Four, Hastings,” cried Poirot. “Once again, the Big Four. Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen, the head and brains of the Big Four.”
“But who - how -”
“Hush, here they come.”
Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot's questions readily enough.
“I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherlys,” he explained. “What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a latch-key, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar Ah Ling just whisking round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken.”
“When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came to live with him.”
“Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father) quarrelled, you know.”
“But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite of all the years that had passed?”
“Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer's advertisement.”
Poirot asked no more questions.
Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his consulting patients.
He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be thoroughly modern in his methods.
“I wish I could remember about the window,” he said frankly. “But it's dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something that never existed. That's psychology, isn't it, M. Poirot? You see, I've read all about your methods, and I may say I'm an enormous admirer of yours. No, I suppose it's pretty certain that the Chinaman put the powdered opium in the curry, but he'll never admit it, and we shall never know why. But holding a man down in a fire - that's not in keeping with our Chinese friend's character, it seems to me.”
I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main street of Market Handford.
“Do you think he let a confederate in?” I asked. “By the way, I suppose Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?” (The Inspector had passed into the police station on some business or other.) “The emissaries of the Big Four are pretty spry.”
“Japp is keeping an eye on both of them,” said Poirot grimly. “They have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered.”
“Well, at any rate we know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do with it.”
“You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes quite fatiguing.”
“You old fox,” I laughed. “You never will commit yourself.”
“To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me - all but the words, Yellow Jasmine - and I am coming to agree with you that they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet -”
He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us, and we all sought quarters at the inn.
I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting-room reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his face contorted with agony.
“Do not converse with me,” he cried, waving an agitated hand. “Not until I know that all is well - that the arrest is made. Ah! but my psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it is because it is important. Every one has said - 'Yellow Jasmine'. There is yellow jasmine growing up the house - it means nothing.'”
“Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen.”
He held up a little book
“But who - how -”
“Hush, here they come.”
Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot's questions readily enough.
“I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherlys,” he explained. “What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a latch-key, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar Ah Ling just whisking round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken.”
“When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came to live with him.”
“Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father) quarrelled, you know.”
“But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite of all the years that had passed?”
“Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer's advertisement.”
Poirot asked no more questions.
Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his consulting patients.
He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be thoroughly modern in his methods.
“I wish I could remember about the window,” he said frankly. “But it's dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something that never existed. That's psychology, isn't it, M. Poirot? You see, I've read all about your methods, and I may say I'm an enormous admirer of yours. No, I suppose it's pretty certain that the Chinaman put the powdered opium in the curry, but he'll never admit it, and we shall never know why. But holding a man down in a fire - that's not in keeping with our Chinese friend's character, it seems to me.”
I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main street of Market Handford.
“Do you think he let a confederate in?” I asked. “By the way, I suppose Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?” (The Inspector had passed into the police station on some business or other.) “The emissaries of the Big Four are pretty spry.”
“Japp is keeping an eye on both of them,” said Poirot grimly. “They have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered.”
“Well, at any rate we know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do with it.”
“You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes quite fatiguing.”
“You old fox,” I laughed. “You never will commit yourself.”
“To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me - all but the words, Yellow Jasmine - and I am coming to agree with you that they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet -”
He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us, and we all sought quarters at the inn.
I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting-room reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his face contorted with agony.
“Do not converse with me,” he cried, waving an agitated hand. “Not until I know that all is well - that the arrest is made. Ah! but my psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it is because it is important. Every one has said - 'Yellow Jasmine'. There is yellow jasmine growing up the house - it means nothing.'”
“Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen.”
He held up a little book
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