The Big Four

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 one thing about him that 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 sprang 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 someone whom I had never seen before.

“He has recognized 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 recognize 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 recognizes 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 today, 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 onto the terrace, a little disturbed in mind. Poirot’s assurance did not quite content me. However, so long as we were on 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 around 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—

XVIII

In the Felsenlabyrynth

I could not have been unconscious more than a minute. I came to myself being hustled along between two men. They had me under each arm, supporting my weight, and there was a gag in my mouth. It was pitch dark, but I gathered that we were