"I think, Captain Hastings, that you will write that letter. See, I
have a cable form here. The message I shall write on it depends on you,
and means life or death for your wife."
The sweat broke out on my brow. My tormentor continued, smiling
amiably, and speaking with perfect sangfroid:--
"There, captain, the pen is ready to your hand. You have only to write.
If not--"
"If not?" I echoed.
"If not, that lady that you love dies--and dies slowly. My master,
Li Chang Yen, amuses himself in his spare hours by devising new and
ingenious methods of tortures--"
"My God!" I cried. "You fiend! Not that--you wouldn't do that--"
"Shall I recount to you some of his devices?"
Without heeding my cry of protest, his speech flowed on--evenly,
serenely--till with a cry of horror I clapped my hands to my ears.
"It is enough, I see. Take up the pen and write."
"You would not dare--"
"Your speech is foolishness, and you know it. Take up the pen and
write."
"If I do?"
"Your wife goes free. The cable shall be despatched immediately."
"How do I know that you will keep faith with me?"
"I swear it to you on the sacred tombs of my ancestors. Moreover, judge
for yourself--why should I wish to do her harm? Her detention will have
answered its purpose."
"And--and Poirot?"
"We will keep him in safe custody until we have concluded our
operations. Then we will let him go."
"Will you swear that also on the tombs of your ancestors?"
"I have sworn one oath to you. That should be sufficient."
My heart sank. I was betraying my friend--to what? For a moment I
hesitated--then the terrible alternative rose like a nightmare before
my eyes. Cinderella--in the hands of these Chinese devils, dying by
slow torture--
A groan rose to my lips. I seized the pen. Perhaps by careful wording
of the letter, I could convey a warning, and Poirot would be enabled to
avoid the trap. It was the only hope.
But even that hope was not to remain. The Chinaman's voice rose, suave
and courteous.
"Permit me to dictate to you."
He paused, consulted a sheaf of notes that lay by his side, and then
dictated as follows:--
"Dear Poirot, I think I'm on the track of Number Four. A Chinaman
came this afternoon and lured me down here with a bogus message.
Luckily I saw through his little game in time, and gave him the
slip. Then I turned the tables on him, and managed to do a bit of
shadowing on my own account--rather neatly too, I flatter myself.
I'm getting a bright young lad to carry this to you. Give him a
half a crown, will you? That's what I promised him if it was
delivered safely. I'm watching the house, and daren't leave. I
shall wait for you until six o'clock, and if you haven't come then,
I'll have a try at getting into the house on my own. It's too good
a chance to miss, and, of course, the boy mightn't find you. But
if he does, get him to bring you down here right away. And cover
up those precious moustaches of yours in case any one's watching
out from the house and might recognise you.
"Yours in haste,
"A. H."
Every word that I wrote plunged me deeper in despair. The thing was
diabolically clever. I realised how closely every detail of our life
must be known. It was just such an epistle as I might have penned
myself. The acknowledgment that the Chinaman who had called that
afternoon had endeavoured to "lure me away" discounted any good I might
have done by leaving my "sign" of four books. It _had_ been a
trap, and I had seen through it, that was what Poirot would think. The
time, too, was cleverly planned. Poirot, on receiving the note, would
have just time to rush off with his innocent-looking guide, and that
he would do so, I knew. My determination to make my way into the house
would bring him post haste. He always displayed a ridiculous distrust
of my capacities. He would be convinced that I was running into danger
without being equal to the situation, and would rush down to take
command of the situation.
But there was nothing to be done. I wrote as bidden. My captor took the
note from me, read it, then nodded his head approvingly and handed it
to one of the silent attendants who disappeared with it behind one of
the silken hangings on the wall which masked a doorway.
With a smile the man opposite to me picked up a cable form and wrote.
He handed it to me.