From our quiet retreat in the Ardennes we watched the progress
of affairs in the great world. We were plentifully supplied with
newspapers, and every day Poirot received a bulky envelope, evidently
containing some kind of report. He never showed these reports to me,
but I could usually tell from his manner whether its contents had been
satisfactory or otherwise. He never wavered in his belief that our
present plan was the only one likely to be crowned by success.
"As a minor point, Hastings," he remarked one day, "I was in continual
fear of your death lying at my door. And that rendered me nervous--like
a cat upon the jumps, as you say. But now I am well satisfied. Even if
they discover that the Captain Hastings who landed in South America is
an imposter (and I do not think they will discover it, they are not
likely to send an agent out there who knows you personally), they will
only believe that you are trying to circumvent them in some clever
manner of your own, and will pay no serious attention to discovering
your whereabouts. Of the one vital fact, my supposed death, they are
thoroughly convinced. They will go ahead and mature their plans."
"And then?" I asked eagerly.
"And then, _mon ami_, grand resurrection of Hercule Poirot! At the
eleventh hour I reappear, throw all into confusion, and achieve the
supreme victory in my own unique manner!"
I realised that Poirot's vanity was of the case-hardened variety which
could withstand all attacks. I reminded him that once or twice the
honours of the game had lain with our adversaries. But I might have
known that it was impossible to diminish Hercule Poirot's enthusiasm
for his own methods.
"See you, Hastings, it is like the little trick that you play with the
cards. You have seen it without doubt? You take the four knaves, you
divide them, one on top of the pack, one underneath, and so on--you
cut and you shuffle, and there they are all together again. That is my
object. So far I have been contending, now against one of the Big Four,
now against another. But let me get them all together, like the four
knaves in the pack of cards, and then, with one coup, I destroy them
all!"
"And how do you propose to get them all together?" I asked.
"By awaiting the supreme moment. By lying _perdu_ until they are
ready to strike."
"That may mean a long wait," I grumbled.
"Always impatient, the good Hastings! But no, it will not be so long.
The one man they were afraid of--myself--is out of the way. I give them
two or three months at most."
His speaking of some one being got out of the way reminded me of Ingles
and his tragic death, and I remembered that I had never told Poirot
about the dying Chinaman in St. Giles' Hospital.
He listened with keen attention to my story.
"Ingles's servant, eh? And the few words he uttered were in Italian?
Curious."
"That's why I suspected it might have been a plant on the part of the
Big Four."
"Your reasoning is at fault, Hastings. Employ the little gray cells. If
your enemies wished to deceive you they would assuredly have seen to it
that the Chinaman spoke in intelligible pigeon English. No, the message
was genuine. Tell me again all that you heard?"
"First of all he made a reference to Handel's Largo, and then he said
something that sounded like '_carrozzo_'--that's a carriage, isn't
it?"
"Nothing else?"
"Well, just at the end he murmured something like 'Cara' somebody or
other--some woman's name. Zia, I think. But I don't suppose that that
had any bearing on the rest of it."
"You would not suppose so, Hastings. Cara Zia is very important, very
important indeed."
"I don't see--"
"My dear friend, you _never_ see--and anyway the English know no
geography."
"Geography?" I cried. "What has geography got to do with it?"
"I dare say M. Thomas Cook would be more to the point."
As usual, Poirot refused to say anything more--a most irritating trick
of his. But I noticed that his manner became extremely cheerful, as
though he had scored some point or other.
The days went on, pleasant if a trifle monotonous. There were plenty
of books in the villa, and delightful rambles all around, but I chafed
sometimes at the forced inactivity of our life, and marvelled at
Poirot's state of placid content. Nothing occurred to ruffle our quiet
existence, and it was not until the end of June, well within the limit
that Poirot had given them, that we had our news of the Big Four.
A car drove up to the villa early one morning, such an unusual event in
our peaceful life that I hurried down to satisfy my curiosity. I found
Poirot talking to a pleasant-faced young fellow of about my own age.
He introduced me.
"This is Captain Harvey, Hastings, one of the most famous members of
your Intelligence Service."
"Not famous at all, I'm afraid," said the young man, laughing
pleasantly.
"Not famous except to those in the know, I should have said. Most of
Captain Harvey's friends and acquaintances consider him an amiable but
brainless young man--devoted only to the trot of the fox or whatever
the dance is called."
We both laughed.
"Well, well, to business," said Poirot. "You are of opinion the time
has come, then?"
"We are sure of it, sir. China was isolated politically yesterday. What
is going on out there, nobody knows. No news of any kind, wireless or
otherwise, has come through--just a complete break--and silence!"
"Li Chang Yen has shown his hand. And the others?"
"Abe Ryland arrived in England a week ago, and left for the Continent
yesterday."
"And Madame Olivier?"
"Madame Olivier left Paris last night."
"For Italy?"
"For Italy, sir. As far as we can judge, they are both making for the
resort you indicated--though how you knew that--"
"Ah, that is not the cap with the feather for me! That was the work of
Hastings here. He conceals his intelligence, you comprehend, but it is
profound for all that."
Harvey looked at me with due appreciation, and I felt rather
uncomfortable.
"All is in train, then," said Poirot. He was pale now, and completely
serious. "The time has come. The arrangements are all made?"
"Everything you ordered has been carried out. The governments of Italy,
France and England are behind you, and are all working harmoniously
together."
"It is, in fact, a new Entente," observed Poirot dryly. "I am glad
that Desjardeaux is convinced at last. _Eh bien_, then, we will
start--or rather, I will start. You, Hastings, will remain here--yes, I
pray of you. In verity, my friend, I am serious."
I believed him, but it was not likely that I should consent to being
left behind in that fashion. Our argument was short but decisive.
It was not until we were in the train, speeding towards Paris that he
admitted that he was secretly glad of my decision.
"For you have a part to play, Hastings. An important part! Without you,
I might well fail. Nevertheless, I felt that it was my duty to urge
you to remain behind."
"There is danger, then?"
"_Mon ami_, where there is the Big Four there is always danger."
On arrival in Paris, we drove across to the Gare de l'Est, and Poirot
at last announced our destination. We were bound for Bolzano and
Italian Tyrol.
During Harvey's absence from our carriage I took the opportunity of
asking Poirot why he had said that the discovery of the rendezvous was
my work.
"Because it was, my friend. How Ingles managed to get hold of the
information I do not know, but he did, and he sent it to us by his
servant. We are bound, _mon ami_ for Karersee, the new Italian
name for which is Lago di Carezza. You see now where your 'Cara Zia'
comes in and also your 'Carrozza' and 'Largo'--the Handel was supplied
by your own imagination. Possibly some reference to the information
coming from the 'hand' of M. Ingles started the train of association."
"Karersee?" I queried. "I never heard of it."
"I always tell you that the English know no geography. But as a matter
of fact it is a well-known and very beautiful summer resort, four
thousand feet up, in the heart of the Dolomites."
"And it is in this out of the way spot that the Big Four have their
rendezvous?"
"Say rather their headquarters. The signal has been given and it is
their intention to disappear from the world and issue orders from their
mountain fastness. I have made the inquiries--a lot of quarrying of
stone and mineral deposits is done there, and the company, apparently
a small Italian firm, is in reality controlled by Abe Ryland. I am
prepared to swear that a vast subterranean dwelling has been hollowed
out in the very heart of the mountain, secret and inaccessible. From
there the leaders of the organisation will issue by wireless their
orders to their followers who are numbered by thousands in every
country. And from that crag in the Dolomites the dictators of the world
will emerge. That is to say--they would emerge were it not for Hercule
Poirot."
"Do you seriously believe all this, Poirot? What about the armies and
general machinery of civilisation?"
"What about it in Russia, Hastings? This will be Russia on an
infinitely larger scale--and with this additional menace--that Madame
Olivier's experiments have proceeded further than she has ever
given out. I believe that she has, to a certain extent, succeeded
in liberating atomic energy and harnessing it to her purpose. Her
experiments with the nitrogen of the air have been very remarkable,
and she has also experimented in the concentration of wireless energy,
so that a beam of great intensity can be focused upon some given
spot. Exactly how far she has progressed, nobody knows, but it is
certain that it is much farther than has ever been given out. She is
a genius, that woman--the Curies were as nothing to her. Add to her
genius the powers of Ryland's almost unlimited wealth, and, with the
brain of Li Chang Yen, the finest criminal brain ever known, to direct
and plan--_eh bien_, it will not be, as you say, all jam for
civilisation."
His words made me very thoughtful. Although Poirot was given at times
to exaggeration of language, he was not really an alarmist. For the
first time I realised what a desperate struggle it was upon which we
were engaged.
Harvey soon rejoined us and the journey went on.
We arrived at Bolzano about midday. From there the journey on was by
motor. Several big blue motor-cars were waiting in the central square
of the town, and we three got into one of them. Poirot, notwithstanding
the heat of the day, was muffled to the eyes in greatcoat and scarf.
His eyes and the tips of his ears were all that could be seen of him.
I did not know whether this was due to precaution or merely his
exaggerated fear of catching a chill. The motor journey took a couple
of hours. It was a really wonderful drive. For the first part of the
way we wound in and out of huge cliffs, with a trickling waterfall on
one hand. Then we emerged into a fertile valley, which continued for
some miles, and then, still winding steadily upwards, the bare rocky
peaks began to show with dense clustering pine woods at their base. The
whole place was wild and lovely. Finally a series of abrupt curves,
with the road running through the pine woods on either side, and we
came suddenly upon a big hotel and found that we had arrived.
Our rooms had been reserved for us, and under Harvey's guidance we went
straight up to them. They looked straight out over the rocky peaks and
the long slopes of pine woods leading up to them. Poirot made a gesture
towards them.
"It is there?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes," replied Harvey. "There is a place called the
Felsenlabyrynth--all big boulders piled about in a most fantastic
way--a path winds through them. The quarrying is to the right of that,
but we think that the entrance is probably in the Felsenlabyrynth."
Poirot nodded.
"Come, _mon ami_," he said to me. "Let us go down and sit upon the
terrace and enjoy the sunlight."
"You think that wise?" I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
The sunlight was marvellous--in fact the glare was almost too great
for me. We had some creamy coffee instead of tea, then went upstairs
and unpacked our few belongings. Poirot was in his most unapproachable
mood, lost in a kind of reverie. Once or twice he shook his head and
sighed.
I had been rather intrigued by a man who had got out of our train at
Bolzano, and had been met by a private car. He was a small man, and the
thing about him that had attracted my attention was that he was almost
as much muffled up as Poirot had been. More so, indeed, for in addition
to greatcoat and muffler, he was wearing huge blue spectacles. I was
convinced that here we had an emissary of the Big Four. Poirot did not
seem very impressed by my idea, but when, leaning out of my bedroom
window, I reported that the man in question was strolling about in the
vicinity of the hotel, he admitted that there might be something in it.
I urged my friend not to go down to dinner, but he insisted on doing
so. We entered the dining-room rather late, and were shown to a
table by the window. As we sat down, our attention was attracted by
an exclamation and a crash of falling china. A dish of _haricots
verts_ had been upset over a man who was sitting at the table next
to ours.
The head waiter came up and was vociferous in apologies.
Presently, when the offending waiter was serving us with soup, Poirot
spoke to him.
"An unfortunate accident, that. But it was not your fault."
"Monsieur saw that? No, indeed it was not my fault. The gentleman half
sprung up from his chair--I thought he was going to have an attack of
some kind. I could not save the catastrophe."
I saw Poirot's eyes shining with the green light I knew so well, and as
the waiter departed he said to me in a low voice:--
"You see, Hastings, the effect of Hercule Poirot--alive and in the
flesh?"
"You think--"
I had not time to continue. I felt Poirot's hand on my knee, as he
whispered excitedly:
"Look, Hastings, look. _His trick with the bread!_ Number Four!"
Sure enough, the man at the next table to ours, his face unusually
pale, was dabbing a small piece of bread mechanically about the table.
I studied him carefully. His face, clean-shaven and puffily fat, was
of a pasty, unhealthy sallowness, with heavy pouches under the eyes
and deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his mouth. His
age might have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five. In no
particular did he resemble any one of the characters which Number Four
had previously assumed. Indeed, had it not been for his little trick
with the bread, of which he was evidently quite unaware, I would have
sworn readily enough that the man sitting there was some one whom I had
never seen before.
"He has recognised you," I murmured. "You should not have come down."
"My excellent Hastings, I have feigned death for three months for this
one purpose."
"To startle Number Four?"
"To startle him at a moment when he must act quickly or not at all.
And we have this great advantage--he does not know that we recognise
him. He thinks that he is safe in his new disguise. How I bless Flossie
Monro for telling us of that little habit of his."
"What will happen now?" I asked.
"What can happen? He recognises the only man he fears, miraculously
resurrected from the dead, at the very minute when the plans of the Big
Four are in the balance. Madame Olivier and Abe Ryland lunched here
to-day, and it is thought that they went to Cortina. Only we know that
they have retired to their hiding place. How much do we know? That is
what Number Four is asking himself at this minute. He dare take no
risks. I must be suppressed at all costs. _Eh bien_, let him try
to suppress Hercule Poirot! I shall be ready for him."
As he finished speaking, the man at the next table got up and went out.
"He has gone to make his little arrangements," said Poirot placidly.
"Shall we have our coffee on the terrace, my friend? It would be
pleasanter, I think. I will just go up and get a coat."
I went out on to the terrace, a little disturbed in mind. Poirot's
assurance did not quite content me. However, so long as we were on our
guard, nothing could happen to us. I resolved to keep thoroughly on the
alert.
It was quite five minutes before Poirot joined me. With his usual
precautions against cold, he was muffled up to the ears. He sat down
beside me and sipped his coffee appreciatively.
"Only in England is the coffee so atrocious," he remarked. "On the
continent they understand how important it is for the digestion that it
should be properly made."
As he finished speaking, the man from the next table suddenly appeared
on the terrace. Without any hesitation, he came over and drew up a
third chair to our table.
"You do not mind my joining you, I hope," he said in English.
"Not at all, monsieur," said Poirot.
I felt very uneasy. It is true that we were on the terrace of the
hotel, with people all round us, but nevertheless I was not satisfied.
I sensed the presence of danger.
Meanwhile Number Four chatted away in a perfectly natural manner.
It seemed impossible to believe that he was anything but a _bona
fide_ tourist. He described excursions and motor trips, and posed as
quite an authority on the neighbourhood.
He took a pipe from his pocket and began to light it. Poirot drew out
his case of tiny cigarettes. As he placed one between his lips, the
stranger leant forward with a match.
"Let me give you a light."
As he spoke, without the least warning, all the lights went out. There
was a chink of glass, and something pungent under my nose, suffocating
me--