The Big Four (10 page)

A faint smile showed itself on her face.

“He will see you, yes. You understand, it is my part to interview all strangers first.”

She disappeared. I heard a murmur of voices in the next room, and a minute later she came back and motioned us to pass into the adjoining room.

The man who lay there on a couch was an imposing figure. Tall, gaunt, with huge bushy eyebrows and white beard, and a face haggard as the result of starvation and hardships, Dr. Savaronoff was a distinct personality. I noted the peculiar formation of his head, its unusual height. A great chess player must have a great brain, I knew. I could easily understand Dr. Savaronoff being the second greatest player in the world.

Poirot bowed.

“M. le Docteur, may I speak to you alone?”

Savaronoff turned to his niece.

“Leave us, Sonia.”

She disappeared obediently.

“Now, sir, what is it?”

“Dr. Savaronoff, you have recently come into an enormous fortune. If you should—die unexpectedly, who inherits it?”

“I have made a will leaving everything to my niece, Sonia Daviloff. You do not suggest—”

“I suggest nothing, but you have not seen your niece since she was a child. It would have been easy for anyone to impersonate her.”

Savaronoff seemed thunderstruck by the suggestion. Poirot went on easily.

“Enough as to that: I give you the word of warning, that is all. What I want you to do now is to describe to me the game of chess the other evening.”

“How do you mean—describe it?”

“Well, I do not play the chess myself, but I understand that there are various regular ways of beginning—the gambit, do they not call it?”

Dr. Savaronoff smiled a little.

“Ah! I comprehend you now. Wilson opened Ruy Lopez—one of the soundest openings there is, and one frequently adopted in tournaments and matches.”

“And how long had you been playing when the tragedy happened?”

“It must have been about the third or fourth move when Wilson suddenly fell forward over the table, stone dead.”

Poirot rose to depart. He flung out his last question as though it was of absolutely no importance, but I knew better.

“Had he anything to eat or drink?”

“A whisky and soda, I think.”

“Thank you, Dr. Savaronoff. I will disturb you no longer.”

Ivan was in the hall to show us out. Poirot lingered on the threshold.

“The flat below this, do you know who lives there?”

“Sir Charles Kingwell, a member of Parliament, sir. It has been let furnished lately, though.”

“Thank you.”

We went out into the bright winter sunlight.

“Well, really, Poirot,” I burst out. “I don't think you've distinguished yourself this time. Surely your questions were very inadequate.”

“You think so, Hastings?” Poirot looked at me appealingly. “I was
bouleversé,
yes. What would you have asked?”

I considered the question carefully, and then outlined my scheme to Poirot. He listened with what seemed to be close interest. My monologue lasted until we had nearly reached home.

“Very excellent, very searching, Hastings,” said Poirot, as he inserted his key in the door and preceded me up the stairs. “But quite unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary!” I cried, amazed. “If the man was poisoned—”

“Aha,” cried Poirot, pouncing upon a note which lay on the table. “From Japp. Just as I thought.” He flung it over to me. It was brief and to the point. No traces of poison had been found, and there was nothing to show how the man came by his death.

“You see,” said Poirot, “our questions would have been quite unnecessary.”

“You guessed this beforehand?”

“‘Forecast the probable result of the deal,'” quoted Poirot from a recent bridge problem on which I had spent much
time. “
Mon ami,
when you do that successfully, you do not call it guessing.”

“Don't let's split hairs,” I said impatiently. “You foresaw this?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Poirot put his hand into his pocket and pulled out—a white bishop.

“Why,” I cried, “you forgot to give it back to Dr. Savaronoff.”

“You are in error, my friend. That bishop still reposes in my left-hand pocket. I took its fellow from the box of chessmen Mademoiselle Daviloff kindly permitted me to examine. The plural of one bishop is two bishops.”

He sounded the final “s” with a great hiss. I was completely mystified.

“But why did you take it?”

“
Parbleu,
I wanted to see if they were exactly alike.”

Poirot looked at them with his head on one side.

“They seem so, I admit. But one should take no fact for granted until it is proved. Bring me, I pray you, my little scales.”

With infinite care he weighed the two chessmen, then turned to me with a face alight with triumph.

“I was right. See you, I was right. Impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot!”

He rushed to the telephone—waited impatiently.

“Is that Japp? Ah! Japp, it is you. Hercule Poirot speaks. Watch the manservant. Ivan. On no account let him slip through your fingers. Yes, yes, it is as I say.”

He dashed down the receiver and turned to me.

“You see it not, Hastings? I will explain. Wilson was not poi
soned, he was electrocuted. A thin metal rod passes up the middle of one of those chessmen. The table was prepared beforehand and set upon a certain spot on the floor. When the bishop was placed upon one of the silver squares, the current passed through Wilson's body, killing him instantly. The only mark was the electric burn upon his hand—his left hand, because he was left-handed. The ‘special table' was an extremely cunning piece of mechanism. The table I examined was a duplicate, perfectly innocent. It was substituted for the other immediately after the murder. The thing was worked from the flat below, which, if you remember, was let furnished. But one accomplice at least was in Savaronoff's flat. The girl is an agent of the Big Four, working to inherit Savaronoff's money.”

“And Ivan?”

“I strongly suspect that Ivan is none other than the famous Number Four.”

“What?”

“Yes. The man is a marvellous character actor. He can assume any part he pleases.”

I thought back over past adventures, the lunatic asylum keeper, the butcher's young man, the suave doctor, all the same man, and all totally unlike each other.

“It's amazing,” I said at last. “Everything fits in. Savaronoff had an inkling of the plot, and that's why he was so averse to playing the match.”

Poirot looked at me without speaking. Then he turned abruptly away, and began pacing up and down.

“Have you a book on chess by any chance,
mon ami?
” he asked suddenly.

“I believe I have somewhere.”

It took me some time to ferret it out, but I found it at last, and brought it to Poirot, who sank down in a chair and started reading it with the greatest attention.

In about a quarter of an hour the telephone rang. I answered it. It was Japp. Ivan had left the flat, carrying a large bundle. He had sprung into a waiting taxi, and the chase had begun. He was evidently trying to lose his pursuers. In the end he seemed to fancy that he had done so, and had then driven to a big empty house at Hampstead. The house was surrounded.

I recounted all this to Poirot. He merely stared at me as though he scarcely took in what I was saying. He held out the chess book.

“Listen to this, my friend. This is the Ruy Lopez opening. 1 P-K4, P-K4; 2 Kt-KB3, K-QB3; 3 B-Kt5. Then there comes a question as to Black's best third move. He has the choice of various defences. It was White's third move that killed Gilmour Wilson, 3 B-Kt5. Only the third move—does that say nothing to you?”

I hadn't the least idea what he meant, and told him so.

“Suppose, Hastings, that, while you were sitting in this chair, you heard the front door being opened and shut, what would you think?”

“I should think someone had gone out, I suppose.”

“Yes—but there are always two ways of looking at things. Someone gone out—someone come
in
—two totally different things, Hastings. But if you assumed the wrong one, presently some little discrepancy would creep in and show you that you were on the wrong track.”

“What does all this mean, Poirot?”

Poirot sprang to his feet with sudden energy.

“It means that I have been a triple imbecile. Quick, quick, to the flat in Westminster. We may yet be in time.”

We tore off in a taxi. Poirot returned no answer to my excited questions. We raced up the stairs. Repeated rings and knocks brought no reply, but listening closely I could distinguish a hollow groan coming from within.

The hall porter proved to have a master key, and after a few difficulties he consented to use it.

Poirot went straight to the inner room. A whiff of chloroform met us. On the floor was Sonia Daviloff, gagged and bound, with a great wad of saturated cotton wool over her nose and mouth. Poirot tore it off and began to take measures to restore her. Presently a doctor arrived, and Poirot handed her over to his charge and drew aside with me. There was no sign of Dr. Savaronoff.

“What does it all mean?” I asked, bewildered.

“It means that before two equal deductions I chose the wrong one. You heard me say that it would be easy for anyone to impersonate Sonia Daviloff because her uncle had not seen her for so many years?”

“Yes?”

“Well, precisely the opposite held good also. It was equally easy for anyone to impersonate the uncle.”

“What?”

“Savaronoff
did
die at the outbreak of the Revolution. The man who pretended to have escaped with such terrible hardships, the man so changed ‘that his own friends could hardly recognize him,' the man who successfully laid claim to an enormous fortune—”

“Yes. Who was he?”

“
Number Four
. No wonder he was frightened when Sonia let him know she had overheard one of his private conversations about the ‘Big Four.' Again he has slipped through my fingers. He guessed I should get on the right track in the end, so he sent off the honest Ivan on a tortuous wild goose chase, chloroformed the girl, and got out, having by now doubtless realized most of the securities left by Madame Gospoja.”

“But—but who tried to kill him then?”

“Nobody tried to kill
him
. Wilson was the intended victim all along.”

“But why?”

“My friend, Savaronoff was the second-greatest chess player in the world. In all probability Number Four did not even know the rudiments of the game. Certainly he could not sustain the fiction of a match. He tried all he knew to avoid the contest. When that failed, Wilson's doom was sealed. At all costs he must be prevented from discovering that the great Savaronoff did not even know how to play chess. Wilson was fond of the Ruy Lopez opening, and was certain to use it. Number Four arranged for death to come with the third move, before any complications of defence set in.”

“But, my dear Poirot,” I persisted, “are we dealing with a lunatic? I quite follow your reasoning, and admit that you must be right, but to kill a man just to sustain his role! Surely there were simpler ways out of the difficulty than that? He could have said that his doctor forbade the strain of a match.”

Poirot wrinkled his forehead.

“
Certainement,
Hastings,” he said, “there were other ways, but none so convincing. Besides, you are assuming that to kill a man is a thing to avoid, are you not? Number Four's mind, it does not act
that way. I put myself in his place, a thing impossible for you. I picture his thoughts. He enjoys himself as the professor at that match, I doubt not he has visited the chess tourneys to study his part. He sits and frowns in thought; he gives the impression that he is thinking great plans, and all the time he laughs in himself. He is aware that two moves are all that he knows—and all that he
need know
. Again, it would appeal to his mind to foresee the time that suits Number Four … Oh, yes, Hastings, I begin to understand our friend and his psychology.”

I shrugged.

“Well, I suppose you're right, but I can't understand anyone running a risk he could so easily avoid.”

“Risk!” Poirot snorted. “Where then lay the risk? Would Japp have solved the problem? No; if Number Four had not made one small mistake he would have run no risk.”

“And his mistake?” I asked, although I suspected the answer.

“
Mon ami,
he overlooked the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot.”

Poirot has his virtues, but modesty is not one of them.

I
t was mid-January—a typical English winter day in London, damp and dirty. Poirot and I were sitting in two chairs well drawn up to the fire. I was aware of my friend looking at me with a quizzical smile, the meaning of which I could not fathom.

“A penny for your thoughts,” I said lightly.

“I was thinking, my friend, that at midsummer, when you first arrived, you told me that you proposed to be in this country for a couple of months only.”

“Did I say that?” I asked, rather awkwardly. “I don't remember.”

Poirot's smile broadened.

“You did,
mon ami
. Since then, you have changed your plan, is it not so?”

“Er—yes, I have.”

“And why is that?”

“Dash it all, Poirot, you don't think I'm going to leave you all alone when you're up against a thing like the ‘Big Four,' do you?”

Poirot nodded gently.

“Just as I thought. You are a staunch friend, Hastings. It is to serve me that you remain on here. And your wife—little Cinderella as you call her, what does she say?”

“I haven't gone into details, of course, but she understands. She'd be the last one to wish me to turn my back on a pal.”

“Yes, yes, she, too, is a loyal friend. But it is going to be a long business, perhaps.”

I nodded, rather discouraged.

“Six months already,” I mused, “and where are we? You know, Poirot, I can't help thinking that we ought to—well, to do something.”

“Always so energetic, Hastings! And what precisely would you have me do?”

This was somewhat of a poser, but I was not going to withdraw from my position.

“We ought to take the offensive,” I urged. “What have we done all this time?”

“More than you think, my friend. After all, we have established the identity of Number Two and Number Three, and we have learnt more than a little about the ways and methods of Number Four.”

I brightened up a little. As Poirot put it, things didn't sound so bad.

“Oh! Yes, Hastings, we have done a great deal. It is true that I am not in a position to accuse either Ryland or Madame Olivier—who would believe me? You remember I thought once I had Ryland successfully cornered? Nevertheless I have made my suspicions known in certain quarters—the highest—Lord Aldington, who enlisted my help in the matter of the stolen submarine plans, is
fully cognizant of all my information respecting the Big Four—and while others may doubt, he believes. Ryland and Madame Olivier, and Li Chang Yen himself may go their ways, but there is a searchlight turned on all their movements.”

“And Number Four?” I asked.

“As I said just now—I am beginning to know and understand his methods. You may smile, Hastings—but to penetrate a man's personality, to know exactly what he will do under any given circumstances—that is the beginning of success. It is a duel between us, and whilst he is constantly giving away his mentality to me, I endeavour to let him know little or nothing of mine. He is in the light, I in the shade. I tell you, Hastings, that every day they fear me the more for my chosen inactivity.”

“They've let us alone, anyway,” I observed. “There have been no more attempts on your life, and no ambushes of any kind.”

“No,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “On the whole, that rather surprises me. Especially as there are one or two fairly obvious ways of getting at us which I should have thought certain to have occurred to them. You catch my meaning, perhaps?”

“An infernal machine of some kind?” I hazarded.

Poirot made a sharp click with his tongue expressive of impatience.

“But no! I appeal to your imagination, and you can suggest nothing more subtle than bombs in the fireplace. Well, well, I have need of some matches, I will promenade myself despite the weather. Pardon, my friend, but it is possible that you read
The Future of the Argentine, Mirror of Society, Cattle Breeding, The Clue of Crimson,
and
Sport in the Rockies
at one and the same time?”

I laughed, and admitted that
The Clue of Crimson
was at present engaging my sole attention. Poirot shook his head sadly.

“But replace then the others on the bookshelf! Never, never shall I see you embrace the order and the method.
Mon Dieu,
what then is a bookshelf for?”

I apologized humbly, and Poirot, after replacing the offending volumes, each in its appointed place, went out and left me to uninterrupted enjoyment of my selected book.

I must admit, however, that I was half asleep when Mrs. Pearson's knock at the door aroused me.

“A telegram for you, captain.”

I tore the orange envelope open without much interest.

Then I sat as though turned to stone.

It was a cable from Bronsen, my manager out at the South American ranch, and it ran as follows:

I waved Mrs. Pearson out of the room, and sat as though stunned, reading the words over and over again. Cinderella—kidnapped! In the hands of the imfamous Big Four! God, what could I do?

Poirot! I must have Poirot. He would advise me. He would checkmate them somehow. In a few minutes now, he would be back. I must wait patiently until then. But Cinderella—in the hands of the Big Four!

Another knock. Mrs. Pearson put her head in once more.

“A note for you, captain—brought by a heathen Chinaman. He's a-waiting downstairs.”

I seized it from her. It was brief and to the point.

“If you ever wish to see your wife again, go with the bearer of this note immediately. Leave no message for your friend or she will suffer.”

It was signed with a big 4.

What ought I to have done? What would you who read have done in my place?

I had no time to think. I saw only one thing—Cinderella in the power of those devils. I must obey—I dare not risk a hair of her head. I must go with this Chinaman and follow whither he led. It was a trap, yes, and it meant certain capture and possible death, but it was baited with the person dearest to me in the whole world, and I dared not hesitate.

What irked me most was to leave no word for Poirot. Once set him on my track, and all might yet be well! Dare I risk it? Apparently I was under no supervision, but yet I hesitated. It would have been so easy for the Chinaman to come up and assure himself that I was keeping to the letter of the command. Why didn't he? His very abstention made me more suspicious. I had seen so much of the omnipotence of the Big Four that I credited them with almost superhuman powers. For all I know, even the little bedraggled servant girl might be one of their agents.

No, I dared not risk it. But one thing I could do, leave the telegram. He would know then that Cinderella had disappeared, and who was responsible for her disappearance.

All this passed through my head in less time than it takes to tell,
and I had clapped my hat on my head and was descending the stairs to where my guide waited, in a little over a minute.

The bearer of the message was a tall impassive Chinaman, neatly but rather shabbily dressed. He bowed and spoke to me. His English was perfect, but he spoke with a slight sing-song intonation.

“You Captain Hastings?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You give me note, please.”

I had foreseen the request, and handed him over the scrap of paper without a word. But that was not all.

“You have a telegram today, yes? Come along just now? From South America, yes?”

I realized anew the excellence of their espionage system—or it might have been a shrewd guess. Bronsen was bound to cable me. They would wait until the cable was delivered and would strike hard upon it.

No good could come of denying what was palpably true.

“Yes,” I said. “I did get a telegram.”

“You fetch him, yes? Fetch him now.”

I ground my teeth, but what could I do? I ran upstairs again. As I did so, I thought of confiding in Mrs. Pearson, at any rate as far as Cinderella's disappearance went. She was on the landing, but close behind her was the little maidservant, and I hesitated. If she
was
a spy—the words of the note danced before my eyes: “…she will suffer …” I passed into the sitting room without speaking.

I took up the telegram and was about to pass out again when an idea struck me. Could I not leave some sign which would mean nothing to my enemies but which Poirot himself would find signif
icant. I hurried across to the bookcase and tumbled out four books on to the floor. No fear of Poirot's not seeing them. They would outrage his eyes immediately—and coming on top of his little lecture, surely he would find them unusual. Next I put a shovelful of coal on the fire and managed to spill four knobs into the grate. I had done all I could—pray Heaven Poirot would read the sign aright.

I hurried down again. The Chinaman took the telegram from me, read it, then placed it in his pocket and with a nod beckoned me to follow him.

It was a long weary march that he led me. Once we took a bus and once we went for some considerable way in a tram, and always our route led us steadily eastward. We went through strange districts, whose existence I had never dreamed of. We were down by the docks now, I knew, and I realized that I was being taken into the heart of Chinatown.

In spite of myself I shivered. Still my guide plodded on, turning and twisting through mean streets and byways, until at last he stopped at a dilapidated house and rapped four times upon the door.

It was opened immediately by another Chinaman who stood aside to let us pass in. The clanging to of the door behind me was the knell of my last hopes. I was indeed in the hands of the enemy.

I was now handed over to the second Chinaman. He led me down some rickety stairs and into a cellar which was filled with bales and casks and which exhaled a pungent odour, as of eastern spices. I felt wrapped all round with the atmosphere of the East, tortuous, cunning, sinister—

Suddenly my guide rolled aside two of the casks, and I saw a low tunnellike opening in the wall. He motioned me to go ahead. The tunnel was of some length, and it was too low for me to stand
upright. At last, however, it broadened out into a passage, and a few minutes later we stood in another cellar.

My Chinaman went forward, and rapped four times on one of the walls. A whole section of the wall swung out, leaving a narrow doorway. I passed through, and to my utter astonishment found myself in a kind of Arabian Nights' palace. A low long subterranean chamber hung with rich oriental silks, brilliantly lighted and fragrant with perfumes and spices. There were five or six silk-covered divans, and exquisite carpets of Chinese workmanship covered the ground. At the end of the room was a curtained recess. From behind these curtains came a voice.

“You have brought our honoured guest?”

“Excellency, he is here,” replied my guide.

“Let our guest enter,” was the answer.

At the same moment, the curtains were drawn aside by an unseen hand, and I was facing an immense cushioned divan on which sat a tall thin Oriental dressed in wonderfully embroidered robes, and clearly, by the length of his finger nails, a great man.

“Be seated, I pray you, Captain Hastings,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “You acceded to my request to come immediately, I am glad to see.”

“Who are you?” I asked. “Li Chang Yen?”

“Indeed no, I am but the humblest of the master's servants. I carry out his behests, that is all—as do other of his servants in other countries—in South America, for instance.”

I advanced a step.

“Where is she? What have you done with her out there?”

“She is in a place of safety—where none will find her. As yet, she is unharmed. You observe that I say—
as yet!
”

Cold shivers ran down my spine as I confronted this smiling devil.

“What do you want?” I cried. “Money?”

“My dear Captain Hastings. We have no designs on your small savings, I can assure you. Not—pardon me—a very intelligent suggestion on your part. Your colleague would not have made it, I fancy.”

“I suppose,” I said heavily, “you wanted to get me into your toils. Well, you have succeeded. I have come here with my eyes open. Do what you like with me, and let her go. She knows nothing, and she can be no possible use to you. You've used her to get hold of me—you've got me all right, and that settles it.”

The smiling Oriental caressed his smooth cheek, watching me obliquely out of his narrow eyes.

“You go too fast,” he said purringly. “That does not quite—settle it. In fact, to ‘get hold of you' as you express it, is not really our objective. But through you, we hope to get hold of your friend, M. Hercule Poirot.”

“I'm afraid you won't do that,” I said, with a short laugh.

“What I suggest is this,” continued the other, his words running on as though he had not heard me. “You will write M. Hercule Poirot a letter, such a letter as will induce him to hasten thither and join you.”

“I shall do no such thing,” I said angrily.

“The consequences of refusal will be disagreeable.”

“Damn your consequences.”

“The alternative might be death!”

A nasty shiver ran down my spine, but I endeavoured to put a bold face upon it.

“It's no good threatening me, and bullying me. Keep your threats for Chinese cowards.”

“My threats are very real ones, Captain Hastings. I ask you again, will you write this letter?”

“I will not, and what's more, you daren't kill me. You'd have the police on your tracks in no time.”

My interlocutor clapped his hands swiftly. Two Chinese attendants appeared as it were out of the blue, and pinioned me by both arms. Their master said something rapidly to them in Chinese, and they dragged me across the floor to a spot in one corner of the big chamber. One of them stooped, and suddenly, without the least warning, the flooring gave beneath my feet. But for the restraining hand of the other man I should have gone down the yawning gap beneath me. It was inky black, and I could hear the rushing of water.