It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to
be aware of a change in Poirot. Up to now, his invincible confidence
in himself had stood the test. But it seemed as though, at last, the
long strain was beginning to tell. His manner was grave and brooding,
and his nerves were on edge. In these days he was as jumpy as a cat.
He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and
seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old
ardour. Nevertheless, I knew that he was secretly active in the big
matter. Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to see
him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to these mysterious
activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or
weapon of opposition with the help of these somewhat repulsive-looking
foreigners. Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in
his pass-book--he had asked me to verify some small item--and I noticed
the paying out of a huge sum--a huge sum even for Poirot who was
coining money nowadays--to some Russian with apparently every letter of
the alphabet in his name.
But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed to operate.
Only over and over again he gave utterance to one phrase. "It is the
greatest mistake to underestimate your adversary. Remember that, _mon
ami_." And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at
all costs to avoid.
So matters went on until the end of March, and then one morning Poirot
made a remark which startled me considerably.
"This morning, my friend, I should recommend the best suit. We go to
call upon the Home Secretary."
"Indeed? That is very exciting. He has called you in to take up a case?"
"Not exactly. The interview is of my seeking. You may remember my
saying that I once did him some small service? He is inclined to be
foolishly enthusiastic over my capabilities in consequence, and I
am about to trade on this attitude of his. As you know, the French
Premier, M. Desjardeaux is over in London, and at my request the Home
Secretary had arranged for him to be present at our little conference
this morning."
The Right Honourable Sydney Crowther, His Majesty's Secretary of State
for Home Affairs, was a well-known and popular figure. A man of some
fifty years of age, with a quizzical expression and shrewd gray eyes,
he received us with that delightful bonhomie of manner which was well
known to be one of his principal assets.
Standing with his back to the fireplace was a tall thin man with a
pointed black beard and a sensitive face.
"M. Desjardeaux," said Crowther. "Allow me to introduce to you M.
Hercule Poirot of whom you may, perhaps, already have heard."
The Frenchman bowed and shook hands.
"I have indeed heard of M. Hercule Poirot," he said pleasantly. "Who
has not?"
"You are too amiable, monsieur," said Poirot, bowing, but his face
flushed with pleasure.
"Any word for an old friend?" asked a quiet voice, and a man came
forward from a corner by a tall bookcase.
It was our old acquaintance, Mr. Ingles.
Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
"And now, M. Poirot," said Crowther. "We are at your service. I
understood you to say that you had a communication of the utmost
importance to make to us."
"That is so, monsieur. There is in the world to-day a vast
organisation--an organisation of crime. It is controlled by four
individuals, who are known and spoken of as the Big Four. Number One is
a Chinaman, Li Chang Yen; Number Two is the American multi-millionaire,
Abe Ryland; Number Three is a Frenchwoman; Number Four I have every
reason to believe is an obscure English actor called Claud Darrell.
These four are banded together to destroy the existing social order,
and to replace it with an anarchy in which they would reign as
dictators."
"Incredible," muttered the Frenchman. "Ryland, mixed up with a thing of
that kind? Surely the idea is too fantastic."
"Listen, monsieur, whilst I recount to you some of the doings of this
Big Four."
It was an enthralling narrative which Poirot unfolded. Familiar as I
was with all the details, they thrilled me anew as I heard the bald
recital of our adventures and escapes.
M. Desjardeaux looked mutely at Mr. Crowther as Poirot finished. The
other answered the look.
"Yes, M. Desjardeaux, I think we must admit the existence of a 'Big
Four.' Scotland Yard was inclined to jeer at first, but they have been
forced to admit that M. Poirot was right in many of his claims. The
only question is the extent of its aims. I cannot but feel that M.
Poirot--er--exaggerates a little."
For answer Poirot set forth ten salient points. I have been asked not
to give them to the public even now, and so I refrain from doing so,
but they included the extraordinary disasters to submarines which
occurred in a certain month, and also a series of aeroplane accidents
and forced landings. According to Poirot, these were all the work of
the Big Four, and bore witness to the fact that they were in possession
of various scientific secrets unknown to the world at large.
This brought us straight to the question which I had been waiting for
the French Premier to ask.
"You say that the third member of this organisation is a Frenchwoman.
Have you any idea of her name?"
"It is a well-known name, monsieur. An honoured name. Number Three is
no less than the famous Madame Olivier."
At the mention of the world-famous scientist, successor to the Curies,
M. Desjardeaux positively bounded from his chair, his face purple with
emotion.
"Madame Olivier! Impossible! Absurd! It is an insult what you say
there!"
Poirot shook his head gently, but made no answer.
Desjardeaux looked at him in stupefaction for some moments. Then his
face cleared, and he glanced at the Home Secretary and tapped his
forehead significantly.
"M. Poirot is a great man," he observed. "But even the great
man--sometimes he has his little mania, does he not? And seeks in high
places for fancied conspiracies. It is well known. You agree with me,
do you not, Mr. Crowther?"
The Home Secretary did not answer for some minutes. Then he spoke
slowly and heavily.
"Upon my soul, I don't know," he said at last. "I have always had and
still have the utmost belief in M. Poirot, but--well, this takes a bit
of believing."
"This Li Chang Yen, too," continued M. Desjardeaux. "Who has ever heard
of him?"
"I have," said the unexpected voice of Mr. Ingles.
The Frenchman stared at him, and he stared placidly back again, looking
more like a Chinese idol than ever. "Mr. Ingles," explained the Home
Secretary, "is the greatest authority we have on the interior of China."
"And you have heard of this Li Chang Yen?"
"Until M. Poirot here came to me, I imagined that I was the only man
in England who had. Make no mistake, M. Desjardeaux, there is only one
man in China who counts to-day--Li Chang Yen. He has, perhaps, I only
say perhaps, the finest brain in the world at the present time."