Chapter 2

And I know something of him--not quite as much as I
should like to. But it surprises me that any one else in England should
even have heard of him. He's a great man in his way--mandarin class and
all that, you know--but that's not the crux of the matter. There's good
reason to suppose that he's the man behind it all."

"Behind what?"

"Everything. The world-wide unrest, the labour troubles that beset
every nation, and the revolutions that break out in some. There are
people, not scaremongers, who know what they are talking about, and
they say that there is a force behind the scenes which aims at nothing
less than the disintegration of civilisation. In Russia, you know,
there were many signs that Lenin and Trotsky were mere puppets whose
every action was dictated by another's brain. I have no definite proof
that would count with you, but I am quite convinced that this brain
was Li Chang Yen's."

"Oh, come," I protested, "isn't that a bit farfetched? How would a
Chinaman cut any ice in Russia?"

Poirot frowned at me irritably.

"For you, Hastings," he said, "everything is farfetched that comes not
from your own imagination; for me, I agree with this gentleman. But
continue, I pray, monsieur."

"What exactly he hopes to get out of it all I cannot pretend to say
for certain," went on Mr. Ingles; "but I assume his disease is one
that has attacked great brains from the time of Akbar and Alexander to
Napoleon--a lust for power and personal supremacy. Up to modern times
armed force was necessary for conquest, but in this century of unrest
a man like Li Chang Yen can use other means. I have evidence that he
has unlimited money behind him for bribery and propaganda, and there
are signs that he controls some scientific force more powerful than the
world has dreamed of."

Poirot was following Mr. Ingles's words with the closest attention.

"And in China?" he asked. "He moves there too?"

The other nodded in emphatic assent.

"There," he said, "although I can produce no proof that would count in
a court of law, I speak from my own knowledge. I know personally every
man who counts for anything in China to-day, and this I can tell you:
the men who loom most largely in the public eye are men of little or
no personality. They are marionettes who dance to the wires pulled by
a master hand, and that hand is Li Chang Yen's. His is the controlling
brain of the East to-day. We don't understand the East--we never shall;
but Li Chang Yen is its moving spirit. Not that he comes out into the
limelight--oh, not at all; he never moves from his palace in Pekin. But
he pulls strings--that's it, pulls strings--and things happen far away."

"And is there no one to oppose him?" asked Poirot.

Mr. Ingles leant forward in his chair.

"Four men have tried in the last four years," he said slowly; "men of
character, and honesty, and brain power. Any one of them might in time
have interfered with his plans." He paused.

"Well?" I queried.

"Well, they are dead. One wrote an article, and mentioned Li Chang
Yen's name in connection with the riots in Pekin, and within two days
he was stabbed in the street. His murderer was never caught. The
offences of the other two were similar. In a speech or an article,
or in conversation, each linked Li Chang Yen's name with rioting or
revolution, and within a week of his indiscretion each was dead. One
was poisoned; one died of cholera, an isolated case--not part of an
epidemic; and one was found dead in his bed. The cause of the last
death was never determined, but I was told by a doctor who saw the
corpse that it was burnt and shrivelled as though a wave of electrical
energy of incredible power had passed through it."

"And Li Chang Yen?" inquired Poirot. "Naturally nothing is traced to
him, but there are signs, eh?"

Mr. Ingles shrugged.

"Oh, signs--yes, certainly. And once I found a man who would talk, a
brilliant young Chinese chemist who was a protégé of Li Chang Yen's.
He came to me one day, this chemist, and I could see that he was on
the verge of a nervous breakdown. He hinted to me of experiments on
which he'd been engaged in Li Chang Yen's palace under the mandarin's
direction--experiments on coolies in which the most revolting disregard
for human life and suffering had been shown. His nerve had completely
broken, and he was in the most pitiable state of terror. I put him to
bed in a top room of my own house, intending to question him the next
day--and that, of course, was stupid of me."

"How did they get him?" demanded Poirot.

"That I shall never know. I woke that night to find my house in flames,
and was lucky to escape with my life. Investigation showed that a fire
of amazing intensity had broken out on the top floor, and the remains
of my young chemist friend were charred to a cinder."

I could see from the earnestness with which he had been speaking that
Mr. Ingles was a man mounted on his hobby horse, and evidently he, too,
realised that he had been carried away, for he laughed apologetically.

"But, of course," he said, "I have no proofs, and you, like the others,
will merely tell me that I have a bee in my bonnet."

"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "we have every reason to
believe your story. We ourselves are more than a little interested in
Li Chang Yen."

"Very odd your knowing about him. Didn't fancy a soul in England had
ever heard of him. I'd rather like to know how you did come to hear of
him--if it's not indiscreet."

"Not in the least, monsieur. A man took refuge in my rooms. He was
suffering badly from shock, but he managed to tell us enough to
interest us in this Li Chang Yen. He described four people--the Big
Four--an organisation hitherto undreamed of. Number One is Li Chang
Yen, Number Two is an unknown American, Number Three an equally
unknown Frenchwoman, Number Four may be called the executive of the
organisation--_the destroyer_. My informant died. Tell me,
monsieur, is that phrase known to you at all? The Big Four."

"Not in connection with Li Chang Yen. No, I can't say it is. But I've
heard it, or read it, just lately--and in some unusual connection too.
Ah, I've got it."

He rose and went across to an inlaid lacquer cabinet--an exquisite
thing, as even I could see. He returned with a letter in his hand.

"Here you are. Note from an old sea-faring man I ran against once in
Shanghai. Hoary old reprobate--maudlin with drink by now, I should say.
I took this to be the ravings of alcoholism."

He read it aloud:--

"DEAR SIR,--You may not remember me, but you did me a good
turn once in Shanghai. Do me another now. I must have money to get
out of the country. I'm well hid here, I hope, but any day they may
get me. The Big Four, I mean. It's life or death. I've plenty of
money, but I daren't get at it, for fear of putting them wise. Send
me a couple of hundred in notes. I'll repay it faithful--I swear to
that.--Your servant, sir,

"JONATHAN WHALLEY."

"Dated from Granite Bungalow, Hoppaton, Dartmoor. I'm afraid I regarded
it as rather a crude method of relieving me of a couple of hundred
which I can ill spare. If it's any use to you--" He held it out.

"_Je vous remercie_, monsieur. I start for Hoppaton _à l'heure
même._"

"Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I come along too? Any
objection?"

"I should be charmed to have your company, but we must start at once.
We shall not reach Dartmoor until close on nightfall, as it is."

John Ingles did not delay us more than a couple of minutes, and soon
we were in the train moving out of Paddington bound for the West
Country. Hoppaton was a small village clustering in a hollow right on
the fringe of the moorland. It was reached by a nine-mile drive from
Moretonhamstead. It was about eight o'clock when we arrived; but as the
month was July, the daylight was still abundant.

We drove into the narrow street of the village and then stopped to ask
our way of an old rustic.

"Granite Bungalow," said the old man reflectively, "it be Granite
Bungalow you do want? Eh?"

We assured him that this was what we did want.

The old man pointed to a small gray cottage at the end of the street.

"There be t'Bungalow. Do yee want to see t'Inspector?"

"What Inspector?" asked Poirot sharply; "what do you mean?"

"Haven't yee heard about t'murder, then? A shocking business t'was
seemingly. Pools of blood, they do say."

"_Mon Dieu!_" murmured Poirot. "This Inspector of yours, I must
see him at once."

Five minutes later we were closeted with Inspector Meadows. The
Inspector was inclined to be stiff at first, but at the magic name of
Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard, he unbent.

"Yes, sir; murdered this morning. A shocking business. They 'phoned to
Moreton, and I came out at once. Looked a mysterious thing to begin
with. The old man--he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his
glass, from all I hear--was lying on the floor of the living-room.
There was a bruise on his head and his throat was cut from ear to ear.
Blood all over the place, as you can understand. The woman who cooks
for him, Betsy Andrews, she told us that her master had several little
Chinese jade figures, that he'd told her were very valuable, and these
had disappeared. That, of course, looked like assault and robbery;
but there were all sorts of difficulties in the way of that solution.
The old fellow had two people in the house; Betsy Andrews, who is a
Hoppaton woman, and a rough kind of man-servant, Robert Grant. Grant
had gone to the farm to fetch the milk, which he does every day, and
Betsy had stepped out to have a chat with a neighbour. She was only
away twenty minutes--between ten and half-past--and the crime must
have been done then. Grant returned to the house first. He went in by
the back door, which was open--no one locks up doors round here--not
in broad daylight, at all events--put the milk in the larder, and went
into his own room to read the paper and have a smoke. Had no idea
anything unusual had occurred--at least, that's what he says. Then
Betsy comes in, goes into the living-room, sees what's happened, and
lets out a screech to wake the dead. That's all fair and square. Some
one got in whilst those two were out, and did the poor old man in. But
it struck me at once that he must be a pretty cool customer. He'd have
to come right up the village street, or creep through some one's back
yard. Granite Bungalow has got houses all round it, as you can see. How
was it that no one had seen him?"

The Inspector paused with a flourish.

"Aha, I perceive your point," said Poirot. "To continue?"

"Well, sir, fishy, I said to myself--fishy. And I began to look about
me. Those jade figures, now. Would a common tramp ever suspect that
they were valuable? Anyway, it was madness to try such a thing in
broad daylight. Suppose the old man had yelled for help?"

"I suppose, Inspector," said Mr. Ingles, "that the bruise on the head
was inflicted before death?"

"Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then
cut his throat. That's clear enough. But how the dickens did he come
or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this.
It came to me all at once--nobody did come. I took a good look round.
It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough
going in and out of the kitchen. In the living-room there were two sets
of footprints only (Betsy Andrews' stopped at the door)---Mr. Whalley's
(he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man's. The other man had
stepped in the blood-stains, and I traced his bloody footprints--I beg
your pardon, sir."

"Not at all," said Mr. Ingles, with a faint smile; "the adjective is
perfectly understood."

"I traced them to the kitchen--but not beyond. Point Number One. On
the lintel of Robert Grant's door was a faint smear--a smear of blood.
That's point Number Two. Point Number Three was when I got hold of
Grant's boots--which he had taken off--and fitted them to the marks.
That settled it. It was an inside job. I warned Grant and took him into
custody; and what do you think I found packed away in his portmanteau?
The little jade figures and a ticket-of-leave. Robert Grant was also
Abraham Biggs, convicted for felony and housebreaking five years ago."

The Inspector paused triumphantly.

"What do you think of that, gentlemen?"

"I think," said Poirot, "that it appears a very clear case--of a
surprising clearness, in fact. This Biggs, or Grant, he must be a man
very foolish and uneducated, eh?"

"Oh, he is that--a rough, common sort of fellow. No idea of what a
footprint may mean."

"Clearly he reads not the detective fiction! Well, Inspector, I
congratulate you. We may look at the scene of the crime. Yes?"

"I'll take you there myself this minute. I'd like you to see those
footprints."

"I, too, should like to see them. Yes, yes, very interesting, very
ingenious."

We set out forthwith. Mr. Ingles and the Inspector forged ahead. I
drew Poirot back a little so as to be able to speak to him out of the
Inspector's hearing.

"What do you really think, Poirot. Is there more in this than meets the
eye?"

"That is just the question, _mon ami_. Whalley says plainly enough
in his letter that the Big Four are on his track, and we know, you
and I, that the Big Four is no bogey for the children. Yet everything
seems to say that this man Grant committed the crime. Why did he do so?
For the sake of the little jade figures? Or is he an agent of the Big
Four? I confess that this last seems more likely. However valuable the
jade, a man of that class was not likely to realise the fact--at any
rate, not to the point of committing murder for them. (That, _par
exemple_, ought to have struck the Inspector.) He could have stolen
the jade and made off with it instead of committing a brutal and quite
purposeless murder. Ah, yes; I fear our Devonshire friend has not used
his little gray cells. He has measured footprints, and has omitted to
reflect and arrange his ideas with the necessary order and method."

4. THE IMPORTANCE OF A LEG OF MUTTON

The inspector drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of
Granite Bungalow. The day had been fine and dry, so our feet were not
likely to leave any prints; nevertheless, we wiped them carefully on
the mat before entering.

A woman came up out of the gloom and spoke to the Inspector, and he
turned aside. Then he spoke over his shoulder.

"Have a good look round, Mr. Poirot, and see all there is to be seen.
I'll be back in about ten minutes. By the way, here's Grant's boot. I
brought it along with me for you to compare the impressions."

We went into the living-room, and the sound of the Inspector's
footsteps died away outside. Ingles was attracted immediately by some
Chinese curios on a table in the corner, and went over to examine them.
He seemed to take no interest in Poirot's doings. I, on the other
hand, watched him with breathless interest. The floor was covered with
a dark-green linoleum which was ideal for showing up footprints. A
door at the farther end led into the small kitchen. From there another
door led into the scullery (where the back door was situated), and
another into the bedroom which had been occupied by Robert Grant.
Having explored the ground, Poirot commented upon it in a low running
monologue.

"Here is where the body lay; that big dark stain and the splashes all
around mark the spot. Traces of carpet slippers and 'number nine'
boots, you observe, but all very confused. Then two sets of tracks
leading to and from the kitchen; whoever the murderer was, he came in
that way. You have the boot, Hastings? Give it to me." He compared it
carefully with the prints. "Yes, both made by the same man, Robert
Grant. He came in that way, killed the old man, and went back to the
kitchen. He had stepped in the blood; see the stains he left as he
went out? Nothing to be seen in the kitchen--all the village has been
walking about in it. He went into his own room--no, first he went
back again to the scene of the crime--was that to get the little jade
figures? Or had he forgotten something that might incriminate him?"

"Perhaps he killed the old man the second time he went in?" I suggested.

"_Mais non_, you do not observe. On one of the outgoing footmarks
stained with blood there is superimposed an ingoing one. I wonder what
he went back for--the little jade figures as an afterthought? It is
all ridiculous--stupid."

"Well, he's given himself away pretty hopelessly."

"_N'est-ce pas?_ I tell you, Hastings, it goes against reason.
It offends my little gray cells. Let us go into his bedroom--ah,
yes; there is the smear of blood on the lintel and just a trace of
footmarks--the blood-stained. Robert Grant's footmarks, and his only,
near the body--Robert Grant the only man who went near the house. Yes,
it must be so."

"What about the old woman?" I said suddenly. "She was in the house
alone after Grant had gone for the milk. She might have killed him
and then gone out. Her feet would leave no prints if she hadn't been
outside."

"Very good, Hastings. I wondered whether that hypothesis would occur
to you. I had already thought of it and rejected it. Betsy Andrews is
a local woman, well-known hereabouts. She can have no connection with
the Big Four; and, besides, old Whalley was a powerful fellow, by all
accounts. This is a man's work--not a woman's."

"I suppose the Big Four couldn't have had some diabolical contrivance
concealed in the ceiling--something which descended automatically and
cut the old man's throat and was afterwards drawn up again?"

"Like Jacob's ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of
the most fertile--but I implore of you to keep it within bounds."

I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into
rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his
face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian
dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic
attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!

"My dear Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone
mad?"

"Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!"

I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual
about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as
much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.

"But do you not see this--and this--and this--"

He illustrated each "this" with a jab at the unoffending joint,
dislodging small icicles as he did so.

Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that
he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think
these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the
only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.

"It's frozen meat," I explained gently. "Imported, you know. New
Zealand."

He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.

"How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything--but
everything! How do they say--Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my
friend Hastings."

He flung down the leg of mutton onto its dish again and left the
larder. Then he looked through the window.

"Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I
want to see here." He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though
absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, "What is the day of
the week, _mon ami_?"

"Monday," I said, rather astonished. "What--?"

"Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a
Monday is a mistake."

Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and
glanced at the thermometer.

"Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer's
day."

Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.

"You do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?" said Poirot.

The other gave a slow smile.

"It's not my job, you see. I'm a connoisseur of some things, but not
of this. So I just stand back and keep out of the way. I've learnt
patience in the East."

The Inspector came bustling in, apologising for having been so long
away. He insisted on taking us over most of the ground again, but
finally we got away.

"I must appreciate your thousand politenesses, Inspector," said Poirot,
as we were walking down the village street again. "There is just one
more request I should like to put to you."

"You want to see the body, perhaps, sir?"

"Oh, dear me, no! I have not the least interest in the body. I want to
see Robert Grant."

"You'll have to drive back with me to Moreton to see him, sir."

"Very well, I will do so. But I must see him and be able to speak to
him alone."

The Inspector caressed his upper lip.

"Well, I don't know about that, sir."

"I assure you that if you can get through to Scotland Yard you will
receive full authority."

"I've heard of you, of course, sir, and I know you've done us a good
turn now and again. But it's very irregular."

"Nevertheless, it is necessary," said Poirot calmly. "It is necessary
for this reason--Grant is not the murderer."

"What? Who is, then?"

"The murderer was, I should fancy, a youngish man. He drove up
to Granite Bungalow in a trap, which he left outside. He went
in, committed the murder, came out, and drove away again. He was
bare-headed, and his clothing was slightly blood-stained."

"But--but the whole village would have seen him!"

"Not under certain circumstances."

"Not if it was dark, perhaps; but the crime was committed in broad
daylight."

Poirot merely smiled.

"And the horse and trap, sir--how could you tell that? Any amount of
wheeled vehicles have passed along outside. There's no mark of one in
particular to be seen."

"Not with the eyes of the body, perhaps; but with the eyes of the mind,
yes."

The Inspector touched his forehead significantly with a grin at me. I
was utterly bewildered, but I had faith in Poirot. Further discussion
ended in our all driving back to Moreton with the Inspector. Poirot
and I were taken to Grant, but a constable was to be present during the
interview. Poirot went straight to the point.

"Grant, I know you to be innocent of this crime. Relate to me in your
own words exactly what happened."

The prisoner was a man of medium height, with a somewhat unpleasing
cast of features. He looked a jail-bird if ever a man did.

"Honest to God, I never did it," he whined. "Some one put those little
glass figures amongst my traps. It was a frame-up, that's what it was.
I went straight to my rooms when I came in, like I said. I never knew a
thing till Betsy screeched out. S'welp me, God, I didn't."

Poirot rose.

"If you can't tell me the truth, that is the end of it."

"But, guv'nor--"

"You _did_ go into the room--you _did_ know your master was
dead; and you were just preparing to make a bolt of it when the good
Betsy made her terrible discovery."

The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.

"Come now, is it not so? I tell you solemnly--on my word of
honour--that to be frank now is your only chance."

"I'll risk it," said the man suddenly. "It was just as you say. I came
in, and went straight to the master--and there he was, dead on the
floor and blood all round. Then I got the wind up proper. They'd ferret
out my record, and for a certainty they'd say it was me as had done him
in. My only thought was to get away--at once--before he was found--"

"And the jade figures?"

The man hesitated.

"You see--"

"You took them by a kind of reversion to instinct, as it were? You had
heard your master say that they were valuable, and you felt you might
as well go the whole hog. That, I understand. Now, answer me this.
Was it the second time that you went into the room that you took the
figures?"

"I didn't go in a second time. Once was enough for me."

"You are sure of that?"

"Absolutely certain."

"Good. Now, when did you come out of prison?"

"Two months ago."

"How did you obtain this job?"

"Through one of them Prisoners' Help Societies. Bloke met me when I
came out."

"What was he like?"

"Not exactly a parson, but looked like one. Soft black hat and mincing
way of talking. Got a broken front tooth. Spectacled chap. Saunders his
name was. Said he hoped I was repentant, and that he'd find me a good
post. I went to old Whalley on his recommendation."

Poirot rose once more.

"I thank you. I know all now. Have patience." He paused in the doorway
and added: "Saunders gave you a pair of boots, didn't he?"

Grant looked very astonished.

"Why, yes, he did. But how did you know?"

"It is my business to know things," said Poirot gravely.

After a word or two to the Inspector, the three of us went to the White
Hart and discussed eggs and bacon and Devonshire cider.

"Any elucidations yet?" asked Ingles, with a smile.

"Yes, the case is clear enough now; but, see you, I shall have a good
deal of difficulty in proving it. Whalley was killed by order of the
Big Four--but not by Grant. A very clever man got Grant the post
and deliberately planned to make him the scapegoat--an easy matter
with Grant's prison record. He gave him a pair of boots, one of two
duplicate pairs. The other he kept himself. It was all so simple. When
Grant is out of the house, and Betsy is chatting in the village (which
she probably did every day of her life), he drives up wearing the
duplicate boots, enters the kitchen, goes through into the living-room,
fells the old man with a blow, and then cuts his throat. Then he
returns to the kitchen, removes the boots, puts on another pair, and,
carrying the first pair, goes out to his trap and drives off again."

Ingles looked steadily at Poirot.

"There's a catch in it still. Why did nobody see him?"

"Ah! That is where the cleverness of Number Four, I am convinced, comes
in. Everybody saw him--and yet nobody saw him. You see, he drove up in
a butcher's cart!"

I uttered an exclamation.

"The leg of mutton?"

"Exactly, Hastings, the leg of mutton. Everybody swore that no one had
been to Granite Bungalow that morning, but, nevertheless, I found in
the larder a leg of mutton, still frozen. It was Monday, so the meat
must have been delivered that morning; for if on Saturday, in this hot
weather, it would not have remained frozen over Sunday. So some one
_had_ been to the Bungalow, and a man on whom a trace of blood
here and there would attract no attention."

"Damned ingenious!" cried Ingles approvingly.

"Yes, he is clever, Number Four."

"As clever as Hercule Poirot?" I murmured.

My friend threw me a glance of dignified reproach.

"There are some jests that you should not permit yourself, Hastings,"
he said sententiously. "Have I not saved an innocent man from being
sent to the gallows? That is enough for one day."

5. DISAPPEARANCE OF A SCIENTIST

Personally, 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
testified 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.