“Open it, madame. The flap on the left-hand side. That is right. Now take out that photograph and look at it.”
Wonderingly, she took out what seemed to be a small snapshot. No sooner had she looked at it than she uttered a cry and swayed as though about to fall. Then she almost flew at my companion.
“Where? Where? You shall tell me. Where?”
“Remember your bargain, madame.”
“Yes, yes, I will trust you. Quick, before they come back.”
Catching him by the hand, she drew him quickly and silently out of the room. I followed. From the outer room she led us into the tunnel by which we had first entered, but a short way along this forked, and she turned off to the right. Again and again the passage divided, but she led us on, never faltering or seeming to doubt her way, and with increasing speed.
“If only we are in time,” she panted. “We must be out in the open before the explosion occurs.”
Still we went on. I understood that this tunnel led right through the mountain and that we should finally emerge on the other side, facing a different valley. The sweat streamed down my face, but I raced on.
And then, far away, I saw a gleam of daylight. Nearer and nearer. I saw green bushes growing. We forced them aside, pushed our way through. We were in the open again, with the faint light of dawn making everything rosy.
Poirot’s cordon was a reality. Even as we emerged, three men fell upon us, but released us again with a cry of astonishment.
“Quick,” cried my companion. “Quick—there is no time to lose—”
But he was not destined to finish. The earth shook and trembled under our feet, there was a terrific roar and the whole mountain seemed to dissolve. We were flung headlong through the air.
I came to myself at last. I was in a strange bed and a strange room. Someone was sitting by the window. He turned and came and stood by me.
It was Achille Poirot—or, stay, was it—
The well-known ironical voice dispelled any doubts I might have had.
“But yes, my friend, it is. Brother Achille has gone home again—to the land of myths. It was I all the time. It is not only Number Four who can act a part. Belladonna in the eyes, the sacrifice of the moustaches, and a real scar the inflicting of which caused me much pain two months ago—but I could not risk a fake beneath the eagle eyes of Number Four. And the final touch, your own knowledge and belief that there was such a person as Achille Poirot! It was invaluable, the assistance you rendered me, half the success of the coup is due to you! The whole crux of the affair was to make them believe that Hercule Poirot was still at large directing operations. Otherwise, everything was true, the aniseed, the cordon, etc.”
“But why not really send a substitute?”
“And let you go into danger without me by your side? You have a pretty idea of me there! Besides, I always had a hope of finding a way out through the countess.”
“How on earth did you manage to convince her? It was a pretty thin story to make her swallow—all that about a dead child.”
“The countess has a great deal more perspicacity than you have, my dear Hastings. She was taken in at first by my disguise; but she soon saw through it. When she said, ‘You are very clever, M. Achille Poirot,’ I knew that she had guessed the truth. It was then or never to play my trump card.”
“All that rigmarole about bringing the dead to life?”
“Exactly—but then, you see, I had the child all along.”
“What?”
“But yes! You know my motto—Be prepared. As soon as I found that the Countess Rossakoff was mixed up with the Big Four, I had every possible inquiry made as to her antecedents. I learnt that she had had a child who was reported to have been killed, and I also found that there were discrepancies in the story which led me to wonder whether it might not, after all, be alive. In the end, I succeeded in tracing the boy, and by paying out a big sum I obtained possession of the child’s person. The poor little fellow was nearly dead of starvation. I placed him in a safe place, with kindly people, and took a snapshot of him in his new surroundings. And so, when the time came, I had my little coup de théâtre all ready!”
“You are wonderful, Poirot; absolutely wonderful!”
“I was glad to do it, too. For I had admired the countess. I should have been sorry if she had perished in the explosion.”
“I’ve been half afraid to ask you—what of the Big Four?”
“All the bodies have now been recovered. That of Number Four was quite unrecognizable, the head blown to pieces. I wish—I rather wish it had not been so. I should have liked to be sure—but no more of that. Look at this.”
He handed me a newspaper in which a paragraph was marked. It reported the death, by suicide, of Li Chang Yen, who had engineered the recent revolution which had failed so disastrously.
“My great opponent,” said Poirot gravely. “It was fated that he and I should never meet in the flesh. When he received the news of the disaster here, he took the simplest way out. A great brain, my friend, a great brain. But I wish I had seen the face of the man who was Number Four …Supposing that, after all—but I romance. He is dead. Yes, mon ami, together we have faced and routed the Big Four; and now you will return to your charming wife, and I—I shall retire. The great case of my life is over. Anything else will seem tame after this. No, I shall retire. Possibly I shall grow vegetable marrows! I might even marry and arrange myself!”
He laughed heartily at the idea, but with a touch of embarrassment. I hope … small men always admire big, flamboyant women—
“Marry and arrange myself,” he said again. “Who knows?”
* * *