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 yo
u 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.
“You do not know what I know. They have unlimited power. If I remain silent, I shall be safe—if I say one word—not only I, but my nearest and dearest will suffer unspeakable things. It is no good arguing with me. I know… I remember—nothing.”
And, getting up, he walked from the room.
Poirot’s face wore a baffled expression.
“So it is like that, is it?” he muttered. “The Big Four win again. What is that you are holding in your hand, Hastings?”
I handed it to him.
“The countess scribbled it before she left,” I explained.
He read it.
“Au revoir.—I.V.”
“Signed with her initials—I.V. Just a coincidence, perhaps, that they also stand for Four. I wonder, Hastings, I wonder.”
Seven
THE RADIUM THIEVES
On the night of his release, Halliday slept in the room next to ours at the hotel, and all night long I heard him moaning and protesting in his sleep. Undoubtedly his experience in the villa had broken his nerve, and in the morning we failed completely to extract any information from him. He would only repeat his statement about the unlimited power at the disposal of the Big Four, and his assurance of the vengeance which would follow if he talked.
After lunch he departed to rejoin his wife in England, but Poirot and I remained behind in Paris. I was all for energetic proceedings of some kind or other, and Poirot’s quiescence annoyed me.
“For Heaven’s sake, Poirot,” I urged, “let us be up and at them.”
“Admirable, mon ami, admirable! Up where, and at whom? Be precise, I beg of you.”
“At the Big Four, of course.”
“Cela va sans dire. But how would you set about it?”
“The police,” I hazarded doubtfully.
Poirot smiled.
“They would accuse us of romancing. We have nothing to go upon—nothing whatever. We must wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for them to make a move. See now, in England you all comprehend and adore la boxe. If one man does not make a move, the other must, and by permitting the adversary to make the attack one learns something about him. That is our part—to let the other side make the attack.”
“You think they will?” I said doubtfully.
“I have no doubt whatever of it. To begin with, see, they try to get me out of England. That fails. Then, in the Dartmoor affair, we step in and save their victim from the gallows. And yesterday, once again, we interfere with their plans. Assuredly, they will not leave the matter there.”
As I reflected on this, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, a man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He was a tall, thin man, with a slightly hooked nose and a sallow complexion. He wore an overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a soft hat well pulled down over his eyes.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, for my somewhat unceremonious entry,” he said in a soft voice, “but my business is of a rather unorthodox nature.”
Smiling, he advanced to the table and sat down by it. I was about to spring up, but Poirot restrained me with a gesture.
“As you say, monsieur, your entry is somewhat unceremonious. Will you kindly state your business?”
“My dear M. Poirot, it is very simple. You have been annoying my friends.”
“In what way?”
“Come, come, M. Poirot. You do not seriously ask me that? You know as well as I do.”
“It depends, monsieur, upon who these friends of yours are.”
Without a word, the man drew from his pocket a cigarette case, and, opening it, took out four cigarettes and tossed them on the table. Then he picked them up and returned them to his case, which he replaced in his pocket.
“Aha!” said Poirot, “so it is like that, is it? And what do your friends suggest?”
“They suggest, monsieur, that you should employ your talents—your very considerable talents—in the detection of legitimate crime—return to your former avocations, and solve the problems of London society ladies.”
“A peaceful programme,” said Poirot. “And supposing I do not agree?”
The man made an eloquent gesture.
“We should regret it, of course, exceedingly,” he said. “So would all the friends and admirers of the great M. Hercule Poirot. But regrets, however poignant, do not bring a man to life again.”
“Put very delicately,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “And supposing I—accept?”
“In that case I am empowered to offer you—compensation.”
He drew out a pocketbook, and threw ten notes on the table. They were for ten thousand francs each.
“That is merely a guarantee of our good faith,” he said. “Ten times that amount will be paid you.”
“Good God,” I cried, springing up, “you dare to think—”
“Sit down, Hastings,” said Poirot autocratically. “Subdue your so beautiful and honest nature and sit down. To you, mo
nsieur, I will say this. What is to prevent me ringing up the police and giving you into their custody, whilst my friend here prevents you from escaping?”
“By all means do so if you think it advisable,” said our visitor calmly.
“Oh! look here, Poirot,” I cried. “I can’t stand this. Ring up the police and have done with it.”
Rising swiftly, I strode to the door and stood with my back against it.
“It seems the obvious course,” murmured Poirot, as though debating with himself.
“But you distrust the obvious, eh?” said our visitor, smiling.
“Go on, Poirot,” I urged.
“It will be your responsibility, mon ami.”
As he lifted the receiver, the man made a sudden, catlike jump at me. I was ready for him. In another minute we were locked together, staggering round the room. Suddenly I felt him slip and falter. I pressed my advantage. He went down before me. And then, in the very flush of victory, an extraordinary thing happened. I felt myself flying forwards. Head first, I crashed into the wall in a complicated heap. I was up in a minute, but the door was already closing behind my late adversary. I rushed to it and shook it, it was locked on the outside. I seized the telephone from Poirot.
“Is that the bureau? Stop a man who is coming out. A tall man, with a buttoned-up overcoat and a soft hat. He is wanted by the police.”
Very few minutes elapsed before we heard a noise in the corridor outside. The key was turned and the door flung open. The manager himself stood in the doorway.
“The man—you have got him?” I cried.
“No, monsieur. No one has descended.”
“You must have passed him.”
“We have passed no one, monsieur. It is incredible that he can have escaped.”
“You have passed someone, I think,” said Poirot, in his gentle voice. “One of the hotel staff, perhaps?”
“Only a waiter carrying a tray, monsieur.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, in a tone that spoke infinities.
“So that was why he wore his overcoat buttoned up to his chin,” mused Poirot, when we had finally got rid of the excited hotel officials.