The Big Four by Agatha Christie Page A

in, sufficiently like Halliday—we may trust Number Four for that—asks for letters, goes upstairs, packs a small suitcase, and slips out the next morning. Nobody saw Halliday all that evening—no, because he was already in the hands of his enemies. Was it Halliday whom Madame Olivier received? Yes, for though she did not know him by sight, an imposter could hardly deceive her on her own special subject. He came here, he had his interview, he left. What happened next?”
    Seizing me by the arm, Poirot was fairly dragging me back to the villa.
    â€œNow, mon ami, imagine that it is the day after the disappearance, and that we are tracking footprints. You love footprints, do you not? See—here they go, a man’s, M. Halliday’s … He turns to the right as we did, he walks briskly—ah! other footsteps following behind—very quickly—small footsteps, a woman’s. See, she catches him up—a slim young woman, in a widow’s veil. ‘Pardon, monsieur, Madame Olivier desires that I recall you.’ He stops, he turns. Now where would the young woman take him? Is it coincidence that she catches up with him just where a narrow alleyway opens, dividing two gardens? She leads him down it. ‘It is shorter this way, monsieur.’ On the right is the garden of Madame Olivier’svilla, on the left the garden of another villa—and from that garden, mark you, the tree fell—so nearly on us. Garden doors from both open on the alley. The ambush is there. Men pour out, overpower him, and carry him into the strange villa.”
    â€œGood gracious, Poirot,” I cried, “are you pretending to see all this?”
    â€œI see it with the eyes of the mind, mon ami . So, and only so, could it have happened. Come, let us go back to the house.”
    â€œYou want to see Madame Olivier again?”
    Poirot gave a curious smile.
    â€œNo, Hastings, I want to see the face of the lady on the stairs.”
    â€œWho do you think she is, a relation of Madame Olivier’s?”
    â€œMore probably a secretary—and a secretary engaged not very long ago.”
    The same gentle acolyte opened the door to us.
    â€œCan you tell me,” said Poirot, “the name of the lady, the widow lady, who came in just now?”
    â€œMadame Veroneau? Madame’s secretary?”
    â€œThat is the lady. Would you be so kind as to ask her to speak to us for a moment.”
    The youth disappeared. He soon reappeared.
    â€œI am sorry. Madame Veroneau must have gone out again.”
    â€œI think not,” said Poirot quietly. “Will you give her my name, M. Hercule Poirot, and say that it is important I should see her at once, as I am just going to the Préfecture.”
    Again our messenger departed. This time the lady descended. She walked into the salon. We followed her. She turned and raised her veil. To my astonishment I recognized our old antagonist, theCountess Rossakoff, a Russian countess, who had engineered a particularly smart jewel robbery in London.
    â€œAs soon as I caught sight of you in the hall, I feared the worst,” she observed plaintively.
    â€œMy dear Countess Rossakoff—”
    She shook her head.
    â€œInez Veroneau now,” she murmured. “A Spaniard, married to a Frenchman. What do you want of me, M. Poirot? You are a terrible man. You hunted me from London. Now, I suppose, you will tell our wonderful Madame Olivier about me, and hunt me from Paris? We poor Russians, we must live, you know.”
    â€œIt is more serious than that, madame,” said Poirot, watching her. “I propose to enter the villa next door, and release M. Halliday, if he is still alive. I know everything, you see.”
    I saw her sudden pallor. She bit her lip. Then she spoke with her usual decision.
    â€œHe is still alive—but he is not at the villa. Come, monsieur, I will make a bargain with you. Freedom for me—and M. Halliday, alive