Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen The Beauty with Dyed Blonde Hair

I was disappointed by the results of Poirot's bombing of the house in Chinatown.First, the leader of the group escaped.When Japp's men heard Poirot's whistle, they rushed in, but only found four unconscious Chinese in the entrance, and the Chinese who threatened to kill me was not among them.As I recall afterwards, the man kept his distance and stayed behind while I was obliged to go out and lure Poirot into the house.He was probably out of danger from the gas bombs, having escaped by one of the many exits we later found. From the mouths of the four Chinese in our hands, we couldn't ask anything at all.Even the most exhaustive investigations by the police failed to connect them with the Four Great Devils.They were lower-class residents of the area, and they vehemently denied ever having heard the name Li Changyan.A Chinese gentleman hired them to do errands at this river house, and they knew nothing of his private affairs.

The next day I had completely recovered from the effects of Poirot's gas bombs, except for a slight headache.Together we went to Chinatown to find the house where I had been rescued.The first and second floors of each were empty, without furniture, and the dilapidated windows were covered with rotting shutters.Japp had inspected every nook and cranny of the cellar, and he had found the entrance to the basement and the basement where I had spent a very unpleasant half hour, and further investigation confirmed my impression of the previous night.The silk satins on the walls, the benches and the rugs on the floor are exquisitely hand-woven.Although I don't know much about Chinese art, I can see that everything in this basement is of the highest quality.

Japp and his men assisted in our thorough search.I would love to find important documents.Maybe it's a list of the main characters of the Four Great Devils, or some code words about their plans, but we didn't find anything of this kind.In the whole district we found only references to the Chinese dictating my letter to Poirot.These profiles include detailed histories, general personalities, and possibly most vulnerable weaknesses of each individual in our industry. This discovery made Poirot dance childishly.But I don't see any value in these data, and some of the opinions of those who collected them are very wrong.When I got back to our apartment, I sorted out these gross insights.

"My dear Boluo," I said, "you now know what we look like in the eyes of our enemies. He seems to have greatly exaggerated your intelligence and ridiculously underestimated my abilities, but I really see There's no benefit in knowing that." Poirot giggled repulsively. "Can't you see, Hastings, really can't? But as they point out our usual failings, we can no doubt prepare for the manner in which they may attack us. My friend, Like we now know you should think twice about doing things in the future. Like how you should look at a young woman with auburn hair if you're having trouble -- to use your vocabulary -- squint at her, yes wrong?"

Those sources had an absurd take on my instincts, and the idea that I was irresistible to an auburn-haired young woman.I think Poirot's citation of this passage is the worst of metaphors, but fortunately, I was able to fight him back. "What about yourself?" I demanded. "Are you trying to cure your 'snoot'? Your 'cleanliness'?" I hit him back by quoting their words, and I could tell he didn't like my retort. "Oh, Hastings, no doubt they've lied to themselves about some things--well, they'll know in due course. We've learned something, too, and a little more awareness will suffice. Make more preparations."

The last line is his favorite aphorism of late, and I've grown tired of hearing it over and over again. "We already know some things, Hastings," he went on. "Yes, we know some things about politics--which is to our advantage--but we know very little. We must know a little more." "Which way?" Poirot sat firmly in his chair, opening a box of matches that had been accidentally thrown on the table, in a gesture I was familiar with.I knew he was going to make a tirade. "You know, Hastings, we have to fight four enemies, that is, four different personalities. We've never met Number One—we know him, but only his brains. Just a good feature--By the way, Hastings, I tell you, I already know that brain well--a most exquisite oriental mind--every trick we come across comes from Li Changyan's brain The second and third numbers are powerful and high-ranking, so we have not been able to attack them so far. However, their security, on the other hand, is also our security. Therefore, their actions must be well planned. Now we come to the last of this group -- we come to number four."

Poirot's voice changed a little, as he did every time he spoke of this particular molecule. "Number Two and Three are successful, able to achieve their goals without interference because of his big name and their secure social status. Number Four succeeds for the exact opposite reason - he succeeds because he is nobody. He Who? No one knows. What does he look like? No one knows. How many times have we, you and I, seen him? Five times, haven't we? But when we see him again, we're not sure recognize him." I had to shake my head. Those five different images quickly appeared in my mind. It was incredible that they were the same person.The stout psychiatric sanatorium administrator, the man in Paris with his coat buttoned up to his chin, James the manservant, the calm young medical officer in the case of Yellow Jasmine and the Russian professor, they really didn't look alike at all.

"No way," I said helplessly, "we have nothing to follow." Poirot smiled. "Please don't give up because of this setback. We know a thing or two about him." "What?" I asked suspiciously. "We know he's of medium height and fair or fair complexion. If he's tall and dark, he can't pass himself off as a fair, stocky doctor. Of course, as simple and easy as a child's play, he can Add an inch or so to make it look like James or the Professor. In the same way, he must have a short, straight nose. This kind of nose can be made to appear taller with a good disguise, unlike a big nose that is not at all. It may make people want more. Besides, he must be a young man, definitely not more than thirty-five years old. You see, we have already reached a point. A man between thirty and thirty-five years old, Medium height, fair complexion, skilled make-up, and no teeth."

"what?" "Without a doubt, Hastings. His teeth were broken and dirty when he was the administrator; they were neat and white when he was in Paris; they were a little protruding as a doctor, and he was Chavro. Knopf had unusually long canine teeth. Nothing completely changes a man's appearance like a pair of false teeth. Do you know what it all does to us?" "Not sure." I said cautiously. "People say that this is a person who writes his career on his face." "He's a criminal!" I exclaimed. "He's a makeup expert."

"It's the same thing." "Very general, Hastings, a description that is unlikely to please the theatrical world. Don't you see that the man is, or has been, an actor?" "an actor?" "Yes, he is proficient in all the skills that an actor should have. At present, actors can be divided into two categories, one is to dissolve himself into the role he plays, and the other is to try to add his own personality to the role. Directors usually Coming from the latter, they grab a role and then shape that character to their own personalities.Actors of the former type are a lot like playing Mr. Lloyd George in different music hall powers all day long, or in fixed plays in the old man with the beard. We had to look for a number four in the former category, and he was a brilliant artist in terms of how he fit into his own role."

What he said heightened my interest. "So you think you can find out who he is by his connection to the theater?" "Your reasoning has always been very good, Hastings." "It could have been better," I said coldly, "if you'd figured it out sooner, we'd have wasted a lot of time." "You are mistaken, my friend, and save for the unavoidable delay, we have wasted no time, and my men have been busy with this task for months. Do you remember Joseph Aron? He was One of them. They mentioned that I've collected a bunch of people who fit the bill - young men in their thirties with a nondescript look who's gifted for acting - plus, have been completely out of acting for the past three years career." "The result?" I asked excitedly. "The list is long, that's for sure. We've spent a while weeding out some unlikely ones. Finally, we've got four. Here's their profile, my friend." He threw a piece of paper at me, and I read the contents out loud. "Ernie Luttery, the son of a clergyman in the North of England, had a psychological eccentricity, was expelled from public school, and stepped onto the stage at twenty-three (then there is a list of his roles, dates and places above). Addicted to narcotics, probably went to Australia four years ago, missing since leaving England, thirty-two years old, five feet ten and a half inches tall, beardless, brown hair, straight nose , fair complexion, gray eyes. "John St. Maur, stage name, real name unknown, believed to be of Londoner descent, staged as a child, once played music-hall roles, has not been heard from for three years, about thirty-three years of age, five feet ten inches tall , thin, blue eyes, fair complexion." "Austin Lee, stage name Austin Foley, of good family, has always loved acting and publicity while at Oxford. Has a stellar record in war, performed in-- Quite opposite to a regular drama). Keen on the study of criminology. Three and a half years ago, he had a nervous breakdown due to a car accident. He has not appeared on stage so far. His whereabouts are unknown. He is thirty-five years old and five feet nine and three tall. One-fifth of an inch, fair complexion, blue eyes, brown hair." "Claude Darry, probably his real name, unknown origin, performed in concert halls, and also acted in regular plays. It seems that he has no close friends. He was in China in 1919, returned via the United States, and performed in New York. Missed one night on stage, never heard from again, what the NYPD called the most mysterious disappearance, about thirty-three years old, brown hair, fair complexion, gray eyes, five feet ten and a half inches tall, uh— " Poirot made a moving gesture, "My friend, so far this is still a suspense, I just want to point out to you that Claude Darry has been to China and the United States-perhaps, this is a It is a very important fact, however, we cannot jump to conclusions from this point and make the judgment biased, perhaps, this is just a coincidence.” "So, what's next?" I asked eagerly. "Things are already underway, and we have carefully crafted little announcements to post here and there asking their friends or relatives to contact my attorney. Maybe, today we might—aha! Call. Maybe Another wrong call, as usual, and then another apology for bothering us, but maybe—yes—maybe—something happened?" I cross the room and pick up the microphone. "Yes, Mr. Poirot's apartment. Yes, I am Captain Hastings. Oh, it is you, Mr. McNee! (McNee and Hogson are Poirot's lawyers.) I will tell him, yes Yes, we'll go right away." I put down the receiver and turned to Poirot with excitement in my eyes. "Hey, Poirot, there's a woman over there, a friend of Claude Darry's, called Flossie Monroe, and McNee would like you to come over." "At once!" cried Poirot, rushing into his bedroom and coming out putting on his hat. A taxi whisked us off to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr. McNee's private office, where a not-quite-young woman, looking a little frightening, sat in an armchair opposite the lawyer.Her hair was an improbable shade of yellow, with lots of curls on either side of her ears, darkly dyed eyelashes and the rouge and lipstick she hadn't forgotten to wear. "Ah, here comes M. Poirot!" said Mr. McNee. "Mr. Poirot, this is, er—Miss Monroe, who has kindly come here to give us some information." "Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed Poirot. He took a warm step forward and shook the lady's hand. "You brighten up this drab, shabby office like a flower," he added, regardless of what Mr. McNee might think. This excessive flattery really worked.Miss Monroe blushed and smiled unnaturally. "Oh, don't say that, M. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you French are like." "Miss, we're not like the English, who don't say a word before the most beautiful women. I definitely don't say that because I'm French—you know I'm Belgian." "I've been to Austen," said Miss Monroe. The whole thing, as Poirot had said, went smoothly. "Can you tell us something about M. Claude Darry?" continued Poirot. "I used to know Mr. Darry very well," the lady explained. "I came out of a store and saw your ad. I happened to have time, so I told myself: Hey, they want to know about poor old K. Lauder's business—or the lawyer—maybe they're looking for a proper heir, and I'll see right away at last." Mr. McNee stood up. "Well, Mr. Poirot, do you want me to leave temporarily so that you can talk to Miss Monroe?" "You're very considerate, but you'd better stay here—give me some advice, and it's almost lunch time, and maybe the missus will do me the favor of going to lunch with me?" Miss Monroe's eyes lit up, and I was startled to know that she was so poor that she wouldn't turn down any chance of a good meal. A few minutes later, we got into a taxi and drove to the most luxurious restaurant in London.Once there, Poirot ordered a very satisfactory lunch before turning to his guests. "What wine? Mademoiselle. How about champagne?" Miss Monroe said nothing—or her attitude was enough to express her opinion. Lunch started happily.Poirot refilled the lady's glass with graciousness and consideration, and then, nonchalantly, mentioned the subject that was most longing in his heart. "Poor Mr. Darry, it's a pity he's not here." "That's right!" Miss Monroe sighed. "Poor boy, I don't know where he is." "You haven't seen him for a long time, have you?" "Oh, long time--didn't see it before the war, he was a very interesting boy--Claude. Very secretive, never told anyone about himself. But of course lah, if he was a missing If it is the heir of the family, then it is. Is it a title, Monsieur Poirot?" "Oh! it's just an inheritance," said Poirot without blushing. "But, you know, it's a matter of identity, so to speak. We must therefore find someone who really knows him well. Miss, you very much Know him, or just a casual acquaintance?" "I tell you it's all right, Monsieur Poirot. You're a gentleman, and you know how to order lunch for a lady--pen some haughty young man is too much better now, it's so damn good. You're a Frenchman, I You won't be surprised by what I just said. Ah, you Frenchmen! Naughty ones!" She shook her finger at him carelessly. "Oh, back to the point, Claude and I, a couple. Young man - what else can you expect from us? I still have feelings for him now. Although, I tell you, he was not nice to me - no, not nice - he wasn't nice to me at all, and I didn't get one Ladies are treated the same, when it comes to money, everyone is the same!" "No, madam, don't say that," objected Poirot, filling her glass again. "Can you tell me what this Mr. Darry looks like?" "There's nothing particularly remarkable about him," said Flossie Monroe dreamily, "neither tall nor short, but he's well-built and handsome, with eyes of a kind of gray, I think. , he must be fair-haired. Ah, what a great artist he is! I see no one in the trade like him! If it were not for jealousy, he must be famous by now. Ah, M. Poirot, jealousy —You won't believe, you must not believe, how much we artists suffer from jealousy. Alas! I remember once in Manchester—" We listened with as much patience as we could to the intricacies of a pantomime and the dishonorable conduct of its protagonists.Later, Poirot gently brought the subject back to Claude Darry. "Very interesting, all the things you told us about Mr. Darry were very interesting, miss. Women are wonderful observers--they see everything, even small details that men would miss. I used to watch When a woman recognizes one man out of a dozen—guess why? She notices his nose-touching habit when he's angry, does it occur to a man to notice such things?" "You will!" exclaimed Miss Monroe, "I think we women do notice a lot of things. I think of it now. When Claude dined, he always played with his bread. He always took a small piece of bread." Bread, rounded between fingers, to pick up crumbs, I've seen him do it a hundred times. Well, I can recognize him by his habit anywhere." "Am I right? A woman's wonderful powers of observation. Have you ever told him about his little habit, miss?" "No, I didn't say that, M. Poirot. You know what men are like! They don't like you to pay too much attention to things, especially if he thinks you're accusing him. I never mentioned it to him—but, There were times when I snickered. My God! Maybe he doesn't even know what he's doing!" Poirot nodded mildly, and I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his glass. "Handwriting is often used to identify a person," said he. "You have, no doubt, at least one letter from Mr. Darry?" Flossie shook her head regretfully. "He never wrote a letter, never in his life wrote me a single line." "What a pity," said Poirot. "Ah, there is a way." Monroe said suddenly, "I have a photo, can I help you?" "Do you have a picture?" Poirot almost jumped up from his chair in excitement. "The pictures are very old - at least eight years old." "It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter how old it is or how faded it is! Ah! God! What luck! Will you let me take a closer look at that photograph, miss?" "Oh, of course." "Maybe, you will promise me to make a photocopy? It won't be long." "If you want, of course it's fine." Miss Monroe stood up. "Oh, I must hurry," she said impishly. "It has been an honor to meet you and your friend, M. Poirot." "What about the photos? When can I get them?" "I found it tonight. I think I know where I put it. I'll send it to you right away." "Thank you very much, miss. You are lovely and I hope we can have lunch together again soon." "If you like it," said Miss Monroe, "I'll be happy to accompany you." "I'll see what else is there. Ah! I don't think I have your address?" She brought him a business card, a little dirty, with the old address scratched out, and another address written in pencil, which she presented to him with dignity from her handbag. "Then Poirot made countless bows and gestures, and we parted with the lady at last." "You really think that photograph is important?" I asked Poirot. "Yes, my friend, cameras don't lie, we can zoom in on pictures and catch obvious features that others don't see. And, there are a thousand details—like the structure of the ear—that people can't put into words for years. , I will describe it to you. Oh, yes, this is a good opportunity, and it is good for us! This is why I want to take precautions." After he finished speaking, he found a phone and gave a number of a detective I knew he sometimes hired. His instructions were clear and clear. Anesthetized two people to the address he gave. In short, they were going to protect the safety of Miss Monroe. .Wherever she went, they had to follow her. Poirot hung up the receiver and came back to me. "Do you really feel the need, Poirot?" I asked. "It's hard to say, there's no denying that we're being watched, I mean you and me, and because of that, they'll soon know who we're having lunch with today. So it's possible Number Four will be alerted to danger. " About twenty minutes later, the phone rang, and I went to answer it, but a not-so-friendly voice came from the receiver. "Mr. Poirot? This is St. James's Hospital. A young woman was brought in ten minutes ago in a car accident. Miss Flossie Monroe, she is anxious to see Mr. Poirot, but he must immediately Come on, she can't delay for long." I sent word to Poirot, who turned pale. "Come on, Hastings, we must fly like the wind." In less than ten minutes, the taxi drove us to the hospital.We asked to see Miss Monroe and we were taken to the emergency room right away.However, a nurse in a white hat bumped into us at the door. Poirot read the bad news in her face. "She's dead, eh?" "Six minutes ago." Poirot stood transfixed. The nurse misunderstood his feelings, speaking softly. "She wasn't in pain, she was comatose until the very end. She was run over by a car, you know - the driver didn't even stop. No conscience, did he? I hope someone takes note Get his car number." "Fate is against us," whispered Poirot. "Do you want to see her?" The nurse leads the way, and we follow. Poor rouge-blonde Flossie Monroe.She lay there very peacefully, with a smile on her lips. "Yes," whispered Poirot, "the Star of Fate is against us—but is it the Star of Fate?" He looked up suddenly, knowingly. "Is it the Star of Fate? Hastings, if Not—oh, I swear, my friend, I swear, standing beside the poor woman's corpse, that when the time comes, I will be merciless!" "What do you mean?" I asked. Poirot, however, had turned to the nurse, eager for news.Finally, she found a list of the contents of her handbag, and when she checked the list, she couldn't help but let out a low cry. "Look, Hastings, do you see that?" "what did you see?" "No mention of keys. But she must have carried them with her. Someone knocked her over on purpose, and the first person who leaned over her took the keys from her handbag, but maybe we'll have time." .Maybe, he can't find what he wants right away." Another taxi took us to the address given to us in Hastings, a dirty mansion in a very bad area.It took us a while to gain access to Miss Monroe's apartment, but at least we were satisfied to know that the door was guarded and no one was allowed to leave. When we finally got in, someone had obviously been there first. The contents of the drawers and cupboards were thrown all over the floor, the locks were forced open, and the small table was turned over. Judging by the chaos, it seemed like a search for objects. The latter is very hasty. Poirot was searching in the chaos, he stood up suddenly, screamed, and took something in his hand, which was an old-fashioned photo frame—empty. He slowly turned the frame around, and stuck a small round sticker on the back—the price. "Four shillings," I said. "God! Hastings, use your eyes, here's a new clean sticker, put it up by the guy who took the picture, he got here before us, he knew we were coming, so left it here for us - Claude Darry - alias Number Four."