"But, my dear Poirot," I persisted, "are we dealing with a lunatic?
I quite follow your reasoning, and admit that you must be right, but to kill a man just to sustain his role!
Surely there were simpler ways out of the difficulty than that?
He could have said that his doctor forbade the strain of a match."
Poirot wrinkled his forehead.
"Certainement, Hastings," he said, "there were other ways, but none so convincing.
Besides, you are assuming that to kill a man is a thing to avoid, are you not?
Number Four's mind, it does not act that way.
I put myself in his place, a thing impossible for you.
I picture his thoughts.
He enjoys himself as the professor at that match.
I doubt not he has visited the chess tourneys to study his part.
He sits and frowns in thought; he gives the impression that he is thinking great plans, and all the time he laughs in himself.
He is aware that two moves are all that he knows - and all that he need know.
Again, it would appeal to his mind to foresee the events and to make the man his own executioner at the exact time that suits Number Four... Oh, yes, Hastings, I begin to understand our friend and his psychology."
I shrugged.
"Well, I suppose you're right, but I can't understand any one running a risk he could so easily avoid."
"Risk!" Poirot snorted. "Where then lay the risk?
Would Japp have solved the problem?
No; if Number hadn't made a mistake, there would have been no risk."
"What mistake?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.
"Mon ami, he didn't consider Hercule Poirot's grey cells."
Poirot has his virtues, but modesty is not one of them.
Chapter 12 THE BAITED TRAP
It was mid-January - a typical English winter day in London, damp and dirty.
Poirot and I were sitting in two chairs well drawn up to the fire.
I was aware of my friend looking at me with a quizzical smile, the meaning of which I could not fathom.
"A penny for your thoughts," I said lightly.
"I was thinking, my friend, that at midsummer, when you first arrived, you told me that you proposed to be in this country for a couple of months only."
"Did I say that?" I asked, rather awkwardly. "I don't remember."
Poirot's smile broadened.
"You did, mon ami.
Since then, you have changed your plan, is it not so?"
"Er - yes. I have."
"And why is that?"
"Dash it all, Poirot, you don't think I'm going to leave you all alone when you're up against a thing like the 'Big Four,' do you?"
Poirot nodded gently.
"Just as I thought.
You are a staunch friend, Hastings.
It is to serve me that you remain on here.
And your wife - little Cinderella as you call her, what does she say?"
"I haven't gone into details, of course, but she understands.
She'd be the last one to wish me to turn my back on a pal."
"Yes, yes, she, too, is a loyal friend.
But it is going to be a long business, perhaps."
I nodded, rather discouraged.
"Six months already," I mused, "and where are we?
You know, Poirot, I can't help thinking that we ought to - well, to do something."
"Always so energetic, Hastings!
And what precisely would you have me do?"