Big Four Part 3

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.

24 Agatha Christie "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 pa.s.sed 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 protege 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 inten-

THE BIG FOUR 25

sity 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--/Ae 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 26 Agatha Christie against once in Shanghai. h.o.a.ry 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 a I'heure memo."

"Dear me, this is very interesting. Supposing I came 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 cl.u.s.tering 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.

THE BIG FOUR 27

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 BungaW you do want? Eh?"

We a.s.sured 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 ('Bungalow. Do yee want to see t'lnspector?"

"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."

"Mow 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 j.a.pp 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 gla.s.s, 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 a.s.sault 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 manservant, 28 Agatha Christie 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 d.i.c.kens did he come or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this. It came to me all at once--n.o.body did come. I took a good look round. It had rained the night before, and there were

THE BIG FOUR 29

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 30 Agatha Christie 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 cla.s.s 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 Devons.h.i.+re 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="" ^e="" importance="" of="" a="" jleq="" 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="">

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 31 32 Agatha Christie 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 THE BIG POUR 33 lintel and just a trace of footmarks--the bloodstained.

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 att.i.tude. In his hand he was brandis.h.i.+ng 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!"