The Big Four

‘Yes, sir; murdered this morning. A shocking business. They ’phoned to Moreton, and I came out at once. Looked a mysterious thing to begin with. The old man—he was about seventy, you know, and fond of his glass, from all I hear—was lying on the floor of the living-room. There was a bruise on his head, and his throat was cut from ear to ear. Blood all over the place, as you can understand. The woman who cooks for him, Betsy Andrews, she told us that her master had several little Chinese jade figures, that he’d told her were very valuable, and these had disappeared. That, of course, looked like assault and robbery; but there were all sorts of difficulties in the way of that solution. The old fellow had two people in the house: Betsy Andrews, who is a Hoppaton woman; and a rough kind of man-servant, Robert Grant. Grant had gone to the farm to fetch the milk, which he does every day, and Betsy had stepped out to have a chat with a neighbour. She was only away twenty minutes—between ten and half-past—and the crime must have been done then. Grant returned to the house first. He went in by the back door, which was open—no one locks up doors round here; not in broad daylight, at all events—put the milk in the larder, and went into his own room to read the paper and have a smoke. Had no idea anything unusual had occurred—at least, that’s what he says. Then Betsy comes in, goes into the living-room, sees what’s happened, and lets out a screech to wake the dead. That’s all fair and square. Someone got in whilst those two were out, and did the poor old man in. But it struck me at once that he must be a pretty cool customer. He’d have to come right up the village street, or creep through someone’s back yard. Granite Bungalow has got houses all round it, as you can see. How was it that no one had seen him?’

The Inspector paused with a flourish.

‘Aha, I perceive your point,’ said Poirot. ‘To continue?’

‘Well, sir, fishy, I said to myself—fishy. And I began to look about me. Those jade figures, now. Would a common tramp ever suspect that they were valuable? Anyway, it was madness to try such a thing in broad daylight. Suppose the old man had yelled for help?’

‘I suppose, Inspector,’ said Mr Ingles, ‘that the bruise, on the head was inflicted before death?’

‘Quite right, sir. First knocked him silly, the murderer did, and then cut his throat. That’s clear enough. But how the dickens did he come or go? They notice strangers quick enough in a little place like this. It came to me all at once—nobody did come. I took a good look round. It had rained the night before, and there were footprints clear enough going in and out of the kitchen. In the living-room there were two sets of footprints only (Betsy Andrews’ stopped at the door)—Mr Whalley’s (he was wearing carpet slippers) and another man’s. The other man had stepped in the bloodstains, and I traced his bloody footprints—I beg your pardon, sir.’

‘Not at all,’ said Mr Ingles, with a faint smile; ‘the adjective is perfectly understood.’

‘I traced ’em to the kitchen—but not beyond. Point Number One. On the lintel of Robert Grant’s door was a faint smear—a smear of blood. That’s Point Number Two. Point Number Three was when I got hold of Grant’s boots—which he had taken off—and fitted them to the marks. That settled it. It was an inside job. I warned Grant and took him into custody; and what do you think I found packed away in his portmanteau? The little jade figures and a ticket-of-leave. Robert Grant was also Abraham Biggs, convicted for felony and housebreaking five years ago.’

The Inspector paused triumphantly.

‘What do you think of that, gentlemen?’

‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that it appears to be a very clear case—of a surprising clearness, in fact. This Biggs, or Grant, he must be a man very foolish and uneducated, eh?’

‘Oh, he is that—a rough, common sort of fellow. No idea of what a footprint may mean.’

‘Clearly he reads not the detective fiction! Well, Inspector, I congratulate you. We may look at the scene of the crime. Yes?’

‘I’ll take you there myself this minute. I’d like you to see those footprints.’

‘I, too, should like to see them. Yes, yes, very interesting, very ingenious.’

We set out forthwith. Mr Ingles and the Inspector forged ahead. I drew Poirot back a little so as to be able to speak to him out of the Inspector’s hearing.

‘What do you really think, Poirot. Is there more in this than meets the eye?’

‘That is just the question, mon ami. Whalley says plainly enough in his letter that the Big Four are on his track, and we know, you and I, that the Big Four is no bogey for the children. Yet everything seems to say that this man Grant committed the crime. Why did he do so? For the sake of the little jade figures? Or is he an agent of the Big Four? I confess that this last seems more likely. However valuable the jade, a man of that class was not likely to realise the fact—at any rate, not to the point of committing murder for them. (That, par exemple, ought to have struck the Inspector.) He could have stolen the jade and made off with it instead of committing a brutal and quite purposeless murder. Ah, yes; I fear our Devonshire friend has not used his little grey cells. He has measured footprints and omitted to reflect and arrange his ideas with the necessary order and method.’

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_2708ddfb-5306-5e57-97ff-bd72998ba205)

The Importance of a Leg of Mutton (#ulink_2708ddfb-5306-5e57-97ff-bd72998ba205)

The Inspector drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door of Granite Bungalow. The day had been fine and dry, so our feet were not likely to leave any prints; nevertheless, we wiped them carefully on the mat before entering.

A woman came up out of the gloom and spoke to the Inspector, and he turned aside. Then he spoke over his shoulder.

‘Have a good look round, Mr Poirot, and see all there is to see. I’ll be back in about ten minutes. By the way, here’s Grant’s boot. I brought it along with me for you to compare the impressions.’

We went into the living-room, and the sound of the Inspector’s footsteps died away outside. Ingles was attracted immediately by some Chinese curios on a table in the corner, and went over to examine them. He seemed to take no interest in Poirot’s doings. I, on the other hand, watched him with breathless interest. The floor was covered with a dark-green linoleum which was ideal for showing up footprints. A door at the farther end led into the small kitchen. From there another door led into the scullery (where the back door was situated), and another into the bedroom which had been occupied by Robert Grant. Having explored the ground, Poirot commented upon it in a low running monologue.

‘Here is where the body lay; that big, dark stain and the splashes all around mark the spot. Traces of carpet slippers and “number nine” boots, you observe, but all very confused. Then two sets of tracks leading to and from the kitchen: whoever the murderer was, he came in that way. You have the boot, Hastings? Give it to me.’ He compared it carefully with the prints. ‘Yes, both made by the same man, Robert Grant. He came in that way, killed the old man, and went back to the kitchen. He had stepped in the blood: see the stains he left as he went out? Nothing to be seen in the kitchen—all the village has been walking about in it. He went into his own room—no, first he went back again to the scene of the crime—was that to get the little jade figures? Or had he forgotten something that might incriminate him?’

‘Perhaps he killed the old man the second time he went in?’ I suggested.

‘Mais non,you do not observe. On one of the outgoing footmarks stained with blood there is superimposed an ingoing one. I wonder what he went back for—the little jade figures as an afterthought? It is all ridiculous—stupid.’

‘Well, he’s given himself away pretty hopelessly.’

‘N’est-ce pas? I tell you, Hastings, it goes against reason. It offends my little grey cells. Let us go into his bedroom—ah, yes; there is the smear of blood on the lintel and just a trace of footmarks—blood-stained. Robert Grant’s footmarks, and his only, near the body—Robert Grant the only man who went near the house. Yes, it must be so.’

‘What about the old woman?’ I said suddenly. ‘She was in the house alone after Grant had gone for the milk. She might have killed him and then gone out. Her feet would leave no prints if she hadn’t been outside.’

‘Very good, Hastings. I wondered whether that hypothesis would occur to you. I had already thought of it and rejected it. Betsy Andrews is a local woman, well known hereabouts. She can have no connection with the Big Four; and, besides, old Whalley was a powerful fellow, by all accounts. This is a man’s work—not a woman’s.’

‘I suppose the Big Four couldn’t have had some diabolical contrivance concealed in the ceiling—something which descended automatically and cut the old man’s throat and was afterwards drawn up again?’

‘Like Jacob’s ladder? I know, Hastings, that you have an imagination of the most fertile—but I implore of you to keep it within bounds.’

I subsided, abashed. Poirot continued to wander about, poking into rooms and cupboards with a profoundly dissatisfied expression on his face. Suddenly he uttered an excited yelp, reminiscent of a Pomeranian dog. I rushed to join him. He was standing in the larder in a dramatic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton!

‘My dear Poirot!’ I cried. ‘What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?’

‘Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!’

I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.

‘But do you not see this—and this—and this—?’

He illustrated each ‘this’ with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.

Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.

‘It’s frozen meat,’ I explained gently. ‘Imported, you know. New Zealand.’

He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.

‘How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything—but everything! How do they say—Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my friend Hastings.’

He flung down the leg of mutton on to its dish again and left the larder. Then he looked through the window.

‘Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I want to see here.’ He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, ‘What is the day of the week, mon ami?’

‘Monday,’ I said, rather astonished. ‘What—?’

‘Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake.’

Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and glanced at the thermometer.

‘Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer’s day.’

Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.