Chapter 1

CONTENTS

1. THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

2. THE MAN FROM THE ASYLUM

3. WE HEAR MORE ABOUT LI CHANG YEN

4. THE IMPORTANCE OF A LEG OF MUTTON

5. DISAPPEARANCE OF A SCIENTIST

6. THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS

7. THE RADIUM THIEVES

8. IN THE HOUSE OF THE ENEMY

9. THE YELLOW JASMINE MYSTERY

10. WE INVESTIGATE AT CROFTLANDS

11. A CHESS PROBLEM

12. THE BAITED TRAP

13. THE MOUSE WALKS IN

14. THE PEROXIDE BLONDE

15. THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE

16. THE DYING CHINAMAN

17. NUMBER FOUR WINS A TRICK

18. IN THE FELSENLABYRYNTH

THE BIG FOUR

1. THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

I have met people who enjoy a channel crossing; men who can sit calmly
in their deck-chairs and, on arrival, wait until the boat is moored,
then gather their belongings together without fuss and disembark.
Personally, I can never manage this. From the moment I get on board I
feel that the time is too short to settle down to anything. I move my
suit-cases from one spot to another, and if I go down to the saloon
for a meal, I bolt my food with an uneasy feeling that the boat may
arrive unexpectedly whilst I am below. Perhaps all this is merely a
legacy from one's short leaves in the war, when it seemed a matter of
such importance to secure a place near the gangway, and to be amongst
the first to disembark lest one should waste precious minutes of one's
three or five days' leave.

On this particular July morning, as I stood by the rail and watched the
white cliffs of Dover drawing nearer, I marvelled at the passengers
who could sit calmly in their chairs and never even raise their eyes
for the first sight of their native land. Yet perhaps their case was
different from mine. Doubtless many of them had only crossed to Paris
for the week-end, whereas I had spent the last year and a half on a
ranch in the Argentine. I had prospered there, and my wife and I had
both enjoyed the free and easy life of the South American continent,
nevertheless it was with a lump in my throat that I watched the
familiar shore draw nearer and nearer.

I had landed in France two days before, transacted some necessary
business, and was now _en route_ for London. I should be there
some months--time enough to look up old friends, and one old friend
in particular. A little man with an egg-shaped head and green
eyes--Hercule Poirot! I proposed to take him completely by surprise.
My last letter from the Argentine had given no hint of my intended
voyage--indeed, that had been decided upon hurriedly as a result
of certain business complications--and I spent many amused moments
picturing to myself his delight and stupefaction on beholding me.

He, I knew, was not likely to be far from his headquarters. The time
when his cases had drawn him from one end of England to the other was
past. His fame had spread, and no longer would he allow one case to
absorb all his time. He aimed more and more, as time went on, at being
considered a "consulting detective"--as much a specialist as a Harley
Street physician. He had always scoffed at the popular idea of the
human bloodhound who assumed wonderful disguises to track criminals,
and who paused at every footprint to measure it.

"No, my friend Hastings," he would say; "we leave that to Giraud and
his friends. Hercule Poirot's methods are his own. Order and method,
and 'the little gray cells.' Sitting at ease in our own arm-chairs we
see the things that these others overlook, and we do not jump to the
conclusion like the worthy Japp."

No; there was little fear of finding Hercule Poirot far afield.

On arrival in London, I deposited my luggage at an hotel and drove
straight on to the old address. What poignant memories it brought back
to me! I hardly waited to greet my old landlady, but hurried up the
stairs two at a time and rapped on Poirot's door.

"Enter, then," cried a familiar voice from within.

I strode in. Poirot stood facing me. In his arms he carried a small
valise, which he dropped with a crash on beholding me.

"_Mon ami_, Hastings!" he cried. "_Mon ami_, Hastings!"

And, rushing forward, he enveloped me in a capacious embrace. Our
conversation was incoherent and inconsequent. Ejaculations, eager
questions, incomplete answers, messages from my wife, explanations as
to my journey, were all jumbled up together.

"I suppose there's some one in my old rooms?" I asked at last, when we
had calmed down somewhat. "I'd love to put up here again with you."

Poirot's face changed with startling suddenness.

"_Mon Dieu!_ but what a _chance épouvantable_. Regard around
you, my friend."

For the first time I took note of my surroundings. Against the wall
stood a vast ark of a trunk of prehistoric design. Near to it were
placed a number of suit-cases, ranged neatly in order of size from
large to small. The inference was unmistakable.

"You are going away?"

"Yes."

"Where to?"

"South America."

"_What?_"

"Yes, it is a droll farce, is it not? It is to Rio I go, and every
day I say to myself, I will write nothing in my letters--but oh! the
surprise of the good Hastings when he beholds me!"

"But when are you going?"

Poirot looked at his watch.

"In an hour's time."

"I thought you always said nothing would induce you to make a long sea
voyage?"

Poirot closed his eyes and shuddered.

"Speak not of it to me, my friend. My doctor, he assures me that one
dies not of it--and it is for the one time only; you understand, that
never--never shall I return."

He pushed me into a chair.

"Come, I will tell you how it all came about. Do you know who is the
richest man in the world? Richer even than Rockefeller? Abe Ryland."

"The American Soap King?"

"Precisely. One of his secretaries approached me. There is some very
considerable, as you would call it, hocus-pocus going on in connection
with a big company in Rio. He wished me to investigate matters on the
spot. I refused. I told him that if the facts were laid before me,
I would give him my expert opinion. But that he professed himself
unable to do. I was to be put in possession of the facts only on my
arrival out there. Normally, that would have closed the matter. To
dictate to Hercule Poirot is sheer impertinence. But the sum offered
was so stupendous that for the first time in my life I was tempted by
mere money. It was a competence--a fortune! And there was a second
attraction--_you_, my friend. For this last year and a half I
have been a very lonely old man. I thought to myself, Why not? I am
beginning to weary of this unending solving of foolish problems. I
have achieved sufficient fame. Let me take this money and settle down
somewhere near my old friend."

I was quite affected by this token of Poirot's regard.

"So I accepted," he continued, "and in an hour's time I must leave to
catch the boat train. One of life's little ironies, is it not? But I
will admit to you, Hastings, that had not the money offered been so
big, I might have hesitated, for just lately I have begun a little
investigation of my own. Tell me, what is commonly meant by the phrase,
'The Big Four'?"

"I suppose it had its origin at the Versailles Conference, and then
there's the famous 'Big Four' in the film world, and the term is used
by hosts of smaller fry."

"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I have come across the phrase,
you understand, under certain circumstances where none of those
explanations would apply. It seems to refer to a gang of international
criminals or something of that kind; only--"

"Only what?" I asked, as he hesitated.

"Only that I fancy that it is something on a large scale. Just a little
idea of mine, nothing more. Ah, but I must complete my packing. The
time advances."

"Don't go," I urged. "Cancel your passage and come out on the same boat
with me."

Poirot drew himself up and glanced at me reproachfully.

"Ah, it is that you do not understand! I have passed my word, you
comprehend--the word of Hercule Poirot. Nothing but a matter of life or
death could detain me now."

"And that's not likely to occur," I murmured ruefully. "Unless at the
eleventh hour 'the door opens and the unexpected guest comes in.'"

I quoted the old saw with a slight laugh, and then, in the pause that
succeeded it, we both started as a sound came from the inner room.

"What's that?" I cried.

"_Ma foi!_" retorted Poirot. "It sounds very like your 'unexpected
guest' in my bedroom."

"But how can any one be in there? There's no door except into this
room."

"Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions."

"The window! But it's a burglar then? He must have had a stiff climb of
it--I should say it was almost impossible."

I had risen to my feet and was striding in the direction of the door
when the sound of a fumbling at the handle from the other side arrested
me.

The door swung slowly open. Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was
coated from head to foot with dust and mud; his face was thin and
emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, and then swayed and fell.
Poirot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me.

"Brandy--quickly."

I dashed some brandy into a glass and brought it. Poirot managed to
administer a little, and together we raised him and carried him to the
couch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an
almost vacant stare.

"What is it you want, monsieur?" said Poirot.

The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice.

"M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street."

"Yes, yes; I am he."

The man did not seem to understand, and merely repeated in exactly the
same tone:--

"M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street."

Poirot tried him with several questions. Sometimes the man did not
answer at all; sometimes he repeated the same phrase. Poirot made a
sign to me to ring up on the telephone.

"Get Dr. Ridgeway to come round."

The doctor was in luckily; and as his house was only just round the
corner, few minutes elapsed before he came bustling in.

"What's all this, eh?"

Poirot gave a brief explanation, and the doctor started examining our
strange visitor, who seemed quite unconscious of his presence or ours.

"H'm!" said Dr. Ridgeway, when he had finished. "Curious case."

"Brain fever?" I suggested.

The doctor immediately snorted with contempt.

"Brain fever! Brain fever! No such thing as brain fever. An invention
of novelists. No; the man's had a shock of some kind. He's come here
under the force of a persistent idea--to find M. Hercule Poirot, 14
Farraway Street--and he repeats those words mechanically without in the
least knowing what they mean."

"Aphasia?" I said eagerly.

This suggestion did not cause the doctor to snort quite as violently as
my last one had done. He made no answer, but handed the man a sheet of
paper and a pencil.

"Let's see what he'll do with that," he remarked.

The man did nothing with it for some moments, then he suddenly began to
write feverishly. With equal suddenness he stopped and let both paper
and pencil fall to the ground. The doctor picked it up, and shook his
head.

"Nothing here. Only the figure 4 scrawled a dozen times, each one
bigger than the last. Wants to write 14 Farraway Street, I expect.
It's an interesting case--very interesting. Can you possibly keep him
here until this afternoon? I'm due at the hospital now, but I'll come
back this afternoon and make all arrangements about him. It's too
interesting a case to be lost sight of."

I explained Poirot's departure and the fact that I proposed to
accompany him to Southampton.

"That's all right. Leave the man here. He won't get into mischief. He's
suffering from complete exhaustion. Will probably sleep for eight hours
on end. I'll have a word with that excellent Mrs. Funnyface of yours,
and tell her to keep an eye on him."

And Dr. Ridgeway bustled out with his usual celerity. Poirot hastily
completed his packing, with one eye on the clock.

"The time, it marches with a rapidity unbelievable. Come now, Hastings,
you cannot say that I have left you with nothing to do. A most
sensational problem. The man from the unknown. Who is he? What is he?
Ah, _sapristi_, but I would give two years of my life to have
this boat go to-morrow instead of to-day. There is something here very
curious--very interesting. But one must have time--_time_. It may
be days--or even months--before he will be able to tell us what he came
to tell."

"I'll do my best, Poirot," I assured him. "I'll try to be an efficient
substitute."

"Ye-es."

His rejoinder struck me as being a shade doubtful. I picked up the
sheet of paper.

"If I were writing a story," I said lightly, "I should weave this in
with your latest idiosyncrasy and call it _The Mystery of the Big
Four_." I tapped the pencilled figures as I spoke.

And then I started, for our invalid, roused suddenly from his stupor,
sat up in his chair and said clearly and distinctly:

"Li Chang Yen."

He had the look of a man suddenly awakened from sleep. Poirot made a
sign to me not to speak. The man went on. He spoke in a clear, high
voice, and something in his enunciation made me feel that he was
quoting from some written report or lecture.

His voice faltered and broke. Poirot leant forward.

"Yes," he prompted eagerly. "Number Four?"

His eyes were fastened on the man's face. Some overmastering terror
seemed to be gaining the day; the features were distorted and twisted.

"_The destroyer_," gasped the man. Then, with a final convulsive
movement, he fell back in a dead faint.

"_Mon Dieu!_" whispered Poirot, "I was right then. I was right."

"You think--?"

He interrupted me.

"Carry him on to the bed in my room. I have not a minute to lose if I
would catch my train. Not that I want to catch it. Oh, that I could
miss it with a clear conscience! But I gave my word. Come, Hastings!"

Leaving our mysterious visitor in the charge of Mrs. Pearson, we drove
away, and duly caught the train by the skin of our teeth. Poirot was
alternately silent and loquacious. He would sit staring out of the
window like a man lost in a dream, apparently not hearing a word that
I said to him. Then, reverting to animation suddenly, he would shower
injunctions and commands upon me, and urge the necessity of constant
marconigrams.

We had a long fit of silence just after we passed Woking. The train,
of course, did not stop anywhere until Southampton; but just here it
happened to be held up by a signal.

"Ah! _Sacré mille tonnerres!_" cried Poirot suddenly. "But I have
been an imbecile. I see clearly at last. It is undoubtedly the blessed
saints who stopped the train. Jump, Hastings, but jump, I tell you."

In an instant he had unfastened the carriage door, and jumped out on
the line.

"Throw out the suit-cases and jump yourself."

I obeyed him. Just in time. As I alighted beside him, the train moved
on.

"And now Poirot," I said, in some exasperation, "perhaps you will tell
me what all this is about."

"It is, my friend, that I have seen the light."

"That," I said, "is very illuminating to me."

"It should be," said Poirot, "but I fear--I very much fear that it is
not. If you can carry two of these valises, I think I can manage the
rest."

2. THE MAN FROM THE ASYLUM

Fortunately the train had stopped near a station. A short walk brought
us to a garage where we were able to obtain a car, and half an hour
later we were spinning rapidly back to London. Then, and not till then,
did Poirot deign to satisfy my curiosity.

"You do not see? No more did I. But I see now. Hastings, _I was being
got out of the way_."

"What!"

"Yes. Very cleverly. Both the place and the method were chosen with
great knowledge and acumen. They were afraid of me."

"Who were?"

"Those four geniuses who have banded themselves together to work
outside the law. A Chinaman, an American, a Frenchwoman, and--another.
Pray the good God we arrive back in time, Hastings."

"You think there is danger to our visitor?"

"I am sure of it."

Mrs. Pearson greeted us on arrival. Brushing aside her ecstasies of
astonishment on beholding Poirot, we asked for information. It was
reassuring. No one had called, and our guest had not made any sign.

With a sigh of relief we went up to the rooms. Poirot crossed the outer
one and went through to the inner one. Then he called me, his voice
strangely agitated.

"Hastings, he's dead."

I came running to join him. The man was lying as we had left him, but
he was dead, and had been dead some time. I rushed out for a doctor.
Ridgeway, I knew, would not have returned yet. I found one almost
immediately, and brought him back with me.

"He's dead right enough, poor chap. Tramp you've been befriending, eh?"

"Something of the kind," said Poirot evasively. "What was the cause of
death, doctor?"

"Hard to say. Might have been some kind of fit. There are signs of
asphyxiation. No gas laid on, is there?"

"No, electric light--nothing else."

"And both windows wide open, too. Been dead about two hours, I should
say. You'll notify the proper people, won't you?"

He took his departure. Poirot did some necessary telephoning. Finally,
somewhat to my surprise, he rang up our old friend Inspector Japp, and
asked him if he could possibly come round.

No sooner were these proceedings completed than Mrs. Pearson appeared,
her eyes as round as saucers.

"There's a man here from 'Anwell--from the 'Sylum. Did you ever? Shall
I show him up?"

We signified assent, and a big burly man in uniform was ushered in.

"'Morning, gentlemen," he said cheerfully. "I've got reason to believe
you've got one of my birds here. Escaped last night, he did."

"He was here," said Poirot quietly.

"Not got away again, has he?" asked the keeper, with some concern.

"He is dead."

The man looked more relieved than otherwise.

"You don't say so. Well, I dare say it's best for all parties."

"Was he--dangerous?"

"'Omicidal, d'you mean? Oh, no. 'Armless enough. Persecution mania very
acute. Full of secret societies from China that had got him shut up.
They're all the same."

I shuddered.

"How long had he been shut up?" asked Poirot.

"A matter of two years now."

"I see," said Poirot quietly. "It never occurred to anybody that he
might--be sane?"

The keeper permitted himself to laugh.

"If he was sane, what would he be doing in a lunatic asylum? They all
_say_ they're sane, you know."

Poirot said no more. He took the man in to see the body. The
identification came immediately.

"That's him--right enough," said the keeper callously; "funny sort
of bloke, ain't he? Well, gentlemen, I had best go off now and make
arrangements under the circumstances. We won't trouble you with the
corpse much longer. If there's a hinquest, you will have to appear at
it, I dare say. Good morning, sir."

With a rather uncouth bow he shambled out of the room.

A few minutes later Japp arrived. The Scotland Yard Inspector was
jaunty and dapper as usual.

"Here I am Moosior Poirot. What can I do for you? Thought you were off
to the coral strands of somewhere or other to-day?"

"My good Japp, I want to know if you have ever seen this man before."

He led Japp into the bedroom. The inspector stared down at the figure
on the bed with a puzzled face.

"Let me see now--he seems sort of familiar--and I pride myself on my
memory, too. Why, God bless my soul, it's Mayerling!"

"And who is--or was--Mayerling?"

"Secret Service chap--not one of our people. Went to Russia five years
ago. Never heard of again. Always thought the Bolshies had done him in."

"It all fits in," said Poirot, when Japp had taken his leave, "except
for the fact that he seems to have died a natural death."

He stood looking down on the motionless figure with a dissatisfied
frown. A puff of wind set the window-curtains flying out, and he looked
up sharply.

"I suppose you opened the windows when you laid him down on the bed,
Hastings?"

"No, I didn't," I replied. "As far as I remember, they were shut."

Poirot lifted his head suddenly.

"Shut--and now they are open. What can that mean?"

"Somebody came in that way," I suggested.

"Possibly," agreed Poirot, but he spoke absently and without
conviction. After a minute or two he said:

"That is not exactly the point I had in mind, Hastings. If only one
window was open it would not intrigue me so much. It is both windows
being open that strikes me as curious."

He hurried into the other room.

"The sitting-room window is open, too. That also we left shut. Ah!"

He bent over the dead man, examining the corners of the mouth minutely.
Then he looked up suddenly.

"He has been gagged, Hastings. Gagged and then poisoned."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed, shocked. "I suppose we shall find out all
about it from the post-mortem."

"We shall find out nothing. He was killed by inhaling strong prussic
acid. It was jammed right under his nose. Then the murderer went away
again, first opening all the windows. Hydrocyanic acid is exceedingly
volatile, but it has a pronounced smell of bitter almonds. With no
trace of the smell to guide them, and no suspicion of foul play, death
would be put down to some natural cause by the doctors. So this man was
in the Secret Service, Hastings. And five years ago he disappeared in
Russia."

"The last two years he's been in the Asylum," I said. "But what of the
three years before that?"

Poirot shook his head, and then caught my arm.

"The clock, Hastings, look at the clock."

I followed his gaze to the mantelpiece. The clock had stopped at four
o'clock.

"_Mon ami_, some one has tampered with it. It had still three days
to run. It is an eight-day clock, you comprehend?"

"But what should they want to do that for? Some idea of a false scent
by making the crime appear to have taken place at four o'clock?"

"No, no; rearrange your ideas, mon ami. Exercise your little gray
cells. You are Mayerling. You hear something, perhaps--and you know
well enough that your doom is sealed. You have just time to leave a
sign. _Four_ o'clock, Hastings. Number Four, the _destroyer_.
Ah! an idea!"

He rushed into the other room and seized the telephone. He asked for
Hanwell.

"You are the Asylum, yes? I understand there has been an escape to-day?
What is that you say? A little moment, if you please. Will you repeat
that? Ah! _parfaitement_."

He hung up the receiver, and turned to me.

"You heard, Hastings? _There has been no escape._"

"But the man who came--the keeper?" I said.

"I wonder--I very much wonder."

"You mean--?"

"Number Four--the destroyer."

I gazed at Poirot dumbfounded. A minute or two after, on recovering my
voice, I said:--

"We shall know him again, anywhere, that's one thing. He was a man of
very pronounced personality."

"Was he, _mon ami_? I think not. He was burly and bluff and
red-faced, with a thick moustache and a hoarse voice. He will
be none of those things by this time, and for the rest, he has
nondescript eyes, nondescript ears, and a perfect set of false teeth.
Identification is not such an easy matter as you seem to think. Next
time--"

"You think there will be a next time?" I interrupted.

Poirot's face grew very grave.

"It is a duel to the death, _mon ami_. You and I on the one side,
the Big Four on the other. They have won the first trick; but they have
failed in their plan to get me out of the way, and in the future they
have to reckon with Hercule Poirot!"

3. WE HEAR MORE ABOUT LI CHANG YEN

For a day or two after our visit from the fake Asylum attendant I was
in some hopes that he might return, and I refused to leave the flat
even for a moment. As far as I could see, he had no reason to suspect
that we had penetrated his disguise. He might, I thought, return and
try to remove the body, but Poirot scoffed at my reasoning.

"_Mon ami_," he said, "if you wish you may wait in to put salt on
the little bird's tail, but for me I do not waste my time so."

"Well then, Poirot," I argued, "why did he run the risk of coming
at all. If he intended to return later for the body, I can see some
point in his visit. He would at least be removing the evidence against
himself; as it is, he does not seem to have gained anything."

Poirot shrugged his most Gallic shrug. "But you do not see with the
eyes of Number Four, Hastings," he said. "You talk of evidence, but
what evidence have we against him? True, we have a body, but we have
no proof even that the man was murdered--prussic acid, when inhaled,
leaves no trace. Again, we can find no one who saw any one enter the
flat during our absence, and we have found out nothing about the
movements of our late friend, Mayerling....

"No, Hastings, Number Four has left no trace, and he knows it. His
visit we may call a reconnaissance. Perhaps he wanted to make quite
sure that Mayerling was dead, but more likely, I think, he came to see
Hercule Poirot, and to have speech with the adversary whom alone he
must fear."

Poirot's reasoning appeared to me typically egotistical, but I forbore
to argue.

"And what about the inquest?" I asked. "I suppose you will explain
things clearly there, and let the police have a full description of
Number Four."

"And to what end? Can we produce anything to impress a coroner's jury
of your solid Britishers? Is our description of Number Four of any
value? No; we shall allow them to call it 'Accidental Death,' and may
be, although I have not much hope, our clever murderer will pat himself
on the back that he deceived Hercule Poirot in the first round."

Poirot was right as usual. We saw no more of the man from the asylum,
and the inquest, at which I gave evidence, but which Poirot did not
even attend, aroused no public interest.

As, in view of his intended trip to South America, Poirot had wound up
his affairs before my arrival, he had at this time no cases on hand,
but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little
out of him. He remained buried in an arm-chair, and discouraged my
attempts at conversation.

And then one morning, about a week after the murder, he asked me if
I would care to accompany him on a visit he wished to make. I was
pleased, for I felt he was making a mistake in trying to work things
out so entirely on his own, and I wished to discuss the case with him.
But I found he was not communicative. Even when I asked where we were
going, he would not answer.

Poirot loves being mysterious. He will never part with a piece
of information until the last possible moment. In this instance,
having taken successively a 'bus and two trains, and arrived in the
neighbourhood of one of London's most depressing southern suburbs, he
consented at last to explain matters.

"We go, Hastings, to see the one man in England who knows most of the
underground life of China."

"Indeed! Who is he?"

"A man you have never heard of--a Mr. John Ingles. To all intents and
purposes, he is a retired Civil Servant of mediocre intellect, with
a house full of Chinese curios with which he bores his friends and
acquaintances. Nevertheless, I am assured by those who should know that
the only man capable of giving me the information I seek is this same
John Ingles."

A few moments more saw us ascending the steps of The Laurels, as Mr.
Ingles's residence was called. Personally, I did not notice a laurel
bush of any kind, so deduced that it had been named according to the
usual obscure nomenclature of the suburbs.

We were admitted by an impassive-faced Chinese servant and ushered
into the presence of his master. Mr. Ingles was a squarely-built man,
somewhat yellow of countenance, with deep-set eyes that were oddly
reflective in character. He rose to greet us, setting aside an open
letter which he had held in his hand. He referred to it after his
greeting.

"Sit down, won't you? Halsey tells me that you want some information
and that I may be useful to you in the matter."

"That is so, monsieur. I ask of you if you have any knowledge of a man
named Li Chang Yen?"

"That's rum--very rum indeed. How did you come to hear about the man?"

"You know him, then?"

"I've met him once.