After our adventure in the villa at Passy we returned post haste to
London. Several letters were awaiting Poirot. He read one of them with
a curious smile, and then handed it to me.
"Read this, _mon ami_."
I turned first to the signature, "Abe Ryland," and recalled Poirot's
words: "the richest man in the world." Mr. Ryland's letter was curt
and incisive. He expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied with
the reasons Poirot had given for withdrawing from the South American
proposition at the last moment.
"This gives one furiously to think, does it not?" said Poirot.
"I suppose it's only natural he should be a bit ratty."
"No, no, you comprehend not. Remember the words of Mayerling, the man
who took refuge here--only to die by the hands of his enemies. 'Number
Two is represented by an S with two lines through it--the sign for a
dollar, also by two stripes and a star. It may be conjectured therefore
that he is an American subject, and that he represents the power of
wealth.' Add to those words the fact that Ryland offered me a huge sum
to tempt me out of England--and--and what about it, Hastings?"
"You mean," I said, staring, "that you suspect Abe Ryland, the
multi-millionaire, of being Number Two of the Big Four."
"Your bright intellect has grasped the idea, Hastings. Yes, I do.
The tone in which you said multi-millionaire was eloquent--but let
me impress upon you one fact--this thing is being run by men at the
top--and Mr. Ryland has the reputation of being no beauty in his
business dealings. An able, unscrupulous man, a man who has all the
wealth that he needs, and is out for unlimited power."
There was undoubtedly something to be said for Poirot's view. I asked
him when he had made up his mind definitely upon the point.
"That is just it. I am not sure. I cannot be sure. _Mon ami_,
I would give anything to _know_. Let me but place Number Two
definitely as Abe Ryland, and we draw nearer to our goal."
"He has just arrived in London, I see by this," I said, tapping the
letter. "Shall you call upon him, and make your apologies in person?"
"I might do so."
Two days later, Poirot returned to our rooms in a state of boundless
excitement. He grasped me by both hands in his most impulsive manner.
"My friend, an occasion stupendous, unprecedented, never to be
repeated, has presented itself! But there is danger, grave danger. I
should not even ask you to attempt it."
If Poirot was trying to frighten me, he was going the wrong way to
work, and so I told him. Becoming less incoherent, he unfolded his plan.
It seemed that Ryland was looking for an English secretary, one with
a good social manner and presence. It was Poirot's suggestion that I
should apply for the post.
"I would do it, myself, _mon ami_," he explained apologetically.
"But, see you, it is almost impossible for me to disguise myself in
the needful manner. I speak the English very well--except when I am
excited--but hardly so as to deceive the ear; and even though I were
to sacrifice my moustaches, I doubt not but that I should still be
recognisable as Hercule Poirot."
I doubted it also, and declared myself ready and willing to take up the
part and penetrate into Ryland's household.
"Ten to one he won't engage me anyway," I remarked.
"Oh, yes, he will. I will arrange for you such testimonials as shall
make him lick his lips. The Home Secretary himself shall recommend
you."
This seemed to be carrying things a bit far, but Poirot waved aside my
remonstrances.
"Oh, yes, he will do it. I investigated for him a little matter which
might have caused a grave scandal. All was solved with discretion and
delicacy, and now, as you would say, he perches upon my hand like the
little bird and pecks the crumbs."
Our first step was to engage the services of an artist in "make up." He
was a little man, with a quaint bird-like turn of the head, not unlike
Poirot's own. He considered me some time in silence, and then fell to
work. When I looked at myself in the glass half an hour afterwards,
I was amazed. Special shoes caused me to stand at least two inches
taller, and the coat I wore was arranged so as to give me a long, lank,
weedy look. My eyebrows had been cunningly altered, giving a totally
different expression to my face, I wore pads in my cheeks, and the deep
tan of my face was a thing of the past. My moustache had gone, and a
gold tooth was prominent on one side of my mouth.
"Your name," said Poirot, "is Arthur Neville. God guard you, my
friend--for I fear that you go into perilous places."
It was with a beating heart that I presented myself at the Savoy, at an
hour named by Mr. Ryland, and asked to see the great man.
After being kept waiting a minute or two, I was shown upstairs to his
suite.
Ryland was sitting at a table. Spread out in front of him was a letter
which I could see out of the tail of my eye was in the Home Secretary's
handwriting. It was my first sight of the American millionaire, and, in
spite of myself, I was impressed. He was tall and lean, with a jutting
out chin and slightly hooked nose. His eyes glittered cold and gray
behind penthouse brows. He had thick grizzled hair, and a long black
cigar (without which, I learned later, he was never seen) protruded
rakishly from the corner of his mouth.
"Siddown," he grunted.