Poirot’s face changed with startling suddenness.
“Mon Dieu! but what a chance épouvantable. Regard around you, my friend.”
For the first time I took note of my surroundings. Against the wall stood a vast ark of a trunk of prehistoric design. Near to it were placed a number of suitcases, ranged neatly in order of size from large to small. The inference was unmistakable.
“You are going away?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“South America.”
“What?”
“Yes, it is a droll farce, is it not? It is to Rio I go, and every day I say to myself, I will write nothing in my letters—but oh! the surprise of the good Hastings when he beholds me!”
“But when are you going?”
Poirot looked at his watch.
“In an hour’s time.”
“I thought you always said nothing would induce you to make a long sea voyage?”
Poirot closed his eyes and shuddered.
“Speak not of it to me, my friend. My doctor, he assures me that one dies not of it—and it is for the one time only; you understand, that never—never shall I return.”
He pushed me into a chair.
“Come, I will tell you how it all came about. Do you know who is the richest man in the world? Richer even than Rockefeller? Abe Ryland.”
“The American Soap King?”
“Precisely. One of his secretaries approached me. There is some very considerable, as you would call it, hocus-pocus going on in connection with a big company in Rio. He wished me to investigate matters on the spot. I refused. I told him that if the facts were laid before me, I would give him my expert opinion. But that he professed himself unable to do. I was to be put in possession of the facts only on my arrival out there. Normally, that would have closed the matter. To dictate to Hercule Poirot is sheer impertinence. But the sum offered was so stupendous that for the first time in my life I was tempted by mere money. It was a competence—a fortune! And there was a second attraction—you, my friend. For this last year and a half I have been a very lonely old man. I thought to myself, Why not? I am beginning to weary of this unending solving of foolish problems. I have achieved sufficient fame. Let me take this money and settle down somewhere near my old friend.”
I was quite affected by this token of Poirot’s regard.
“So I accepted,” he continued, “and in an hour’s time I must leave to catch the boat train. One of life’s little ironies, is it not? But I will admit to you, Hastings, that had not the money offered been so big, I might have hesitated, for just lately I have begun a little investigation of my own. Tell me, what is commonly meant by the phrase, ‘The Big Four’?”
“I suppose it had its origin at the Versailles Conference, and then there’s the famous ‘Big Four’ in the film world, and the term is used by hosts of smaller fry.”
“I see,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “I have come across the phrase, you understand, under certain circumstances where none of those explanations would apply. It seems to refer to a gang of international criminals or something of that kind; only—”
“Only what?” I asked, as he hesitated.
“Only that I fancy that it is something on a large scale. Just a little idea of mine, nothing more. Ah, but I must complete my packing. The time advances.”
“Don’t go,” I urged. “Cancel your passage and come out on the same boat with me.”
Poirot drew himself up and glanced at me reproachfully.
“Ah, it is that you don’t understand! I have passed my word, you comprehend—the word of Hercule Poirot. Nothing but a matter of life or death could detain me now.”
“And that’s not likely to occur,” I murmured ruefully. “Unless at the eleventh hour ‘the door opens and the unexpected guest comes in.’ ”
I quoted the old saw with a slight laugh, and then, in the pause that succeeded it, we both started as a sound came from the inner room.
“What’s that?” I cried.
“Ma foi!” retorted Poirot. “It sounds very like your ‘unexpected guest’ in my bedroom.”
“But how can anyone be in there? There’s no door except into this room.”
“Your memory is excellent, Hastings. Now for the deductions.”
“The window! But it’s a burglar, then? He must have had a stiff climb of it—I should say it was almost impossible.”
I had risen to my feet and was striding in the direction of the door when the sound of fumbling at the handle from the other side arrested me.
The door swung slowly open. Framed in the doorway stood a man. He was coated from head to foot with dust and mud; his face was thin and emaciated. He stared at us for a moment, and then swayed and fell. Poirot hurried to his side, then he looked up and spoke to me.
“Brandy—quickly.”
I dashed some brandy into a glass and brought it. Poirot managed to administer a little, and together we raised him and carried him to the couch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an almost vacant stare.
“What is it you want, monsieur?” asked Poirot.
The man opened his lips and spoke in a queer mechanical voice.
“M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street.”
“Yes, yes; I am he.”
The man did not seem to understand, and merely repeated in exactly the same tone:
“M. Hercule Poirot, 14 Farraway Street.”
Poirot tried him with several questions. Sometimes the man did not answer at all; sometimes he repeated the same phrase. Poirot made a sign to me to ring up on the telephone.
“Get Dr. Ridgeway to come round.”
The doctor was in, luckily; and as his house was only just round the corner, few minutes elapsed before he came bustling in.
“What’s all this, eh?”
Poirot gave him a brief explanation, and the doctor started examining our strange visitor, who seemed quite unconscious of his presence or ours.
“H’m!” said Dr. Ridgeway, when he
