"Oh, without doubt, Hastings, in some things they deceive
themselves--_tant mieux_! They will learn in due time. Meanwhile
we have learnt something, and to know is to be prepared."
This last was a favourite axiom of his lately; so much so that I had
begun to hate the sound of it.
"We know something, Hastings," he continued. "Yes, we know
something--and that is to the good--but we do not know nearly enough.
We must know more."
"In what way?"
Poirot settled himself back in his chair, straightened a box of matches
which I had thrown carelessly down on the table, and assumed an
attitude that I knew only too well. I saw that he was prepared to hold
forth at some length.
"See you, Hastings, we have to contend against four adversaries; that
is, against four different personalities. With Number One we have
never come into personal contact--we know him, as it were, only by
the impress of his mind--and in passing, Hastings, I will tell you
that I begin to understand that mind very well--a mind most subtle and
Oriental--every scheme and plot that we have encountered have emanated
from the brain of Li Chang Yen. Number Two and Number Three are so
powerful, so high up, that they are for the present immune from our
attacks. Nevertheless what is their safeguard is, by a perverse chance,
our safeguard also. They are so much in the limelight that their
movements must be carefully ordered. And so we come to the last member
of the gang--we come to the man known as Number Four."
Poirot's voice altered a little, as it always did when speaking of this
particular individual.
"Number Two and Number Three are able to succeed, to go on their
way unscathed, owing to their notoriety and their assured position.
Number Four succeeds for the opposite reason--he succeeds by the way
of obscurity. Who is he? Nobody knows. What does he look like? Again
nobody knows. How many times have we seen him, you and I? Five times,
is it not? And could either of us say truthfully that we could be sure
of recognising him again?"
I was forced to shake my head, as I ran back in my mind over those
five different people who, incredible as it seemed, were one and the
same man. The burly lunatic asylum keeper, the man in the buttoned up
overcoat in Paris, James, the footman, the quiet young medical man in
the Yellow Jasmine case, and the Russian Professor. In no way did any
two of these people resemble each other.
"No," I said hopelessly. "We've nothing to go by whatsoever."
Poirot smiled.
"Do not, I pray of you, give way to such enthusiastic despair. We know
one or two things."
"What kind of things?" I asked sceptically.
"We know that he is a man of medium height, and of medium or fair
colouring. If he were a tall man of swarthy complexion he could never
have passed himself off as the fair stocky doctor. It is child's play,
of course, to put on an additional inch or so for the part of James,
or the Professor. In the same way he must have a short straight nose.
Additions can be built on to a nose by skilful make up, but a large
nose cannot be successfully reduced at a moment's notice. Then again,
he must be a fairly young man, certainly not over thirty-five. You see,
we are getting somewhere. A man between thirty and thirty-five, of
medium height and colouring, an adept in the art of make up, and with
very few or any teeth of his own."
"What?"
"Surely, Hastings. As the keeper, his teeth were broken and
discoloured, in Paris they were even and white, as the doctor they
protruded slightly, and as Savaronoff they had unusually long canines.
Nothing alters the face so completely as a different set of teeth. You
see where all this is leading us?"
"Not exactly," I said cautiously.
"A man carries his profession written in his face, they say."
"He's a criminal," I cried.
"He is an adept in the art of making up."
"It's the same thing."
"Rather a sweeping statement, Hastings, and one which would hardly be
appreciated by the theatrical world. Do you not see that the man is, or
has been, at one time or another, an actor?"
"An actor?"
"But certainly. He has the whole technique at his fingertips. Now there
are two classes of actors, the one who sinks himself in his part, and
the one who manages to impress his personality upon it. It is from the
latter class that actor managers usually spring. They seize a part and
mould it to their own personality. The former class is quite likely
to spend its days doing Mr. Lloyd George at different music halls, or
impersonating old men with beards in repertory plays. It is among that
former class that we must look for our Number Four. He is a supreme
artist in the way he sinks himself in each part he plays."