"There's been no robbery, I mean," explained Japp. "But the old
boy was writing a book of some sort. We only knew about it this
morning when there was a letter from the publishers asking about the
manuscript. It was just completed, it seems. Young Paynter and I have
searched high and low, but can't find a trace of it--he must have
hidden it away somewhere."
Poirot's eyes were shining with the green light I knew so well.
"How was it called, this book?" he asked.
"_The Hidden Hand in China_, I think it was called."
"Aha!" said Poirot, with almost a gasp. Then he said quickly, "Let me
see the Chinaman, Ah Ling."
The Chinaman was sent for and appeared, shuffling along, with his eyes
cast down, and his pigtail swinging. His impassive face showed no trace
of any kind of emotion.
"Ah Ling," said Poirot, "are you sorry your master is dead?"
"I welly sorry. He good master."
"You know who kill him?"
"I not know. I tell pleeceman if I know."
The questions and answers went on. With the same impassive face, Ah
Ling described how he had made the curry. The cook had had nothing to
do with it, he declared, no hand had touched it but his own. I wondered
if he saw where his admission was leading him. He stuck to it too,
that the window to the garden was bolted that evening. If it was open
in the morning, his master must have opened it himself. At last Poirot
dismissed him.
"That will do, Ah Ling." Just as the Chinaman had got to the door,
Poirot recalled him. "And you know nothing, you say, of the Yellow
Jasmine?"
"No, what should I know?"
"Nor yet of the sign that was written underneath it?"
Poirot leant forward as he spoke, and quickly traced something on the
dust of a little table. I was near enough to see it before he rubbed it
out. A down stroke, a line at right angles, and then a second line down
which completed a big 4. The effect on the Chinaman was electrical. For
one moment his face was a mask of terror. Then, as suddenly, it was
impassive again, and repeating his grave disclaimer, he withdrew.
Japp departed in search of young Paynter, and Poirot and I were left
alone together.
"The Big Four, Hastings," cried Poirot. "Once again, the Big Four.
Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some
vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen,
the head and brains of the Big Four."
"But who--how--"
"Hush, here they come."
Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had
a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot's
questions readily enough.
"I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherlys," he
explained. "What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a
latch-key, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally
thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I
caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar Ah Ling just whisking
round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken."
"When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came
to live with him."
"Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father)
quarrelled, you know."
"But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite
of all the years that had passed?"
"Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer's advertisement."
Poirot asked no more questions.
Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially
the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to
it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his
consulting patients. He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness
of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be
thoroughly modern in his methods.
"I wish I could remember about the window," he said frankly. "But it's
dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something
that never existed. That's psychology, isn't it, M. Poirot? You see,
I've read all about your methods, and I may say I'm an enormous admirer
of yours. No, I suppose it's pretty certain that the Chinaman put the
powdered opium in the curry, but he'll never admit it, and we shall
never know why. But holding a man down in a fire--that's not in keeping
with our Chinese friend's character, it seems to me."
I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main
street of Market Handford.
"Do you think he let a confederate in?" I asked. "By the way, I suppose
Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?" (The Inspector had passed
into the police station on some business or other.) "The emissaries of
the Big Four are pretty spry."
"Japp is keeping an eye on both of them," said Poirot grimly. "They
have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered."
"Well, at any rate _we_ know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do
with it."
"You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes
quite fatiguing."
"You old fox," I laughed. "You never will commit yourself."
"To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me--all but the
words, _Yellow Jasmine_--and I am coming to agree with you that
they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got
to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet--"
He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He
emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us,
and we all sought quarters at the inn.
I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting-room
reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his
face contorted with agony.
"Do not converse with me," he cried, waving an agitated hand. "Not
until I know that all is well--that the arrest is made. Ah! but my
psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it
is because it is important. Every one has said--'Yellow Jasmine? There
is yellow jasmine growing up the house--it means nothing.'"
"Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen." He held up a
little book he was holding.
"My friend, it struck me that it would be well to inquire into the
subject. What exactly is yellow jasmine? This little book has told me.
Listen."
He read.
"'_Gelsemini Radix._ Yellow Jasmine. Composition: Alkaloids
_gelseminine_ C_{22}H_{26}N_{2}O_{3}, a potent poison acting like
coniine; _gelsemine_ C_{12}H_{14}NO_{2}, acting like strychnine;
_gelsemic acid_, etc. Gelsemium is a powerful depressant to the
central nervous system. At a late stage in its action it paralyses the
motor nerve endings, and in large doses causes giddiness and loss of
muscular power. Death is due to paralysis of the respiratory centre.'
"You see, Hastings? At the beginning I had an inkling of the truth when
Japp made his remark about a live man being forced into the fire. I
realised then that it was a dead man who was burned."
"But why? What was the point?"
"My friend, if you were to shoot a man, or stab a man after he were
dead, or even knock him on the head, it would be apparent that the
injuries were inflicted after death. But with his head charred to a
cinder, no one is going to hunt about for obscure causes of death, and
a man who has apparently just escaped being poisoned at dinner, is not
likely to be poisoned just afterwards. _Who_ is lying, that is
always the question? I decided to believe Ah Ling--"
"What!" I exclaimed.
"You are surprised, Hastings? Ah Ling knew of the existence of the
Big Four, that was evident--so evident that it was clear he knew
nothing of their association with the crime until that moment. Had he
been the murderer, he would have been able to retain his impassive
face perfectly. So I decided then, to believe Ah Ling, and I fixed my
suspicions on Gerald Paynter. It seemed to me that Number Four would
have found an impersonation of a long lost nephew very easy."
"What!" I cried. "Number Four?"
"No, Hastings, _not_ Number Four. As soon as I had read up the
subject of yellow jasmine, I saw the truth. In fact, it leapt to the
eye."
"As always," I said coldly, "it doesn't leap to mine."
"Because you will not use your little gray cells. Who had a chance to
tamper with the curry?"
"Ah Ling. No one else."
"No one else? _What about the doctor?_"
"But that was _afterwards_."
"Of course it was afterwards. There was no trace of powdered opium
in the curry served to Mr. Paynter, but acting in obedience to the
suspicions Dr. Quentin had aroused, the old man eats none of it,
and preserves it to give to his medical attendant, whom he summons
according to plan. Dr. Quentin arrives, takes charge of the curry,
_and gives Mr. Paynter an injection_--of strychnine, he says,
but really of yellow jasmine--a poisonous dose. When the drug begins
to take effect, he departs, after unlatching the window. Then, in the
night, he returns by the window, finds the manuscript, and shoves Mr.
Paynter into the fire. He does not heed the newspaper that drops to the
floor and is covered by the old man's body. Paynter knew what drug he
had been given, and strove to accuse the Big Four of his murder. It is
easy for Quentin to mix powdered opium with the curry before handing it
over to be analysed. He gives his version of the conversation with the
old man, and mentions the strychnine injection casually, in case the
mark of the hypodermic needle is noticed. Suspicion at once is divided
between accident and the guilt of Ah Ling owing to the poison in the
curry."
"But Dr. Quentin cannot be Number Four?"
"I fancy he can. There is undoubtedly a real Dr. Quentin who is
probably abroad somewhere. Number Four has simply masqueraded as him
for a short time. The arrangements with Dr. Bolitho were all carried
out by correspondence, the man who was to do locum originally having
been taken ill at the last minute."
At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.
"You have got him?" cried Poirot anxiously.
Japp shook his head, very out of breath.
"Bolitho came back from his holiday this morning--recalled by
telegram. No one knows who sent it. The other man left last night.
We'll catch him yet, though."
Poirot shook his head quietly.
"I think not," he said, and absent-mindedly he drew a big 4 on the
table with a fork.