She knelt down beside us and removed the gags, but left us bound, then rising and facing us, with a sudden swift gesture she removed her mask.
It was Madame Olivier!
“M. Poirot,” she said, in a low mocking tone. “The great, the wonderful, the unique, M. Poirot. I sent a warning to you yesterday morning. You chose to disregard it—you thought you could pit your wits against us. And now, you are here!”
There was a cold malignity about her that froze me to the marrow. It was so at variance with the burning fire of her eyes. She was mad—mad—with the madness of genius!
Poirot said nothing. His jaw had dropped, and he was staring at her.
“Well,” she said softly, “this is the end. We cannot permit our plans to be interfered with. Have you any last request to make?”
Never before, or since, have I felt so near death. Poirot was magnificent. He neither flinched nor paled, just stared at her with unabated interest.
“Your psychology interests me enormously, madame,” he said quietly. “It is a pity that I have so short a time to devote to studying it. Yes, I have a request to make. A condemned man is always allowed a last smoke, I believe. I have my cigarette case on me. If you would permit—” He looked down at his bonds.
“Oh, yes!” she laughed. “You would like me to untie your hands, would you not? You are clever, M. Hercule Poirot, I know that. I shall not untie your hands—but I will find you a cigarette.”
She knelt down by him, extracted his cigarette case, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips.
“And now a match,” she said, rising.
“It is not necessary, madame.” Something in his voice startled me. She, too, was arrested.
“Do not move, I pray of you, madame. You will regret it if you do. Are you acquainted at all with the properties of curare? The South American Indians use it as an arrow poison. A scratch with it means death. Some tribes use a little blowpipe—I, too, have a little blowpipe constructed so as to look exactly like a cigarette. I have only to blow … Ah! you start. Do not move, madame. The mechanism of this cigarette is most ingenious. One blows—and a tiny dart resembling a fishbone flies through the air—to find its mark. You do not wish to die, madame. Therefore, I beg of you to release my friend Hastings from his bonds. I cannot use my hands, but I can turn my head—so—you are still covered, madame. Make no mistake, I beg of you.”
Slowly, with shaking hands, and rage and hate convulsing her face, she bent down and did his bidding. I was free. Poirot’s voice gave me instructions.
“Your bonds will now do for the lady, Hastings. That is right. Is she securely fastened? Then release me, I pray of you. It is a fortunate circumstance she sent away her henchmen. With a little luck we may hope to find the way out unobstructed.”
In another minute, Poirot stood by my side. He bowed to the lady.
“Hercule Poirot is not killed so easily, madame. I wish you good night.”
The gag prevented her from replying, but the murderous gleam in her eyes frightened me. I hoped devoutly that we should never fall into her power again.
Three minutes later we were outside the villa, and hurriedly traversing the garden. The road outside was deserted, and we were soon clear of the neighbourhood.
Then Poirot broke out.
“I deserve all that that woman said to me. I am a triple imbecile, a miserable animal, thirty-six times an idiot. I was proud of myself for not falling into their trap. And it was not even meant as a trap—except exactly in the way in which I fell into it. They knew I would see through it—they counted on my seeing through it. This explains all—the ease with which they surrendered Halliday—everything. Madame Olivier was the ruling spirit—Vera Rossakoff only her lieutenant. Madame needs Halliday’s ideas—she herself had the necessary genius to supply the gaps that perplexed him. Yes, Hastings, we know now who Number Three is—the woman who is probably the greatest scientist in the world! Think of it. The brain of the East, the science of the West—and two others whose identities we do not yet know. But we must find out. Tomorrow we will return to London and set about it.”
“You are not going to denounce Madame Olivier to the police?”
“I should not be believed. The woman is one of the idols of France. And we can prove nothing. We are lucky if she does not denounce us.”
“What?”
“Think of it. We are found at night upon the premises with keys in our possession which she will swear she never gave us. She surprises us at the safe, and we gag and bind her and make away. Have no illusions, Hastings. The boot is not upon the right leg—is that how you say it?”
VIII
In the House of the Enemy
After our adventure in the villa at Passy, we returned posthaste to London. Several letters were awaiting Poirot. He read one of them with a curious smile, and then handed it to me.
“Read this, mon ami.”
I turned first to the signature, “Abe Ryland,” and recalled Poirot’s words: “the richest man in the world.” Mr. Ryland’s letter was curt and incisive. He expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied with the reason Poirot had given for withdrawing from the South American proposition at the last moment.
“This gives one furiously to think, does it not?” said Poirot.
“I suppose it’s only natural he should be a bit ratty.”
“No, no, you comprehend not. Remember the words of Mayerling, the man who took refuge here—only to die by the hands of his enemies. ‘Number Two is represented by an S with two lines through it—the sign of a dollar; also by
