appeared to be typically egotistical, but I forebore to argue.
‘And what about the inquest?’ I asked. ‘I suppose you will explain things clearly there, and let the police have a full description of Number Four.’
‘And to what end? Can we produce anything to impress a coroner’s jury of your solid Britishers? Is our description of Number Four of any value? No; we shall allow them to call it “Accidental Death”, and maybe, although I have not much hope, our clever murderer will pat himself on the back that he deceived Hercule Poirot in the first round.’
Poirot was right as usual. We saw no more of the man from the asylum, and the inquest, at which I gave evidence, but which Poirot did not even attend, aroused no public interest.
As, in view of his intended trip to South America, Poirot had wound up his affairs before my arrival, he had at this time no cases in hand, but although he spent most of his time in the flat I could get little out of him. He remained buried in an armchair, and discouraged my attempts at conversation.
And then one morning, about a week after the murder, he asked me if I would care to accompany him on a visit he wished to make. I was pleased, for I felt he was making a mistake in trying to work things out so entirely on his own, and I wished to discuss the case with him. But I found he was not communicative. Even when I asked where we were going, he would not answer.
Poirot loves being mysterious. He will never part with a piece of information until the last possible moment. In this instance, having taken successively a bus and two trains, and arrived in the neighbourhood of one of London’s most depressing southern suburbs, he consented at last to explain matters.
‘We go, Hastings, to see the one man in England who knows most of the underground life of China.’
‘Indeed? Who is he?’
‘A man you have never heard of—a Mr John Ingles. To all intents and purposes, he is a retired Civil Servant of mediocre intellect with a house full of Chinese curios with which he bores his friends and acquaintances. Nevertheless. I am assured by those who should know that the only man capable of giving me the information I seek is this same John Ingles.’
A few moments more saw us ascending the steps of The Laurels, as Mr Ingles’ residence was called. Personally I did not notice a laurel bush of any kind, so deduced that it had been named according to the usual obscure nomenclature of the suburbs.
We were admitted by an impassive-faced Chinese servant and ushered into the presence of his master. Mr Ingles was a squarely-built man, somewhat yellow of countenance, with deep-set eyes that were oddly reflective in character. He rose to greet us, setting aside an open letter which he had held in his hand. He referred to it after his greeting.
‘Sit down, won’t you? Halsey tells me that you want some information and that I may be useful to you in the matter.’
‘That is so, monsieur. I ask of you if you have any knowledge of a man named Li Chang Yen?’
‘That’s rum—very rum indeed. How did you come to hear about the man?’
‘You know him, then?’
‘I’ve met him once. And I know something of him—not quite as much as I should like to. But it surprises me that anyone else in England should even have heard of him. He’s a great man in his way—mandarin class and all that, you know—but that’s not the crux of the matter. There’s good reason to suppose that he’s the man behind it all.’
‘Behind what?’
‘Everything. The world-wide unrest, the labour troubles that beset every nation, and the revolutions that break out in some. There are people, not scaremongers, who know what they are talking about, and they say that there is a force behind the scenes which aims at nothing less than the disintegration of civilisation. In Russia, you know, there were many signs that Lenin and Trotsky were mere puppets whose every action was dictated by another’s brain. I have no definite proof that would count with you, but I am quite convinced that this brain was Li Chang Yen’s.’
‘Oh, come,’ I protested, ‘isn’t that a bit far-fetched? How would a Chinaman cut any ice in Russia?’
Poirot frowned at me irritably.
‘For you, Hastings,’ he said, ‘everything is far-fetched that comes not from your own imagination; for me, I agree with this gentleman. But continue, I pray, monsieur.’
‘What exactly he hopes to get out of it all I cannot pretend to say for certain,’ went on Mr Ingles; ‘but I assume his disease is one that has attacked great brains from the time of Akbar and Alexander to Napoleon—a lust for power and personal supremacy. Up to modern times armed force was necessary for conquest, but in this century of unrest a man like Li Chang Yen can use other means. I have evidence that he has unlimited money behind him for bribery and propaganda, and there are signs that he controls some scientific force more powerful than the world has dreamed of.’
Poirot was following Mr Ingles’s words with the closest attention.
‘And in China?’ he asked. ‘He moves there too?’
The other nodded in emphatic assent.
‘There,’ he said, ‘although I can produce no proof that would count in a court of law, I speak from my own knowledge. I know personally every man who counts for anything in China today, and this I can tell you: the men who loom most largely in the public eye are men of little or no personality. They are marionettes who dance to the wires pulled by a master hand, and that hand is Li Chang Yen’s. His is the controlling brain of the East today. We don’t understand the East—we never shall; but Li Chang Yen is its moving spirit. Not that he comes out into the limelight—oh, not at all; he never moves from his palace in Peking. But he pulls strings—that’s it, pulls strings—and things happen far away.’
‘And there is no one to oppose him?’ asked Poirot.
Mr Ingles leant forward in his chair.
‘Four men have tried in the last four years,’ he said slowly; ‘men of character, and honesty, and brain power. Any one of them might in time have interfered with his plans.’ He paused.
‘Well?’ I queried.
‘Well, they are dead. One wrote an article, and mentioned Li Chang Yen’s name in connection with the riots in Peking, and within two days he was stabbed in the street. His murderer was never caught. The offences of the other two were similar. In a speech or an article, or in conversation, each linked Li Chang Yen’s name with rioting or revolution, and within a week of his indiscretion each was dead. One was poisoned; one died of cholera, an isolated case—not part of an epidemic; and one was found dead in his bed. The cause of the last death was never determined, but I was told by a doctor who saw the corpse that it was burnt and shrivelled as though a wave of electrical energy of incredible power had passed through it.’
‘And Li Chang Yen?’ inquired Poirot. ‘Naturally nothing is traced to him, but there are signs, eh?’
Mr Ingles shrugged.
‘Oh, signs—yes, certainly. And once I found a man who would talk, a brilliant young Chinese chemist who was a protégé of Li Chang Yen’s. He came to me one day, this chemist, and I could see that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He hinted to me of experiments on which he’d been engaged in Li Chang
