I did not know whether this was due to precaution at merely his exaggerated fear of catching a chill. The motor journey took a couple of hours. It was a really wonderful drive. For the first part of the way we wound in and out of huge cliffs, with a trickling waterfall on one hand. Then we emerged into a fertile valley, which continued for some miles, and then, still winding steadily upwards, the bare rock peaks began to show with dense clustering pinewoods at their base. The whole place was wild and lovely. Finally a series of abrupt curves, with the road running through the pinewoods on either side, and we came suddenly upon a big hotel and found we had arrived.
Our rooms had been reserved for us, and under Harvey’s guidance we went straight up to them. They looked straight out over the rocky peaks and the long slopes of pinewoods leading up to them. Poirot made a gesture towards them.
“It is there?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” replied Harvey. “There is a place called the Felsenlabyrinth—all big boulders piled about in a most fantastic way—a path winds through them. The quarrying is to the right of that, but we think that the entrance is probably in the Felsenlabyrinth.”
Poirot nodded.
“Come, mon ami,” he said to me. “Let us go down and sit upon the terrace and enjoy the sunlight.”
“You think that wise?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
The sunlight was marvellous—in fact the glare was almost too great for me. We had some creamy coffee instead of tea, then went upstairs and unpacked our few belongings. Poirot was in his most unapproachable mood, lost in a kind of reverie. Once or twice he shook his head and sighed.
I had been rather intrigued by 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 on to 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—
Eighteen
IN THE FELSENLABYRINTH
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 not outside, but passing through the hotel. All round I could hear people shouting and demanding in every known language what had happened to the lights. My captors swung me down some stairs. We passed along a basement passage, then through a door and out into the open again through a glass door at the back of the hotel. In another moment we had gained the shelter of the pine trees.
I had caught a glimpse of another figure in a similar plight to myself, and realized that Poirot, too, was a victim of this bold coup.
By sheer audacity, Number Four had won the day. He had employed, I gathered, an instant anaesthetic, probably ethyl chloride—breaking a small bulb of it under our noses. Then, in the confusion of the darkness, his accomplices, who had probably been guests sitting at the next
table, had thrust gags in our mouths and hurried us away, taking us through the hotel to baffle pursuit.
I cannot describe the hour that followed. We were hurried through the woods at a breakneck pace, going uphill the whole time. At last we emerged in the open, on the mountainside, and I saw just in front of us an extraordinary conglomeration of fantastic rocks and boulders.
This must be the Felsenlabyrinth of which Harvey had spoken. Soon we were winding in and out of its recesses. The place was like a maze devised by some evil genie.
Suddenly we stopped. An enormous rock barred our path. One of the men stopped and seemed to push on something when, without a sound, the huge mass of rock turned on itself and disclosed a small tunnellike opening leading into the mountainside.
Into this we were hurried. For some time the tunnel was narrow, but presently it widened, and before very long we came out into a wide rocky chamber lighted by electricity. Then the gags were removed. At a sign from Number Four, who stood facing us with mocking triumph in his face, we were searched and every article was removed from our pockets, including Poirot’s little automatic pistol.
A pang smote me as it was tossed down on the table. We were defeated—hopelessly defeated and outnumbered. It was the end.
“Welcome to the headquarters of the Big Four, M. Hercule Poirot,” said Number Four in a mocking tone. “To meet you again is an unexpected pleasure. But was it worthwhile returning from the grave only for this?”
Poirot did not reply. I dared not look at him.
“Come this way,” continued Number Four. “Your arrival will be somewhat of a surprise to my colleagues.”
He indicated a narrow doorway in the wall. We passed through and found ourselves in another chamber. At the very end of it was a table behind which four chairs were placed. The end chair was empty, but it was draped with a mandarin’s cape. On the second, smoking a cigar, sat Mr. Abe Ryland. Leaning back on the third chair, with her burning eyes and her nun’s face, was Madame Olivier. Number Four took his seat on the fourth chair.
We were in the presence of the Big Four.
Never before had I felt so fully the reality and the presence of Li Chang Yen as I did now when confronting his empty seat. Far away in China, he yet controlled and directed this malign organization.
Madame Olivier gave a faint cry on seeing us. Ryland, more self-controlled, only shifted his cigar, and raised his grizzled eyebrows.
“M. Hercule Poirot,” said Ryland slowly. “This is a pleasant surprise. You put it over on us all right. We thought you were good and buried. No matter, the game is up now.”
There was a ring as of steel in his voice. Madame Olivier said nothing, but her eyes burned, and I disliked the slow way she smiled.
“Madame and messieurs, I wish you good evening,” said Poirot quietly.
Something unexpected, something I had not been prepared to hear in his voice made me look at him. He seemed quite composed. Yet there was something about his whole appearance that was different.