"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!"