It was all very well for Poirot to say that we were acquiring
information all the time and gaining an insight into our adversaries'
minds--I felt myself that I required some more tangible success than
this.
Since we had come into contact with the Big Four, they had committed
two murders, abducted Halliday, and had been within an ace of killing
Poirot and myself; whereas so far we had hardly scored a point in the
game.
Poirot treated my complaints lightly.
"So far, Hastings," he said, "they laugh. That is true, but you have a
proverb, have you not: 'He laughs best who laughs at the end'? And at
the end, _mon ami_, you shall see.
"You must remember, too," he added, "that we deal with no ordinary
criminal, but with the second greatest brain in the world."
I forbore to pander to his conceit by asking the obvious question. I
knew the answer, at least I knew what Poirot's answer would be, and
instead I tried without success to elicit some information as to what
steps he was taking to track down the enemy. As usual he had kept me
completely in the dark as to his movements, but I gathered that he was
in touch with secret service agents in India, China, and Russia, and,
from his occasional bursts of self-glorification, that he was at least
progressing in his favourite game of gauging his enemy's mind.
He had abandoned his private practice almost entirely, and I know that
at this time he refused some remarkably handsome fees. True, he would
sometimes investigate cases which intrigued him, but he usually dropped
them the moment he was convinced that they had no connection with the
activities of the Big Four.
This attitude of his was remarkably profitable to our friend, Inspector
Japp. Undeniably he gained much kudos for solving several problems
in which his success was really due to a half-contemptuous hint from
Poirot.
In return for such service Japp supplied full details of any case which
he thought might interest the little Belgian, and when he was put in
charge of what the newspaper called "The Yellow Jasmine Mystery," he
wired Poirot, asking him whether he would care to come down and look
into the case.
It was in response to this wire that, about a month after my adventure
in Abe Ryland's house, we found ourselves alone in a railway
compartment whirling away from the smoke and dust of London, bound for
the little town of Market Handford in Worcestershire, the seat of the
mystery.
Poirot leant back in his corner.
"And what exactly is your opinion of the affair, Hastings?"
I did not at once reply to his question; I felt the need of going
warily.
"It all seems so complicated," I said cautiously.
"Does it not?" said Poirot delightedly.
"I suppose our rushing off like this is a pretty clear sign that you
consider Mr. Paynter's death to be murder--not suicide or the result of
an accident?"
"No, no; you misunderstand me, Hastings. Granting that Mr. Paynter died
as the result of a particularly terrible accident, there are still a
number of mysterious circumstances to be explained."
"That was what I meant when I said it was all so complicated."
"Let us go over all the main facts quietly and methodically. Recount
them to me, Hastings, in an orderly and lucid fashion."