The Big Four. Агата Кристи

business, and was now en route for London. I should be there some months—time enough to look up old friends, and one old friend in particular. A little man with an egg-shaped head and green eyes—Hercule Poirot! I proposed to take him completely by surprise. My last letter from the Argentine had given no hint of my intended voyage—indeed, that had been decided upon hurriedly as a result of certain business complications—and I spent many amused moments picturing to myself his delight and stupefaction on beholding me.

      He, I knew, was not likely to be far from his headquarters. The time when his cases had drawn him from one end of England to the other was past. His fame had spread, and no longer would he allow one case to absorb all his time. He aimed more and more, as time went on, at being considered a ‘consulting detective’—as much a specialist as a Harley Street physician. He had always scoffed at the popular idea of the human bloodhound who assumed wonderful disguises to track criminals, and who paused at every footprint to measure it.

      ‘No, my friend Hastings,’ he would say, ‘we leave that to Giraud and his friends. Hercule Poirot’s methods are his own. Order and method, and “the little grey cells”. Sitting at ease in our own armchairs we see the things that these others overlook, and we do not jump to the conclusion like the worthy Japp.’

      No; there was little fear of finding Hercule Poirot far afield.

      On arrival in London. I deposited my luggage at a hotel and drove straight on to the old address. What poignant memories it brought back to me! I hardly waited to greet my old landlady, but hurried up the stairs two at a time and rapped on Poirot’s door.

      ‘Enter, then,’ cried a familiar voice from within.

      I strode in. Poirot stood facing me. In his arms he carried a small valise which he dropped with a crash on beholding me.

      ‘Mon ami, Hastings!’ he cried. ‘Mon ami, Hastings!’

      And, rushing forward, he enveloped me in a capacious embrace. Our conversation was incoherent and inconsequent. Ejaculations, eager questions, incomplete answers, messages from my wife, explanations as to my journey, were all jumbled up together.

      ‘I suppose there’s someone in my old rooms?’ I asked at last, when we had calmed down somewhat. ‘I’d love to put up here again with you.’

      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 and last 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 do not understand! I have passed my word, you comprehend—the word of Hercule Poirot. Nothing but a matter of life and 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 a 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 conch. In a few minutes he opened his eyes and looked round him with an almost vacant glance.

      ‘What is it you want, monsieur?’ said