The Big Four hp-5

by Agatha Christie

  "I am not disappointed with the interview," said Poirot, as we walked along. "I did not expect to convince Desjardeaux, but I have at least ensured that, if I die, my knowledge does not die with me. And I have made one or two converts. Pas si mail"

  "I'm with you, as you know," said Ingles. "By the way, I'm going out to China as soon as I can get off."

  "Is that wise?"

  "No," said Ingles dryly. "But it's necessary. One must do what one can."

  "Ah, you are a brave man!" cried Poirot with emotion.

  "If we were not in the street, I would embrace you."

  I fancied that Ingles looked rather relieved.

  "I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you are in London," he growled.

  "That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will not succeed in massacring Hastings also, that is all. That would annoy me greatly."

  I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark that I had no intention of letting myself be massacred, and shortly afterwards Ingles parted from us.

  For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot at length broke by uttering a totally unexpected remark.

  "I think-I really think-that I shall have to bring my brother into this."

  "Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"

  "You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that all celebrated detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated than they are were it not for constitutional indolence?"

  Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it wellnigh impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. That manner was very evident at the moment.

  "What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this new idea.

  "Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in Belgium."

  "What does he do?" I asked with "some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.

  "He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly in'II dolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own-which is saying a great deal."

  "Is he like you to look at?"

  "Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches."

  "Is he older than you, or younger?"

  "He happens to have been born on the same day."

  "A twin, "I cried.

  "Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing accuracy. But here we are at home again.

  Let us at once get to work on that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."

  But the Duchess's necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite another description was waiting for us.

  Our landlady, Mrs. Pearson, at once informed us that a hospital nurse had called and was waiting to see Poirot.

  We found her sitting in the big arm-chair facing the window, a pleasant-faced woman of middle age, in a dark blue uniform. She was a little reluctant to come to the point, but Poirot soon put her at her ease, and she embarked upon her story.

  "You see, M. Poirot, I've never come across anything of the kind before. I was sent for, from the Lark Sisterhood, to go down to a case in Hertfordshire. An old gentleman, it is, Mr. Templeton. Quite a pleasant house, and quite pleasant people. The wife, Mrs.

  Templeton, is much younger than her husband, and he has a son by his first marriage who lives there. I don't know that the young man and the step-mother always get on together. He's not quite what you'd call normal -not 'wanting' exactly, but decidedly dull in the intellect.

  Well, this illness of Mr. Templeton's seemed to me from the first to be very mysterious. At times there seemed really nothing the matter with him, and then he suddenly has one of these gastric attacks with pain and vomiting. But the doctor seemed quite satisfied, and it wasn't for me to say anything. But I couldn't help thinking about it. And then-"

  She paused, and became rather red.

  "Something happened which aroused your suspicions?" suggested Poirot.

  "Yes."

  But she still seemed to find it difficult to go on.

  "I found the servants were passing remarks too."

  "About Mr. Templeton's illness?"

  "Oh, no! About-about this other thing-"

  "Mrs. Templeton?"

  "Yes."

  "Mrs. Templeton and the doctor, perhaps?"

  Poirot had an uncanny flair in these things. The nurse threw him a grateful glance and went on.

  "They were passing remarks. And then one day I happened to see them together myself-in the garden-"

  It was left at that. Our client was in such an agony of outraged propriety that no one could feel it necessary to ask exactly what she had seen in the garden. She had evidently seen quite enough to make up her own mind on the situation.

  "The attacks got worse and worse. Dr. Treves said it was all perfectly natural and to be expected, and that ^Ir. Templeton could not possibly live long, but I've "ever seen anything like it before myself-not in all my ong experience of nursing. It seemed to me much more "he some form of-"

  She paused, hesitating.

  "Arsenical poisoning?" said Poirot helpfully. ahe nodded. gs'cg8'*"1; 170 Agatha Christie "And then, too, he, the patient, I mean, said something queer. 'They'll do for me, the four of them.

  They'11 do for me yet.' "

  "Eh?" said Poirot quickly.

  "Those were his very words, M. Poirot. He was in great pain at the time, of course, and hardly knew what he was saying."

  " 'They'll do for me, the four of them,' " repeated Poirot thoughtfully. "What did he mean by 'the four of them,'do you think?"

  "That I can't say, M. Poirot. I thought perhaps he meant his wife and son, and the doctor, and perhaps Miss dark, Mrs. Templeton's companion. That would make four, wouldn't it? He might think they were 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 Hertfordshir
e. 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. Termpleton 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 lent forward, staring at Poirot.

  "You've come about father," he said, nodding his head. "/ 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, Hasting. 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 |r 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 matchbox.

  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.

  "Poirot9" 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 reIt j mains 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 o
f 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 varied experiences and the happy days we had passed together.

  By the beginning of May I had mapped out a plan of campaign. I felt that I could not do better than keep Poirot's scheme of advertising for any information respecting Claud Darrell. I had an advertisement to this effect inserted in a number of morning newspapers, and I was sitting in a small restaurant in Soho, and judging of the effect of the advertisement, when a small paragraph in another part of the paper gave me a nasty shock.

  Very briefly, it reported the mysterious disappearance of Mr. John Ingles from the S.S. Shanghai, shortly after the latter had left Marseilles. Although the weather was perfectly smooth, it was feared that the unfortunate gentleman must have fallen overboard. The paragraph ended with a brief reference to Mr. Ingles' long and distinguished service in China.