fixed that good and square. Say, that friend of yours doesn't keep his dates very punctually."
A wave of horror swept over me. Poirot! In another minute lie would walk straight into the trap. And I was powerless to warn him. I could only pray that he had elected to leave the matter in my hands, and had remained in London. Surely, if he had been coming, he would have been here by now.
With every minute that passed, my hopes rose.
Suddenly they were dashed to pieces. I heard footsteps-cautious footsteps, but footsteps nevertheless. I writhed in impotent agony. They came down the path, paused, and then Poirot himself appeared, his head a little on one side, peering into the shadows.
I heard the growl of satisfaction Ryland gave as he raised the big automatic and shouted "Hands up."
Deaves sprang forward as he did so, and took Poirot in the rear. The ambush was complete.
"Please to meet you, Mr. Hercule Poirot," said the American grimly.
Poirot's self-possession was marvellous. He did not turn a hair. But I saw his eyes searching in the shadows.
"My friend? He is here?"
"Yes, you are both in the trap-the trap of the Big Four."
He laughed.
"A trap?" queried Poirot.
"Say, haven't you tumbled to it yet?"
"I comprehend that there is a trap-yes," said Poirot gently. "But you are in error, monsieur. It is you who are in it-not I and my friend."
"What?" Ryland raised the big automatic, but I saw his gaze falter.
"If you fire, you commit murder watched by ten pairs of eyes, and you will be hanged for it. This place is surrounded-has been for the last hour-by Scotland Yard men. It is checkmate, Mr. Abe Ryland."
He uttered a curious whistle, and as though by magic, the place was alive with men. They seized Ryland and the valet and disarmed them. After speaking a few words to the officer in charge, Poirot took me by the arm, and led me away.
Once clear of the quarry he embraced me with vigour.
"You are alive-you are unhurt. It is magnificent.
Often have I blamed myself for letting you go."
"I'm perfectly all right," I said, disengaging myself.
"But I'm just a big fogged. You tumbled to their little scheme, did you?"
"But I was waiting for it! For what else did I permit you to go there? Your false name, your disguise, not for a moment was it intended to deceive!"
"What?" I cried. "You never told me."
"As I have frequently told you, Hastings, you have a nature so beautiful and so honest that unless you are yourself deceived, it is impossible for you to deceive others. Good, then, you are spotted from the first, and they do what I had counted on their doing-a mathematical certainty to any one who uses his gray cells properly-use you as a decoy. They set the girl on- By the way, mon ami, as an interesting fact psychologically, has she got red hair?"
"If you mean Miss Martin," I said coldly. "Her hair is a delicate shade of auburn, but-"
"They are epatant- these people? They have even studied your psychology. Oh! yes, my friend. Miss Martin was in the plot-very much so. She repeats the letter to you, together with her tale of Mr. Ryland's wrath, you write it down, you puzzle your brains-the cipher is nicely arranged, difficult, but not too difficult-you solve it, and you send for me."
"But what they do not know is that I am waiting for just this very thing to happen. I go post haste to Japp and arrange things. And so, as you see, all is triumph!"
I was not particularly pleased with Poirot, and I told him so. We went back to London on a milk train in the early hours of the morning, and a most uncomfortable journey it was.
I was just out of my bath and indulging in pleasurable thoughts of breakfast when I heard Japp's voice in the sitting-room. I threw on a bathrobe and hurried in.
"A pretty mare's nest you've got us into this time,"
Japp was saying. "It's too bad of you, M. Poirot. First time I've ever known you take a toss."
Poirot's face was a study. Japp went on.
"There were we, taking all this Black Hand stuff seriously-and all the time it was the footman."
"The footman?" I gasped.
"Yes, James, or whatever his name is. Seems he laid 'em a wager in the servants' hall that he could get taken for the old man by his nibs-that's you. Captain Hastings and would hand him out a lot of spy stuff about a Big Four gang."
"Impossible! "I cried.
"Don't you believe it. I marched our gentleman straight to Hatton Chase, and there was the real Ryland in bed and asleep, and the butler and the cook and God knows how many of them to swear to the wager. Just a silly hoax-that's all it was-and the valet is with him."
"So that was why he kept in the shadow," murmured Poirot.
After Japp had gone we looked at each other.
"We know, Hastings," said Poirot at last. "Number Two of the Big Four is Abe Ryland. The masquerading on the part of the footman was to ensure a way of retreat in case of emergencies. And the footman-"
"Yes," I breathed.
"Number Four," said Poirot gravely.
9. The Yellow Jasmine Mystery
Mystery It was all very well for Poirot to say that we were acquiring information all the time and gaining an insight into our adversaries' minds-I felt myself that I required some more tangible success than this.
Since we had come into contact with the Big Four, they had committed two murders, abducted Halliday, and had been within an ace of killing Poirot and myself; whereas so far we had hardly scored a point in the game.
Poirot treated my complaints lightly.
"So far, Hastings," he said, "they laugh. That is true, but you have a proverb, have you not: 'He laughs best who laughs at the end'? And at the end, mon ami, you shall see.
"You must remember, too," he added, "that we deal with no ordinary criminal, but with the second greatest brain in the world."
I forbore to pander to his conceit by asking the obvious question. I knew the answer, at least I knew what Poirot's answer would be, and instead I tried without success to elicit some information as to what steps he was taking to track down the enemy. As usual he had kept me completely in the dark as to his movements, but I gathered that he was in touch with secret service agents in India, China, and Russia, and, from his occasional bursts of self-glorification, that he was at least progressing in his favourite game of gauging his enemy's mind.
He had abandoned his private practice almost entirely, and I know that at this time he refused some remarkably handsome fees. True, he would sometimes investigate cases which intrigued him, but he usually dropped them the moment he was convinced that they had no connection with the activities of the Big Four.
This attitude of his was remarkably profitable to our friend, Inspector Japp. Undeniably he gained much kudos for solving several problems in which his success was really due to a half-contemptuous hint from Poirot.
In return for such service Japp supplied full details of any case which he thought might interest the little Belgian, and when he was put in charge of what the newspaper called "The Yellow Jasmine Mystery," he wired Poirot, asking him whether he would care to come down and look into the case.
It was in response to this wire that, about a month after my adventure in Abe Ryland's house, we found ourselves alone in a railway compartment whirling away from the smoke and dust of London, bound for the little town of Market Handford in Worcestershire, the seat of the mystery.
Poirot leant back in his corner.
"And what exactly is your opinion of the affair, Hastings?"
I did not at once reply to his question; I felt the need of going warily.
"It all seems so complicated," I said cautiously.
"Does it not?" said Poirot delightedly.
; "I suppose our rushing off like this is a pretty clear sign that you consider Mr. Paynter's death to be murder -not suicide or the result of an accident?"
"No, no; you misunderstand me, Hastings. Granting that Mr. Paynter died as the result of a particularly terrible accident, there are still a number of mysterious circumstances to be explained."
"That was what I meant when I said it was all so complicated."
"Let us go over all the main facts quietly and methodically.
Recount them to me, Hastings, in an orderly and lucid fashion."
I started forthwith, endeavouring to be as orderly and lucid as I could.
"We start," I said, "with Mr. Paynter. A man of fifty-five, rich, cultured, and some'what of a globetrotter.
For the last twelve years he has been little in England, but suddenly tiring of inces sant travelling, he bought a small place in Worcestershire, near Market Handford, and prepared to settle dov^n. His first action was to write to his only relative, ^ nephew, Gerald Paynter, the son of his younger brother, and to suggest to him that he should come and make his home at Croftlands (as the place is called) with [his uncle. Gerald Paynter, who is an impecunious your-ig artist, was glad enough to fall in with the arrangement, and had been living with his uncle for about seven months when the tragedy occurred."
"Your narrative style is masterly," murmured Poirot.
"I say to myself, it is a book that talks, not my friend Hastings."
Paying no attention to Poirot, I went on, warming to the story.
"Mr. Paynter kept up a fair staff at Croftlands-six servants as well as his own Chinese body servant-Ah Ling."
"His Chinese servant, Ah Ling," murmured Poirot.
"On Tuesday last, Mr. Paynter complained of feeling unwell after dinner, and one of the servants was despatched to fetch the doctor. Mr. Paynter received the doctor in his study, having refused to go to bed. What passed between them was not then known, but before Doctor Quentin left, he asked to see the housekeeper, and mentioned that he had given Mr. Paynter a hypodermic injection as his heart was in a very weak state, recommended that he should not be disturbed, and then proceeded to ask some rather curious questions about the servants-how long they had been there, from whom they had come, etc.
The Big Four hp-5 Page 7