“Are you John Halliday?” The man nodded. “Show me your left arm. John Halliday has a mole just below the left elbow.”
The man stretched out his arm. The mole was there. Poirot bowed to the countess. She turned and left the room.
A glass of brandy revived Halliday somewhat.
“My God!” he muttered. “I have been through hell—hell … Those fiends are devils incarnate. My wife, where is she? What does she think? They told me that she would believe—would believe—”
“She does not,” said Poirot firmly. “Her faith in you has never wavered. She is waiting for you—she and the child.”
“Thank God for that. I can hardly believe that I am free once more.”
“Now that you are a little recovered, monsieur, I should like to hear the whole story from the beginning.”
Halliday looked at him with an indescribable expression.
“I remember—nothing,” he said.
“What?”
“Have you ever heard of the Big Four?”
“Something of them,” said Poirot dryly.
“You do not know what I know. They have unlimited power. If I remain silent, I shall be safe—if I say one word—not only I, but my nearest and dearest will suffer unspeakable things. It is no good arguing with me. I know… I remember—nothing.”
And, getting up, he walked from the room.
Poirot’s face wore a baffled expression.
“So it is like that, is it?” he muttered. “The Big Four win again. What is that you are holding in your hand, Hastings?”
I handed it to him.
“The countess scribbled it before she left,” I explained.
He read it.
“Au revoir.—I.V.”
“Signed with her initials—I.V. Just a coincidence, perhaps, that they also stand for Four. I wonder, Hastings, I wonder.”
Seven
THE RADIUM THIEVES
On the night of his release, Halliday slept in the room next to ours at the hotel, and all night long I heard him moaning and protesting in his sleep. Undoubtedly his experience in the villa had broken his nerve, and in the morning we failed completely to extract any information from him. He would only repeat his statement about the unlimited power at the disposal of the Big Four, and his assurance of the vengeance which would follow if he talked.
After lunch he departed to rejoin his wife in England, but Poirot and I remained behind in Paris. I was all for energetic proceedings of some kind or other, and Poirot’s quiescence annoyed me.
“For Heaven’s sake, Poirot,” I urged, “let us be up and at them.”
“Admirable, mon ami, admirable! Up where, and at whom? Be precise, I beg of you.”
“At the Big Four, of course.”
“Cela va sans dire. But how would you set about it?”
“The police,” I hazarded doubtfully.
Poirot smiled.
“They would accuse us of romancing. We have nothing to go upon—nothing whatever. We must wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for them to make a move. See now, in England you all comprehend and adore la boxe. If one man does not make a move, the other must, and by permitting the adversary to make the attack one learns something about him. That is our part—to let the other side make the attack.”
“You think they will?” I said doubtfully.
“I have no doubt whatever of it. To begin with, see, they try to get me out of England. That fails. Then, in the Dartmoor affair, we step in and save their victim from the gallows. And yesterday, once again, we interfere with their plans. Assuredly, they will not leave the matter there.”
As I reflected on this, there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for a reply, a man stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He was a tall, thin man, with a slightly hooked nose and a sallow complexion. He wore an overcoat buttoned up to his chin, and a soft hat well pulled down over his eyes.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, for my somewhat unceremonious entry,” he said in a soft voice, “but my business is of a rather unorthodox nature.”
Smiling, he advanced to the table and sat down by it. I was about to spring up, but Poirot restrained me with a gesture.
“As you say, monsieur, your entry is somewhat unceremonious. Will you kindly state your business?”
“My dear M. Poirot, it is very simple. You have been annoying my friends.”
“In what way?”
“Come, come, M. Poirot. You do not seriously ask me that? You know as well as I do.”
“It depends, monsieur, upon who these friends of yours are.”
Without a word, the man drew from his pocket a cigarette case, and, opening it, took out four cigarettes and tossed them on the table. Then he picked them up and returned them to his case, which he replaced in his pocket.
“Aha!” said Poirot, “so it is like that, is it? And what do your friends suggest?”
“They suggest, monsieur, that you should employ your talents—your very considerable talents—in the detection of legitimate crime—return to your former avocations, and solve the problems of London society ladies.”
“A peaceful programme,” said Poirot. “And supposing I do not agree?”
The man made an eloquent gesture.
“We should regret it, of course, exceedingly,” he said. “So would all the friends and admirers of the great M. Hercule Poirot. But regrets, however poignant, do not bring a man to life again.”
“Put very delicately,” said Poirot, nodding his head. “And supposing I—accept?”
“In that case I am empowered to offer you—compensation.”
He drew out a pocketbook, and threw ten notes on the table. They were for ten thousand francs each.
“That is merely a guarantee of our good faith,” he said. “Ten times that amount will be paid you.”
“Good God,” I cried, springing up, “you dare to think—”
“Sit down, Hastings,” said Poirot autocratically. “Subdue your so beautiful and honest nature and sit down. To you, mo
nsieur, I will say this. What is to prevent me ringing up the police and giving you into their custody, whilst my friend here prevents you from escaping?”
“By all means do so if you think it advisable,” said our visitor calmly.
“Oh! look here, Poirot,” I cried. “I can’t stand this. Ring up the police and have done with it.”
Rising swiftly, I strode to the door and stood with my back against it.
“It seems the obvious course,” murmured Poirot, as though debating with himself.
“But you distrust the obvious, eh?” said our visitor, smiling.
“Go on, Poirot,” I urged.
“It will be your responsibility, mon ami.”
As he lifted the receiver, the man made a sudden, catlike jump at me. I was ready for him. In another minute we were locked together, staggering round the room. Suddenly I felt him slip and falter. I pressed my advantage. He went down before me. And then, in the very flush of victory, an extraordinary thing happened. I felt myself flying forwards. Head first, I crashed into the wall in a complicated heap. I was up in a minute, but the door was already closing behind my late adversary. I rushed to it and shook it, it was locked on the outside. I seized the telephone from Poirot.
“Is that the bureau? Stop a man who is coming out. A tall man, with a buttoned-up overcoat and a soft hat. He is wanted by the police.”
Very few minutes elapsed before we heard a noise in the corridor outside. The key was turned and the door flung open. The manager himself stood in the doorway.
“The man—you have got him?” I cried.
“No, monsieur. No one has descended.”
“You must have passed him.”
“We have passed no one, monsieur. It is incredible that he can have escaped.”
“You have passed someone, I think,” said Poirot, in his gentle voice. “One of the hotel staff, perhaps?”
“Only a waiter carrying a tray, monsieur.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, in a tone that spoke infinities.
“So that was why he wore his overcoat buttoned up to his chin,” mused Poirot, when we had finally got rid of the excited hotel officials.