The Big Four (4 page)

P
ersonally, I don't think that, even when a jury had acquitted Robert Grant, alias Biggs, of the murder of Jonathan Whalley, Inspector Meadows was entirely convinced of his innocence. The case which he had built up against Grant—the man's record, the jade which he had stolen, the boots which fitted the footprints so exactly—was to his matter-of-fact mind too complete to be easily upset; but Poirot, compelled much against his inclination to give evidence, convinced the jury. Two witnesses were produced who had seen a butcher's cart drive up to the bungalow on that Monday morning, and the local butcher testifed that his cart only called there on Wednesdays and Fridays.

A woman was actually found who, when questioned, remembered seeing the butcher's man leaving the bungalow, but she could furnish no useful description of him. The only impression he seemed to have left on her mind was that he was clean shaven, of medium height, and looked exactly like a butcher's man. At this description Poirot shrugged his shoulders philosophically.

“It is as I tell you, Hastings,” he said to me, after the trial. “He is an artist, this one. He disguises himself not with the false beard and the blue spectacles. He alters his features, yes; but that is the least part. For the time being he
is
the man he would be. He lives in his part.”

Certainly I was compelled to admit that the man who had visited us from Hanwell had fitted in exactly with my idea of what an asylum attendant should look like. I should never for a moment have dreamt of doubting that he was genuine.

It was all a little discouraging, and our experience on Dartmoor did not seem to have helped us at all. I said as much to Poirot, but he would not admit that we had gained nothing.

“We progress,” he said; “we progress. At every contact with this man we learn a little of his mind and his methods. Of us and our plans he knows nothing.”

“And there, Poirot,” I protested, “he and I seem to be in the same boat. You don't seem to me to have any plans, you seem to sit and wait for him to do something.”

Poirot smiled.

“
Mon ami,
you do not change. Always the same Hastings, who would be up and at their throats. Perhaps,” he added, as a knock sounded on the door, “you have here your chance; it may be our friend who enters.” And he laughed at my disappointment when Inspector Japp and another man entered the room.

“Good evening, moosior,” said the Inspector. “Allow me to introduce Captain Kent of the United States Secret Service.”

Captain Kent was a tall, lean American, with a singularly impassive face which looked as though it had been carved out of wood.

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” he murmured, as he shook hands jerkily.

Poirot threw an extra log on the fire, and brought forward more easy chairs. I brought out glasses and the whisky and soda. The captain took a deep draught, and expressed appreciation.

“Legislation in your country is still sound,” he observed.

“And now to business,” said Japp. “Moosior Poirot here made a certain request to me. He was interested in some concern that went by the name of the Big Four, and he asked me to let him know at any time if I came across a mention of it in my official line of business. I didn't take much stock in the matter, but I remembered what he said, and when the captain here came over with rather a curious story, I said at once, ‘We'll go round to Moosior Poirot's.'”

Poirot looked across at Captain Kent, and the American took up the tale.

“You may remember reading, M. Poirot, that a number of torpedo boats and destroyers were sunk by being dashed upon the rocks off the American coast. It was just after the Japanese earthquake, and the explanation given was that the disaster was the result of a tidal wave. Now, a short time ago, a roundup was made of certain crooks and gunmen, and with them were captured some papers which put an entirely new face upon the matter. They appeared to refer to some organization called the ‘Big Four,' and gave an incomplete description of some powerful wireless installation—a concentration of wireless energy far beyond anything so far attempted, and capable of focusing a beam of great intensity upon some given spot. The claims made for this invention seemed manifestly absurd, but I turned them in to headquarters for what they were worth, and one of our highbrow professors got busy on them. Now it appears that
one of your British scientists read a paper upon the subject before the British Association. His colleagues didn't think great shakes of it, by all accounts, thought it far-fetched and fanciful, but your scientist stuck to his guns, and declared that he himself was on the eve of success in his experiments.”

“Eh bien?”
demanded Poirot, with interest.

“It was suggested that I should come over here and get an interview with this gentleman. Quite a young fellow, he is, Halliday by name. He is the leading authority on the subject, and I was to get from him whether the thing suggested was anyway possible.”

“And was it?” I asked eagerly.

“That's just what I don't know. I haven't seen Mr. Halliday—and I'm not likely to, by all accounts.”

“The truth of the matter is,” said Japp shortly, “Halliday's disappeared.”

“When?”

“Two months ago.”

“Was his disappearance reported?”

“Of course it was. His wife came to us in a great state. We did what we could, but I knew all along it would be no good.”

“Why not?”

“Never is—when a man disappears that way.” Japp winked.

“What way?”

“Paris.”

“So Halliday disappeared in Paris?”

“Yes. Went over there on scientific work—so he said. Of course, he'd have to say something like that. But you know what it means when a man disappears over there. Either it's Apache work, and that's the end of it—or else it's voluntary disappearance—and
that's a great deal the commoner of the two, I can tell you. Gay Paree and all that, you know. Sick of home life. Halliday and his wife had had a tiff before he started, which all helps to make it a pretty clear case.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

The American was looking at him curiously.

“Say, mister,” he drawled, “what's this Big Four idea?”

“The Big Four,” said Poirot, “is an international organization which has at its head a Chinaman. He is known as Number One. Number Two is an American. Number Three is a Frenchwoman. Number Four, ‘the Destroyer,' is an Englishman.”

“A Frenchwoman, eh?” The American whistled. “And Halliday disappeared in France. Maybe there's something in this. What's her name?”

“I don't know. I know nothing about her.”

“But it's a mighty big proposition, eh?” suggested the other.

Poirot nodded, as he arranged the glasses in a neat row on the tray. His love of order was as great as ever.

“What was the idea in sinking those boats? Are the Big Four a German stunt?”

“The Big Four are for themselves—and for themselves only, M. le Capitaine. Their aim is world domination.”

The American burst out laughing, but broke off at the sight of Poirot's serious face.

“You laugh, monsieur,” said Poirot, shaking a finger at him. “You reflect not—you use not the little grey cells of the brain. Who are these men who send a portion of your navy to destruction simply as a trial of their power? For that was all it was, Monsieur, a test of this new force of magnetical attraction which they hold.”

“Go on with you, moosior,” said Japp good-humouredly. I've read of supercriminals many a time, but I've never come across them. Well, you've heard Captain Kent's story. Anything further I can do for you?”

“Yes, my good friend. You can give me the address of Mrs. Halliday—and also a few words of introduction to her if you will be so kind.”

Thus it was that the following day saw us bound for Chetwynd Lodge, near the village of Chobham in Surrey.

Mrs. Halliday received us at once, a tall, fair woman, nervous and eager in manner. With her was her little girl, a beautiful child of five.

Poirot explained the purpose of our visit.

“Oh! M. Poirot, I am so glad, so thankful. I have heard of you, of course. You will not be like these Scotland Yard people, who will not listen or try to understand. And the French police are just as bad—worse, I think. They are all convinced that my husband has gone off with some other woman. But he wasn't like that! All he thought of in life was his work. Half our quarrels came from that. He cared for it more than he did for me.”

“Englishmen, they are like that,” said Poirot soothingly. “And if it is not work, it is the games, the sport. All those things they take
au grand sérieux
. Now, madame, recount to me exactly, in detail, and as methodically as you can, the exact circumstances of your husband's disappearance.”

“My husband went to Paris on Thursday, the 20th of July. He was to meet and visit various people there connected with his work, amongst them Madame Olivier.”

Poirot nodded at the mention of the famous French woman
chemist, who had eclipsed even Madame Curie in the brilliance of her achievements. She had been decorated by the French Government, and was one of the most prominent personalities of the day.

“He arrived there in the evening and went at once to the Hotel Castiglione in the rue de Castiglione. On the following morning he had an appointment with Professor Bourgoneau, which he kept. His manner was normal and pleasant. The two men had a most interesting conversation, and it was arranged that he should witness some experiments in the professor's laboratory on the following day. He lunched alone at the Café Royal, went for a walk in the Bois, and then visited Madame Olivier at her house at Passy. There, also, his manner was perfectly normal. He left about six. Where he dined is not known, probably alone at some restaurant. He returned to the hotel about eleven o'clock and went straight up to his room, after inquiring if any letters had come for him. On the following morning, he walked out of the hotel, and has not been seen again.”

“At what time did he leave the hotel? At the hour when he would normally leave it to keep his appointment at Professor Bourgoneau's laboratory?”

“We do not know. He was not remarked leaving the hotel. But no
petit déjeuner
was served to him, which seems to indicate that he went out early.”

“Or he might, in fact, have gone out again after he came in the night before?”

“I do not think so. His bed had been slept in, and the night porter would have remembered anyone going out at that hour.”

“A very just observation, madame. We may take it, then, that he left early on the following morning—and that is reassuring from one point of view. He is not likely to have fallen a victim to
any Apache assault at that hour. His baggage, now, was it all left behind?”

Mrs. Halliday seemed rather reluctant to answer, but at last she said:

“No—he must have taken one small suitcase with him.”

“H'm,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “I wonder where he was that evening. If we knew that, we should know a great deal. Whom did he meet?—there lies the mystery. Madame, myself, I do not of necessity accept the view of the police; with them is it always
‘Cherchez la femme.'
Yet it is clear that something occurred that night to alter your husband's plans. You say he asked for letters on returning to the hotel. Did he receive any?”

“One only, and that must have been the one I wrote him on the day he left England.”

Poirot remained sunk in thought for a full minute, then he rose briskly to his feet.

“Well, madame, the solution of the mystery lies in Paris, and to find it I myself journey to Paris on the instant.”

“It is all a long time ago, monsieur.”

“Yes, yes. Nevertheless, it is there that we must seek.”

He turned to leave the room, but paused with his hand on the door.

“Tell me, madame, do you ever remember your husband mentioning the phrase, ‘The Big Four?'”

“The Big Four,” she repeated thoughtfully. “No, I can't say Ido.”

T
hat was all that could be elicited from Mrs. Halliday. We hurried back to London, and the following day saw us en route for the Continent. With rather a rueful smile, Poirot observed:

“This Big Four, they make me to bestir myself,
mon ami
. I run up and down, all over the ground, like our old friend ‘the human foxhound.'”

“Perhaps you'll meet him in Paris,” I said, knowing that he referred to a certain Giraud, one of the most trusted detectives of the Sûreté, whom he had met on a previous occasion.

Poirot made a grimace. “I devoutly hope not. He loved me not, that one.”

“Won't it be a very difficult task?” I asked. “To find out what an unknown Englishman did on an evening two months ago?”

“Very difficult,
mon ami
. But as you know well, difficulties rejoice the heart of Hercule Poirot.”

“You think the Big Four kidnapped him?”

Poirot nodded.

Our inquiries necessarily went over old ground, and we learnt little to add to what Mrs. Halliday had already told us. Poirot had a lengthy interview with Professor Bourgoneau, during which he sought to elicit whether Halliday had mentioned any plan of his own for the evening, but we drew a complete blank.

Our next source of information was the famous Madame Olivier. I was quite excited as we mounted the steps of her villa at Passy. It has always seemed to me extraordinary that a woman should go so far in the scientific world. I should have thought a purely masculine brain was needed for such work.

The door was opened by a young lad of seventeen or thereabouts, who reminded me vaguely of an acolyte, so ritualistic was his manner. Poirot had taken the trouble to arrange our interview beforehand, as he knew Madame Olivier never received anyone without an appointment, being immersed in research work most of the day.

We were shown into a small salon, and presently the mistress of the house came to us there. Madame Olivier was a very tall woman, her tallness accentuated by the long white overall she wore, and a coif like a nun's that shrouded her head. She had a long pale face, and wonderful dark eyes that burnt with a light almost fanatical. She looked more like a priestess of old than a modern Frenchwoman. One cheek was disfigured by a scar, and I remembered that her husband and coworker had been killed in an explosion in the laboratory three years before, and that she herself had been terribly burned. Ever since then she had shut herself away from the world, and plunged with fiery energy into the work of scientific research. She received us with cold politeness.

“I have been interviewed by the police many times, messieurs.
I think it hardly likely that I can help you, since I have not been able to help them.”

“Madame, it is possible that I shall not ask you quite the same questions. To begin with, of what did you talk together, you and M. Halliday?”

She looked a trifle surprised.

“But of his work! His work—and also mine.”

“Did he mention to you the theories he had embodied recently in his paper read before the British Association?”

“Certainly he did. It was chiefly of those we spoke.”

“His ideas were somewhat fantastic, were they not?” asked Poirot carelessly.

“Some people have thought so. I do not agree.”

“You consider them practicable?”

“Perfectly practicable. My own line of research has been somewhat similar, though not undertaken with the same end in view. I have been investigating the gamma rays emitted by the substance usually known as Radium C, a product of Radium emanation, and in doing so I have come across some very interesting magnetical phenomena. Indeed, I have a theory as to the actual nature of the force we call magnetism, but it is not yet time for my discoveries to be given to the world. Mr. Halliday's experiments and views were exceedingly interesting to me.”

Poirot nodded. Then he asked a question which surprised me.

“Madame, where did you converse on these topics? In here?”

“No, monsieur. In the laboratory.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.”

She led the way to the door from which she had entered. It
opened on a small passage. We passed through two doors and found ourselves in the big laboratory, with its array of beakers and crucibles and a hundred appliances of which I did not even know the names. There were two occupants, both busy with some experiment. Madame Olivier introduced them.

“Mademoiselle Claude, one of my assistants.” A tall, serious-faced young girl bowed to us. “Monsieur Henri, an old and trusted friend.”

The young man, short and dark, bowed jerkily.

Poirot looked round him. There were two other doors besides the one by which we had entered. One, madame explained, led into the garden, the other into a smaller chamber also devoted to research. Poirot took all this in, then declared himself ready to return to the salon.

“Madame, were you alone with M. Halliday during your interview?”

“Yes, monsieur. My two assistants were in the smaller room next door.”

“Could your conversation be overheard—by them or anyone else?”

Madame reflected, then shook her head.

“I do not think so. I am almost sure it could not. The doors were all shut.”

“Could anyone have been concealed in the room?”

“There is the big cupboard in the corner—but the idea is absurd.”

“
Pas tout à fait,
madame. One thing more: did M. Halliday make any mention of his plans for the evening?”

“He said nothing whatever, monsieur.”

“I thank you, madame, and I apologize for disturbing you. Pray do not trouble—we can find our way out.”

We stepped out into the hall. A lady was just entering the front door as we did so. She ran quickly up the stairs, and I was left with an impression of the heavy mourning that denotes a French widow.

“A most unusual type of woman, that,” remarked Poirot, as we walked away.

“Madame Olivier? Yes, she—”

“
Mais non,
not Madame Olivier.
Cela va sans dire!
There are not many geniuses of her stamp in the world. No, I referred to the other lady—the lady on the stairs.”

“I didn't see her face,” I said, staring. “And I hardly see how you could have done. She never looked at us.”

“That is why I said she was an unusual type,” said Poirot placidly. “A woman who enters her home—for I presume that it is her home since she enters with a key—and runs straight upstairs without even looking at two strange visitors in the hall to see who they are, is a
very
unusual type of woman—quite unnatural, in fact.
Mille tonnerres!
what is that?”

He dragged me back—just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the sidewalk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset.

“It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same—for I had no suspicion—at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of existence—a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too,
mon ami
—though that would not be such a national catastrophe.”

“Thank you,” I said coldly. “And what are we going to do now?”

“Do?” cried Poirot. “We are going to think. Yes, here and
now, we are going to exercise our little grey cells. This M. Halliday now, was he really in Paris? Yes, for Professor Bourgoneau, who knows him, saw and spoke to him.”

“What on earth are you driving at?” I cried.

“That was Friday morning. He was last seen at eleven Friday night—but
was
he seen then?”

“The porter—”

“A night porter—who had not previously seen Halliday. A man comes in, sufficiently like Halliday—we may trust Number Four for that—asks for letters, goes upstairs, packs a small suitcase, and slips out the next morning. Nobody saw Halliday all that evening—no, because he was already in the hands of his enemies. Was it Halliday whom Madame Olivier received? Yes, for though she did not know him by sight, an imposter could hardly deceive her on her own special subject. He came here, he had his interview, he left. What happened next?”

Seizing me by the arm, Poirot was fairly dragging me back to the villa.

“Now,
mon ami,
imagine that it is the day after the disappearance, and that we are tracking footprints. You love footprints, do you not? See—here they go, a man's, M. Halliday's … He turns to the right as we did, he walks briskly—ah! other footsteps following behind—very quickly—small footsteps, a woman's. See, she catches him up—a slim young woman, in a widow's veil. ‘Pardon, monsieur, Madame Olivier desires that I recall you.' He stops, he turns. Now where would the young woman take him? Is it coincidence that she catches up with him just where a narrow alleyway opens, dividing two gardens? She leads him down it. ‘It is shorter this way, monsieur.' On the right is the garden of Madame Olivier's
villa, on the left the garden of another villa—and from that garden, mark you, the tree fell—so nearly on us. Garden doors from both open on the alley. The ambush is there. Men pour out, overpower him, and carry him into the strange villa.”

“Good gracious, Poirot,” I cried, “are you pretending to see all this?”

“I see it with the eyes of the mind,
mon ami
. So, and only so, could it have happened. Come, let us go back to the house.”

“You want to see Madame Olivier again?”

Poirot gave a curious smile.

“No, Hastings, I want to see the face of the lady on the stairs.”

“Who do you think she is, a relation of Madame Olivier's?”

“More probably a secretary—and a secretary engaged not very long ago.”

The same gentle acolyte opened the door to us.

“Can you tell me,” said Poirot, “the name of the lady, the widow lady, who came in just now?”

“Madame Veroneau? Madame's secretary?”

“That is the lady. Would you be so kind as to ask her to speak to us for a moment.”

The youth disappeared. He soon reappeared.

“I am sorry. Madame Veroneau must have gone out again.”

“I think not,” said Poirot quietly. “Will you give her my name, M. Hercule Poirot, and say that it is important I should see her at once, as I am just going to the Préfecture.”

Again our messenger departed. This time the lady descended. She walked into the salon. We followed her. She turned and raised her veil. To my astonishment I recognized our old antagonist, the
Countess Rossakoff, a Russian countess, who had engineered a particularly smart jewel robbery in London.

“As soon as I caught sight of you in the hall, I feared the worst,” she observed plaintively.

“My dear Countess Rossakoff—”

She shook her head.

“Inez Veroneau now,” she murmured. “A Spaniard, married to a Frenchman. What do you want of me, M. Poirot? You are a terrible man. You hunted me from London. Now, I suppose, you will tell our wonderful Madame Olivier about me, and hunt me from Paris? We poor Russians, we must live, you know.”

“It is more serious than that, madame,” said Poirot, watching her. “I propose to enter the villa next door, and release M. Halliday, if he is still alive. I know everything, you see.”

I saw her sudden pallor. She bit her lip. Then she spoke with her usual decision.

“He is still alive—but he is not at the villa. Come, monsieur, I will make a bargain with you. Freedom for me—and M. Halliday, alive and well, for you.”

“I accept,” said Poirot. “I was about to propose the same bargain myself. By the way, are the Big Four your employers, madame?”

Again I saw that deathly pallor creep over her face, but she left his question unanswered.

Instead, “You permit me to telephone?” she asked, and crossing to the instrument she rang up a number. “The number of the villa,” she explained, “where our friend is now imprisoned. You may give it to the police—the nest will be empty when they arrive. Ah! I am through. Is that you, André? It is I, Inez. The little Belgian knows all. Send Halliday to the hotel, and clear out.”

She replaced the receiver, and came towards us, smiling.

“You will accompany us to the hotel, madame.”

“Naturally. I expected that.”

I got a taxi, and we drove off together. I could see by Poirot's face that he was perplexed. The thing was almost too easy. We arrived at the hotel. The porter came up to us.

“A gentleman has arrived. He is in your rooms. He seems very ill. A nurse came with him, but she has left.”

“That is all right,” said Poirot, “he is a friend of mine.”

We went upstairs together. Sitting in a chair by the window was a haggard young fellow who looked in the last stages of exhaustion. Poirot went over to him.

“Are you John Halliday?” The man nodded. “Show me your left arm. John Halliday has a mole just below the left elbow.”

The man stretched out his arm. The mole was there. Poirot bowed to the countess. She turned and left the room.

A glass of brandy revived Halliday somewhat.

“My God!” he muttered. “I have been through hell—hell … Those fiends are devils incarnate. My wife, where is she? What does she think? They told me that she would believe—would believe—”

“She does not,” said Poirot firmly. “Her faith in you has never wavered. She is waiting for you—she and the child.”

“Thank God for that. I can hardly believe that I am free once more.”

“Now that you are a little recovered, monsieur, I should like to hear the whole story from the beginning.”

Halliday looked at him with an indescribable expression.

“I remember—nothing,” he said.

“What?”

“Have you ever heard of the Big Four?”

“Something of them,” said Poirot dryly.