"All the same," he said when I had finished, "my advice does not vary.
I am earnestly convinced that Poirot himself, if he were here, would
urge you to return. In his name, I beg of you, Hastings, abandon these
wild ideas and go back to your ranch."
To that only one answer was possible, and, shaking his head sadly, he
said no more.
It was a month before I was fully restored to health. Towards the end
of April, I sought, and obtained, an interview with the Home Secretary.
Mr. Crowther's manner was reminiscent of that of Dr. Ridgeway. It was
soothing and negative. Whilst appreciating the offer of my services,
he gently and considerately declined them. The papers referred to by
Poirot had passed into his keeping, and he assured me that all possible
steps were being taken to deal with the approaching menace.
With that cold comfort I was forced to be satisfied. Mr. Crowther ended
the interview by urging me to return to South America. I found the
whole thing profoundly unsatisfactory.
I should, I suppose, in its proper place, have described Poirot's
funeral. It was a solemn and moving ceremony, and the extraordinary
number of floral tributes passed belief. They came from high and low
alike, and bore striking testimony to the place my friend had made
for himself in the country of his adoption. For myself, I was frankly
overcome by emotion as I stood by the grave side and thought of all our
varied experiences and the happy days we had passed together.
By the beginning of May I had mapped out a plan of campaign. I felt
that I could not do better than keep Poirot's scheme of advertising
for any information respecting Claud Darrell. I had an advertisement
to this effect inserted in a number of morning newspapers, and I was
sitting in a small restaurant in Soho, and judging of the effect of the
advertisement, when a small paragraph in another part of the paper gave
me a nasty shock.
Very briefly, it reported the mysterious disappearance of Mr. John
Ingles from the _S.S. Shanghai_ shortly after the latter had
left Marseilles. Although the weather was perfectly smooth, it was
feared that the unfortunate gentleman must have fallen overboard.
The paragraph ended with a brief reference to Mr. Ingles's long and
distinguished service in China.
The news was unpleasant. I read into Ingles's death a sinister motive.
Not for one moment did I believe the theory of an accident. Ingles had
been murdered, and his death was only too clearly the handiwork of that
accursed Big Four.
As I sat there, stunned by the blow, and turning the whole matter over
in my mind, I was startled by the remarkable behaviour of the man
sitting opposite me. So far I had not paid much attention to him. He
was a thin, dark man of middle age, sallow of complexion, with a small
pointed beard. He had sat down opposite me so quietly that I had hardly
noticed his arrival.
But his actions now were decidedly peculiar, to say the least of them.
Leaning forward, he deliberately helped me to salt, putting it in four
little heaps round the edge of my plate.
"You will excuse me," he said, in a melancholy voice. "To help a
stranger to salt is to help them to sorrow, they say. That may be an
unavoidable necessity. I hope not, though. I hope that you will be
reasonable."
Then, with a certain significance, he repeated his operations with
the salt on his own plate. The symbol 4 was too plain to be missed. I
looked at him searchingly. In no way that I could see did he resemble
young Templeton, or James the footman, or any other of the various
personalities we had come across. Nevertheless, I was convinced
that I had to do with no less than the redoubtable Number Four
himself. In his voice there was certainly a faint resemblance to the
buttoned-up-stranger who had called upon us in Paris.
I looked round, undecided as to my course of action. Reading my
thoughts, he smiled and gently shook his head.
"I should not advise it," he remarked. "Remember what came of your
hasty action in Paris. Let me assure you that my way of retreat is
well assured. Your ideas are inclined to be a little crude, Captain
Hastings, if I may say so."
"You devil," I said, choking with rage, "you incarnate devil!"
"Heated--just a trifle heated. Your late lamented friend would have
told you that a man who keeps calm has always a great advantage."
"You dare to speak of him," I cried. "The man you murdered so foully.
And you come here--"
He interrupted me.
"I came here for an excellent and peaceful purpose. To advise you to
return at once to South America. If you do so, that is the end of the
matter as far as the Big Four are concerned. You and yours will not be
molested in any way. I give you my word as to that."