“I’m awfully sorry, Poirot,” I murmured, rather crestfallen. “I thought I’d downed him all right.”
“Yes, that was a Japanese trick, I fancy. Do not distress yourself, mon ami. All went according to plan—his plan. That is what I wanted.”
“What’s this?” I cried, pouncing on a brown object that lay on the floor.
It was a slim pocketbook of brown leather, and had evidently fallen from our visitor’s pocket during his struggle with me. It contained two receipted bills in the name of M. Felix Laon, and a folded-up piece of paper which made my heart beat faster. It was a half sheet of notepaper on which a few words were scrawled in pencil, but they were words of supreme importance.
“The next meeting of the council will be on Friday at 34 rue des Echelles at 11 a.m.”
It was signed with a big figure 4.
And today was Friday, and the clock on the mantelpiece showed the hour to be 10:30.
“My God, what a chance!” I cried. “Fate is playing into our hands. We must start at once, though. What stupendous luck.”
“So that was why he came,” murmured Poirot. “I see it all now.”
“See what? Come on, Poirot, don’t stay daydreaming there.”
Poirot looked at me, and slowly shook his head, smiling as he did so.
“‘Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly?’ That is your little English nursery rhyme, is it not? No, no—they are subtle—but not so subtle as Hercule Poirot.”
“What on earth are you driving at, Poirot?”
“My friend, I have been asking myself the reason of this morning’s visit. Did our visitor really hope to succeed in bribing me? Or, alternatively, in frightening me into abandoning my task? It seemed hardly credible. Why, then, did he come? And now I see the whole plan—very neat—very pretty—the ostensible reason to bribe or frighten me—the necessary struggle which he took no pains to avoid, and which should make the dropped pocketbook natural and reasonable—and finally—the pitfall! Rue des Echelles, 11 a.m.? I think not, mon ami! One does not catch Hercule Poirot as easily as that.”
“Good heavens,” I gasped.
Poirot was frowning to himself.
“There is still one thing I do not understand.”
“What is that?”
“The time, Hastings—the time. If they wanted to decoy me away, surely nighttime would be better? Why this early hour? Is it possible that something is about to happen this morning? Something which they are anxious Hercule Poirot should not know about?”
He shook his head.
“We shall see. Here I sit, mon ami. We do not stir out this morning. We await events here.”
It was at half past eleven exactly that the summons came. A petit bleu. Poirot tore it open, then handed it to me. It was from Madame Olivier, the world-famous scientist, whom we had visited yesterday in connection with the Halliday case. It asked us to come out to Passy at once.
We obeyed the summons without an instant’s delay. Madame Olivier received us in the same small salon. I was struck anew with the wonderful power of this woman, with her long nun’s face and burning eyes—this brilliant successor of Becquerel and the Curies. She came to the point at once.
“Messieurs, you interviewed me yesterday about the disappearance of M. Halliday. I now learn that you returned to the house a second time, and asked to see my secretary, Inez Veroneau. She left the house with you, and has not returned here since.”
“Is that all, madame?”
“No, monsieur, it is not. Last night the laboratory was broken into, and several valuable papers and memoranda were stolen. The thieves had a try for something more precious still, but luckily they failed to open the big safe.”
“Madame, these are the facts of the case. Your late secretary, Madame Veroneau, was really the Countess Rossakoff, an expert thief, and it was she who was responsible for the disappearance of M. Halliday. How long had she been with you?”
“Five months, Monsieur. What you say amazes me.”
“It is true, nevertheless. These papers, were they easy to find? Or do you think an inside knowledge was shown?”
“It is rather curious that the thieves knew exactly where to look. You think Inez—”
“Yes, I have no doubt that it was upon her information that they acted. But what is this precious thing that the thieves failed to find? Jewels?”
Madame Olivier shook her head with a faint smile.
“Something much more precious than that, monsieur.” She looked round her, then bent forward, lowering her voice. “Radium, monsieur.”
“Radium?”
“Yes, monsieur. I am now at the crux of my experiments. I possess a small portion of radium myself—more has been lent to me for the process I am at work upon. Small though the actual quantity is, it comprises a large amount of the world’s stock and represents a value of millions of francs.”
“And where is it?”
“In its leaden case in the big safe—the safe purposely appears to be of an old and worn-out pattern, but it is really a triumph of the safe-maker’s art. That is probably why the thieves were unable to open it.”
“How long are you keeping this radium in your possession?”
“Only for two days more, monsieur. Then my experiments will be concluded.”
Poirot’s eyes brightened.
“And Inez Veroneau is aware of the fact? Good—then our friends will come back. Not a word of me to anyone, madame. But rest assured, I will save your radium for you. You have a key of the door leading from the laboratory to the garden?”
“Yes, monsieur. Here it is. I have a duplicate for myself. And here is the key of the garden door leading out into the alleyway between this villa and the next one.”
“I thank you, madame. Tonight, go to bed as usual, have no fears, and leave all to me. But not a word to anyone—not to your two assistants—Mademoiselle Claude and Monsieur Henri, is it not?—particularly not a word to them.”
Poirot left the villa rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked.
“Now, Hastings, we are about to leave Paris—for England.”
“What?”
“We will pack our effects, have lunch, and drive to the Gare du Nord.”
“But the radium?”
“I said we were going to leave for England—I did not say we were going to arrive there. Reflect a moment, Hastings. It is quite certain that we are being watched and followed. Our enemies must believe that we are going back to England, and they certainly will not believe that unless they see us get on board the train and start.”
“Do you mean we are to slip off again at the last minute?”
“No, Hastings. Our enemies will be satisfied with nothing less than a bona fide departure.”
“But the train doesn’t stop until Calais?”
“It will stop if it is paid to do so.”
“Oh, come now, Poirot—surely you can’t pay an express to stop—they’d refuse.”
“My dear friend, have you never remarked the little handle—the signal d’arrêt—penalty for improper use, 100 francs, I think?”
“Oh! you are going to pull that?”
“Or rather a friend of mine, Pierre Combeau, will do so. Then, while he is arguing with the guard, and making a big scene, and all the train is agog with interest, you and I will fade quietly away.”
We duly carried out Poirot’s plan. Pierre Combeau, an old crony of Poirot’s, and who evidently knew my little friend’s methods pretty well, fell in with the arrangements. The communication cord was pulled just as we got to the outskirts of Paris. Combeau “made a scene” in the most approved French fashion, and Poirot and I were able to leave the train without anyone being interested in our departure. Our first proceeding was to make a considerable change in our appearance. Poirot had brought the materials for this with him in a small case. Two loafers in dirty blue blouses were the result. We had dinner in an obscure
hostelry, and started back to Paris afterwards.
It was close on eleven o’clock when we found ourselves once more in the neighbourhood of Madame Olivier’s villa. We looked up and down the road before slipping into the alleyway. The whole place appeared to be perfectly deserted. One thing we could be quite certain of, no one was following us.
“I do not expect them to be here yet,” whispered Poirot to me. “Possibly they may not come until tomorrow night, but they know perfectly well that there are only two nights on which the radium will be there.”
Very cautiously we turned the key in the garden door. It opened noiselessly and we stepped into the garden.
And then, with complete unexpectedness, the blow fell. In a minute we were surrounded, gagged, and bound. At least ten men must have been waiting for us. Resistance was useless. Like two helpless bundles we were lifted up and carried along. To my intense astonishment, they took us towards the house and not away from it. With a key they opened the door into the laboratory and carried us into it. One of the men stooped down before a big safe. The door of it swung open. I felt an unpleasant sensation down my spine. Were they going to bundle us into it, and leave us there to asphyxiate slowly?
However, to my amazement, I saw that from the inside of the safe steps led down beneath the floor. We were thrust down this narrow way and eventually came out into a big subterranean chamber. A woman stood there, tall and imposing, with a black velvet mask covering her face. She was clearly in command of the situation by her gestures of authority. The men slung us down on the floor and left us—alone with the mysterious creature in the mask. I had no doubt who she was. This was the unknown Frenchwoman—Number Three of the Big Four.
She knelt down beside us and removed the gags, but left us bound, then rising and facing us, with a sudden swift gesture she removed her mask.
It was Madame Olivier!
“M. Poirot,” she said, in a low mocking tone. “The great, the wonderful, the unique, M. Poirot. I sent a warning to you yesterday morning. You chose to disregard it—you thought you could pit your wits against US. And now, you are here!”
There was a cold malignity about her that froze me to the marrow. It was so at variance with the burning fire of her eyes. She was mad—mad—with the madness of genius!
Poirot said nothing. His jaw had dropped, and he was staring at her.
“Well,” she said softly, “this is the end. We cannot permit our plans to be interfered with. Have you any last request to make?”
Never before, or since, have I felt so near death. Poirot was magnificent. He neither flinched nor paled, just stared at her with unabated interest.
“Your psychology interests me enormously, madame,” he said quietly. “It is a pity that I have so short a time to devote to studying it. Yes, I have a request to make. A condemned man is always allowed a last smoke, I believe. I have my cigarette case on me. If you would permit—” He looked down at his bonds.
“Oh, yes!” she laughed. “You would like me to untie your hands, would you not? You are clever, M. Hercule Poirot, I know that. I shall not untie your hands—but I will find you a cigarette.”
She knelt down by him, extracted his cigarette case, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips.
“And now a match,” she said, rising.
“It is not necessary, madame.” Something in his voice startled me. She, too, was arrested.
“Do not move, I pray of you, madame. You will regret it if you do. Are you acquainted at all with the properties of curare? The South American Indians use it as an arrow poison. A scratch with it means death. Some tribes use a little blowpipe—I, too, have a little blowpipe constructed so as to look exactly like a cigarette. I have only to blow … Ah! you start. Do not move, madame. The mechanism of this cigarette is most ingenious. One blows—and a tiny dart resembling a fishbone flies through the air—to find its mark. You do not wish to die, madame. Therefore, I beg of you to release my friend Hastings from his bonds. I cannot use my hands, but I can turn my head—so—you are still covered, madame. Make no mistake, I beg of you.”
Slowly, with shaking hands, and rage and hate convulsing her face, she bent down and did his bidding. I was free. Poirot’s voice gave me instructions.
“Your bonds will now do for the lady, Hastings. That is right. Is she securely fastened? Then release me, I pray of you. It is a fortunate circumstance she sent away her henchmen. With a little luck we may hope to find the way out unobstructed.”
In another minute, Poirot stood by my side. He bowed to the lady.
“Hercule Poirot is not killed so easily, madame. I wish you good night.”
The gag prevented her from replying, but the murderous gleam in her eyes frightened me. I hoped devoutly that we should never fall into her power again.
Three minutes later we were outside the villa, and hurriedly traversing the garden. The road outside was deserted, and we were soon clear of the neighbourhood.
Then Poirot broke out.
“I deserve all that that woman said to me. I am a triple imbecile, a miserable animal, thirty-six times an idiot. I was proud of myself for not falling into their trap. And it was not even meant as a trap—except exactly in the way in which I fell into it. They knew I would see through it—they counted on my seeing through it. This explains all—the ease with which they surrendered. Halliday—everything. Madame Olivier was the ruling spirit—Vera Rossakoff only her lieutenant. Madame needs Halliday’s ideas—she herself had the necessary genius to supply the gaps that perplexed him. Yes, Hastings, we know now who Number Three is—the woman who is probably the greatest scientist in the world! Think of it. The brain of the East, the science of the West—and two others whose identities we do not yet know. But we must find out. Tomorrow we will return to London and set about it.”
“You are not going to denounce Madame Olivier to the police?”
“I should not be believed. The woman is one of the idols of France. And we can prove nothing. We are lucky if she does not denounce us.”
“What?”
“Think of it. We are found at night upon the premises with keys in our possession which she will swear she never gave us. She surprises us at the safe, and we gag and bind her and make away. Have no illusions, Hastings. The boot is not upon the right leg—is that how you say it?”
Eight
IN THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY
After our adventure in the villa at Passy, we returned posthaste to London. Several letters were awaiting Poirot. He read one of them with a curious smile, and then handed it to me.
“Read this, mon ami.”
I turned first to the signature, “Abe Ryland,” and recalled Poirot’s words: “the richest man in the world.” Mr. Ryland’s letter was curt and incisive. He expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied with the reason Poirot had given for withdrawing from the South American proposition at the last moment.
“This gives one furiously to think, does it not?” said Poirot.
“I suppose it’s only natural he should be a bit ratty.”
“No, no, you comprehend not. Remember the words of Mayerling, the man who took refuge here—only to die by the hands of his enemies. ‘Number Two is represented by an “S” with two lines through it—the sign of a dollar; also by two stripes and a star. It may be conjectured therefore that he is an American subject, and that he represents the power of wealth.’ Add to those words the fact that Ryland offered me a huge sum to tempt me out of England—and—and what about it, Hastings?”
“You mean,” I said, staring, “that you suspect Abe Ryland, the multimillionaire, of being Number Two of the Big Four.”
“Your bright intellect has grasped the idea, Hastings. Yes, I do. The tone in which you said multimillionaire was eloquent but let me impress upon you one fact—this thing is being run by men at the top—and Mr. Ryland has the reputation of being no beauty in his business dealings. An able, unscrupulous man, a man who has all the wealth that he needs, and is out for un
limited power.”
There was undoubtedly something to be said for Poirot’s view. I asked him when he had made up his mind definitely upon the point.
“That is just it. I am not sure. I cannot be sure. Mon ami, I would give anything to know. Let me but place Number Two definitely as Abe Ryland, and we draw nearer to our goal.”
“He has just arrived in London, I see by this,” I said, tapping the letter. “Shall you call upon him, and make your apologies in person?”
“I might do so.”
Two days later, Poirot returned to our rooms in a state of boundless excitement. He grasped me by both hands in his most impulsive manner.
“My friend, an occasion stupendous, unprecedented, never to be repeated, has presented itself! But there is danger, grave danger. I should not even ask you to attempt it.”
If Poirot was trying to frighten me, he was going the wrong way to work, and so I told him. Becoming less incoherent, he unfolded his plan.
It seemed that Ryland was looking for an English secretary, one with a good social manner and presence. It was Poirot’s suggestion that I should apply for the post.
“I would do it, myself, mon ami,” he explained apologetically. “But, see you, it is almost impossible for me to disguise myself in the needful manner. I speak the English very well—except when I am excited—but hardly so as to deceive the ear; and even though I were to sacrifice my moustaches, I doubt not but that I should still be recognizable as Hercule Poirot.”
I doubted it also, and declared myself ready and willing to take up the part and penetrate into Ryland’s household.
“Ten to one he won’t engage me anyway,” I remarked.
“Oh, yes, he will. I will arrange for you such testimonials as shall make him lick his lips. The Home Secretary himself shall recommend you.”
This seemed to be carrying things a bit far, but Poirot waved aside my remonstrances.
“Oh, yes, he will do it. I investigated for him a little matter which might have caused a grave scandal. All was solved with discretion and delicacy, and now, as you would say, he perches upon my hand like the little bird and pecks the crumbs.”