I repeated the words to Poirot. His face went white.
"Quick, Hastings. We must go like the wind."
A taxi took us to the hospital in less than ten minutes.
We asked for Miss Monro, and were taken immediately to the accident ward. But a white-capped sister met us in the doorway.
Poirot read the news in her face.
"It is over, eh?"
"She died six minutes ago."
Poirot stood as though stunned.
The nurse, mistaking his emotion, began speaking gently.
"She did not suffer, and she was unconscious towards the last. She was run over by a motor, you know - and the driver of the car did not even stop. Wicked, isn't it? I hope some one took the number."
"The stars fight against us," said Poirot, in a low voice.
"You would like to see her?"
The nurse led the way, and we followed.
Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.
"Yes," murmured Poirot. "The stars fight against us - but is it the stars?" He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. "Is it the stars, Hastings? If it is not - if it is not... Oh, I swear to you, my friend, standing here by this poor woman's body, that I will have no mercy when the time comes!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding information. A list of the articles found in her hand-bag was finally obtained. Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.
"You see, Hastings, you see?"
"See what?"
"There is no mention of a latch-key. But she must have had a latch-key with her. No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who bent over her took the key from her bag. But we may yet be in time. He may not have been able to find at once what he sought."
Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood. It was some time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro's flat, but we had at least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we were on guard outside.
Eventually we got in. It was plain that some one had been before us. The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor. The forced locks and the small broken tables showed the violence and the impatience of the searchers.
Poirot started revolving the debris. Suddenly he stood up and gave a shout, holding something in his hand. It was an old and empty photgraph frame.
On the backside there was a small round sticker with the price.
"It cost 4 shillings," I observed.
"Mon Dieu! Hastings, use your eyes. This is a new sticker. It was put here by the man who took the photograph; the man who was here before our arrival but knew we would come and left this for us - Claude Darrell. Alias, Number 4."
Chapter 15
THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE
It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to be aware of a change in Poirot. Up to now, his invincible confidence in himself had stood the test. But it seemed as though, at last, the long strain was beginning to tell. His manner was grave and brooding, and his nerves were on edge. In these days he was as jumpy as a cat. He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old ardour. Nevertheless, I knew that he was secretly active in the big matter.
Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to see him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to these mysterious activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or weapon of opposition with the help of these somewhat repulsive-looking foreigners.
Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in his post-book - he had asked me to verify some small item - and I noticed the paying out of a huge sum - a huge sum even for Poirot who was coining money nowadays - to some Russian with apparently every letter of the alphabet in his name.
But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed to operate. Only over and over again he gave utterance to one phrase. "It is the greatest mistake to underestimate your adversary. Remember that, mon ami." And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at all costs to avoid.
So matters went on until the end of March, and then one morning Poirot made a remark which startled me considerably.
"This morning, my friend, I should recommend the best suit. We go to call upon the Home Secretary."
"Indeed? That is very exciting. He has called you in to take up a case?"
"Not exactly. The interview is of my seeking. You may remember my saying that I once did him some small service? He is inclined to be foolishly enthusiastic over my capabilities in consequence, and I am about to trade on this attitude of his. As you know, the French Premier, M. Desjardeaux is over in London, and at my request the Home Secretary had arranged for him to be present at our little conference this morning."
The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty's Secretary of State for Home Affairs, was a well-known and popular figure. A man of some fifty years of age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes, he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner which was well known to be one of his principal assets.
Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin man with a pointed black beard and a sensitive face.
"M. Desjardeaux," said Crowther. "Allow me to introduce to you M. Hercule Poirot of whom you may, perhaps, already have heard."
The Frenchman bowed and shook hands.
"I have indeed heard of M. Hercule Poirot," he said pleasantly. "Who has not?"
"You are too amiable, monsieur," said Poirot, bowing, but his face flushed with pleasure.
"Any word for an old friend?" asked a quiet voice, and a man came forward from a corner by a tall bookcase.
It was our old acquaintance, Mr. Ingles.
Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
"And now, M. Poirot," said Crowther. "We are at your service. I understood you to say that you had a communication of the utmost importance to make to us."
"That is so, monsieur. There is in the world today a vast organisation - an organisation of crime. It is controlled by four individuals, who are known and spoken of as the Big Four. Number One is a Chinaman, Li Chang Yen; Number Two is the American multi-millionaire, Abe Ryland; Number Three is a Frenchwoman; Number Four I have every reason to believe is an obscure English actor called Claud Darrell. These four are banded together to destroy the existing social order, and to replace it with an anarchy in which they would reign as dictators."
"Incredible," muttered the Frenchman. "Ryland, mixed up with a thing of that kind? Surely the idea is too fantastic."
"Listen, monsieur, whilst I recount to you some of the doings of this Big Four."
It was an enthralling narrative which Poirot unfolded. Familiar as I was with all the details, they thrilled me anew as I heard the bald recital of our adventures and escapes.
M. Desjardeaux looked mutely at Mr. Crowther as Poirot finished. The other answered the look.
"Yes, M. Desjardeaux, I think we must admit the existence of a 'Big Four.' Scotland Yard was inclined to jeer at first, but they have been forced to admit that M. Poirot was right in many of his claims. The only question is the extent of its aims. I cannot but feel that M. Poirot - er - exaggerates a little."
For answer Poirot set forth ten salient points. I have been asked not to give them to the public even now, and so I refrain from doing so, but they included the extraordinary disasters to submarines which occurred in a certain month, and also a series of aeroplane accidents and forced landings. According to Poirot, these were all the work of the Big Four, and bore witness to the fact that they were in possession of various scientific secrets unknown to the world at large.
This brought us straight to the question which I had been waiting for the French Premier to ask.
"You say that the third member of this organisation is a Frenchwoman. Have you any idea of her name?"
"It is a well-known name, monsieur. An honoured name. Number Three is no less than the famous Madame Olivier."
At the mention of the world-famous scientist, successor to the Curies, M. Desjardeaux positively bounded from his chair, his face purple with emotion.
"Madame Olivier! Impossible! Absurd! It is an insult what you say there!"
Poirot shook his head gently, but made no answer.
Desjardeaux looked at him in stupefaction for some moments. Then his face cleared, and he glanced at the Home Secretary and tapped his forehead significantly.
"M. Poirot is a great man," he observed. "But even the great man - sometimes he has his little mania, does he not? And seeks in high places for fancied conspiracies. It is well known. You agree with me, do you not, Mr. Crowther?"
The Home Secretary did not answer for some minutes. Then he spoke slowly and heavily.
"Upon my soul, I don't know," he said at last. "I have always had and still have the utmost belief in M. Poirot, but - well, this takes a bit of believing."
"This Li Chang Yen, too," continued M. Desjardeaux. "Who has ever heard of him?"
"I have," said the unexpected voice of Mr. Ingles. The Frenchman stared at him, and he stared placidly back again, looking more like a Chinese idol than ever.
"Mr. Ingles," explained the Home Secretary, "is the greatest authority we have on the interior of China."
"And you have heard of this Li Chang Yen?"
"Until M. Poirot here came to me, I imagined that I was the only man in England who had. Make no mistake, M. Desjardeaux, there is only one man in China who counts today - Li Chang Yen. He has, perhaps, I only say perhaps, the finest brain in the world at the present time."
M. Desjardeaux sat as though stunned. Presently, however, he rallied.
"There may be something in what you say, M. Poirot," he said coldly. "But as regards Madame Olivier, you are most certainly mistaken. She is a true daughter of France, and devoted solely to the cause of science."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders and did not answer.
There was a minute or two's pause, and then my little friend rose to his feet, with an air of dignity that sat rather oddly upon his quaint personality.
"That is all I have to say, messieurs - to warn you. I thought it likely that I should not be believed. But at least you will be on your guard. My words will sink in, and each fresh event that comes along will confirm your wavering faith. It was necessary for me to speak now - later I might not have been able to do so."
"You mean -?" asked Crowther, impressed in spite of himself by the gravity of Poirot's tone.
"I mean, monsieur, that since I have penetrated the identity of Number Four, my life is not worth an hour's purchase. He will seek to destroy me at all costs - and not for nothing is he named 'The Destroyer.' Messieurs, I salute you. To you, M. Crowther, I deliver this key, and this sealed envelope. I have got together all my notes on the case, and my ideas as to how best to meet the menace that any day may break upon the world, and have placed them in a certain safe deposit. In the event of my death, M. Crowther, I authorise you to take charge of those papers and make what use you can of them. And now, messieurs, I wish you good day."
Desjardeaux merely bowed coldly, but Crowther sprang up and held out his hand.
"You have converted me, M. Poirot. Fantastic as the whole thing seems, I believe utterly in the truth of what you have told us."
Ingles left at the same time as we did.
"I am not disappointed with the interview," said Poirot, as we walked along. "I did not expect to convince Desjardeaux, but I have at least ensured that, if I die, my knowledge does not die with me. And I have made one or two converts. Pas si mal!"
"I'm with you, as you know," said Ingles. "By the way, I'm going out to China as soon as I can get off."
"Is that wise?"
"No," said Ingles dryly. "But it's necessary. One must do what one can."
"Ah, you are a brave man!" cried Poirot with emotion. "If we were not in the street, I would embrace you."
I fancied that Ingles looked rather relieved.
"I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you are in London," he growled.
"That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will not succeed in massacring Hastings also, that is all. That would annoy me greatly."
I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark that I had no intention of letting myself be massacred, and shortly afterwards Ingles parted from us.
For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot at length broke by uttering a totally unexpected remark.
"I think - I really think - that I shall have to bring my brother into this."
"Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"
"You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that all celebrated detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated than they are were it not for constitutional indolence?"
Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it well-nigh impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. That manner was very evident at the moment.
"What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this new idea.
"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in Belgium."
"What does he do?" I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.
"He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own - which is saying a great deal."
"Is he like you to look at?"
"Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches."
"Is he older than you, or younger?"
"He happens to have been born on the same day."
"A twin, "I cried.
"Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing accuracy. But here we are at home again. Let us at once get to work on that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."
