“And Number Four?” I asked.
“As I said just now—I am beginning to know and understand his methods. You may smile, Hastings—but to penetrate a man’s personality, to know exactly what he will do under any given circumstances—that is the beginning of success. It is a duel between us, and whilst he is constantly giving away his mentality to me, I endeavour to let him know little or nothing of mine. He is in the light, I in the shade. I tell you, Hastings, that every day they fear me the more for my chosen inactivity.”
“They’ve let us alone, anyway,” I observed. “There have been no more attempts on your life, and no ambushes of any kind.”
“No,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “On the whole, that rather surprises me. Especially as there are one or two fairly obvious ways of getting at us which I should have thought certain to have occurred to them. You catch my meaning, perhaps?”
“An infernal machine of some kind?” I hazarded.
Poirot made a sharp click with his tongue expressive of impatience.
“But no! I appeal to your imagination, and you can suggest nothing more subtle than bombs in the fireplace. Well, well, I have need of some matches, I will promenade myself despite the weather. Pardon, my friend, but it is possible that you read The Future of the Argentine, Mirror of Society, Cattle Breeding, The Clue of Crimson and Sport in the Rockies at one and the same time?”
I laughed, and admitted that The Clue of Crimson was at present engaging my sole attention. Poirot shook his head sadly.
“But replace then the others on the bookshelf! Never, never shall I see you embrace the order and the method. Mon Dieu, what then is a bookshelf for?”
I apologized humbly, and Poirot, after replacing the offending volumes, each in its appointed place, went out and left me to uninterrupted enjoyment of my selected book.
I must admit, however, that I was half asleep when Mrs. Pearson’s knock at the door aroused me.
“A telegram for you, captain.”
I tore the orange envelope open without much interest.
Then I sat as though turned to stone.
It was a cable from Bronsen, my manager out at the South American ranch, and it ran as follows:
Mrs. Hastings disappeared yesterday, feared been kidnapped by some gang calling itself big four cable instructions have notified police but no clue as yet
I waved Mrs. Pearson out of the room, and sat as though stunned, reading the words over and over again. Cinderella—kidnapped! In the hands of the infamous Big Four! God, what could I do?
Poirot! I must have Poirot. He would advise me. He would checkmate them somehow. In a few minutes now, he would be back. I must wait patiently until then. But Cinderella—in the hands of the Big Four!
Another knock. Mrs. Pearson put her head in once more.
“A note for you, captain—brought by a heathen Chinaman. He’s a-waiting downstairs.”
I seized it from her. It was brief and to the point.
If you ever wish to see your wife again, go with the bearer of this note immediately. Leave no message for your friend or she will suffer.
It was signed with a big 4.
What ought I to have done? What would you who read have done in my place?
I had no time to think. I saw only one thing—Cinderella in the power of those devils. I must obey—I dare not risk a hair of her head. I must go with this Chinaman and follow whither he led. It was a trap, yes, and it meant certain capture and possible death, but it was baited with the person dearest to me in the whole world, and I dared not hesitate.
What irked me most was to leave no word for Poirot. Once set him on my track, and all might yet be well? Dare I risk it? Apparently I was under no supervision, but yet I hesitated. It would have been so easy for the Chinaman to come up and assure himself that I was keeping to the letter of the command. Why didn’t he? His very abstention made me more suspicious. I had seen so much of the omnipotence of the Big Four that I credited them with almost superhuman powers. For all I know, even the little bedraggled servant girl might be one of their agents.
No, I dared not risk it. But one thing I could do, leave the telegram. He would know then that Cinderella had disappeared, and who was responsible for her disappearance.
All this passed through my head in less time than it takes to tell, and I had clapped my hat on my head and was descending the stairs to where my guide waited, in a little over a minute.
The bearer of the message was a tall impassive Chinaman, neatly but rather shabbily dressed. He bowed and spoke to me. His English was perfect, but he spoke with a slight singsong intonation.
“You Captain Hastings?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You give me note, please.”
I had foreseen the request, and handed him over the scrap of paper without a word. But that was not all.
“You have a telegram today, yes? Come along just now? From South America, yes?”
I realized anew the excellence of their espionage system—or it might have been a shrewd guess. Bronsen was bound to cable me. They would wait until the cable was delivered and would strike hard upon
