Then there was a stir of draperies behind us, and the Countess Vera Rossakoff came in.
“Ah!” said Number Four. “Our valued and trusted lieutenant. An old friend of yours is here, my dear lady.”
The countess whirled round with her usual vehemence of movement.
“God in Heaven!” she cried. “It is the little man! Ah! but he has the nine lives of a cat! Oh, little man, little man! Why did you mix yourself up in this?”
“Madame,” said Poirot with a bow. “Me, like the great Napoleon, I am on the side of the big battalions.”
As he spoke I saw a sudden suspicion flash into her eyes, and at the same moment I knew the truth which subconsciously I already sensed.
The man beside me was not Hercule Poirot.
He was very like him, extraordinarily like him. There was the same egg-shaped head, the same strutting figure, delicately plump. But the voice was different, and the eyes instead of being green were dark, and surely the moustaches—those famous moustaches—?
My reflections were cut short by the countess’s voice. She stepped forward, her voice ringing with excitement.
“You have been deceived. This man is not Hercule Poirot!”
Number Four uttered an incredulous exclamation, but the countess leant forward and snatched at Poirot’s moustaches. They came off in her hand, and then, indeed, the truth was plain. For this man’s upper lip was disfigured by a small scar which completely altered the expression of the face.
“Not Hercule Poirot,” muttered Number Four. “But who can he be then?”
“I know,” I cried suddenly, and then stopped dead, afraid I had ruined everything.
But the man I will still refer to as Poirot had turned to me encouragingly.
“Say it if you will. It makes no matter now. The trick has succeeded.”
“This is Achille Poirot,” I said slowly. “Hercule Poirot’s twin brother.”
“Impossible,” said Ryland sharply, but he was shaken.
“Hercule’s plan has succeeded to a marvel,” said Achille placidly.
Number Four leapt forward, his voice harsh and menacing.
“Succeeded, has it?” he snarled. “Do you realize that before many minutes have passed you will be dead—dead?”
“Yes,” said Achille Poirot gravely. “I realize that. It is you who do not realize that a man may be willing to purchase success by his life. There were men who laid down their lives for their country in the war. I am prepared to lay down mine in the same way for the world.”
It struck me just then that although perfectly willing to lay down my life I might have been consulted in the matter. Then I remembered how Poirot had urged me to stay behind and I felt appeased.
“And in what way will your laying down your life benefit the world?” asked Ryland sardonically.
“I see that you do not perceive the true inwardness of Hercule’s plan. To begin with, your place of retreat was known some months ago, and practically all the visitors, hotel assistants, and others are detectives or Secret Service men. A cordon has been drawn round the mountain. You may have more than one means of egress, but even so you cannot escape. Poirot himself is directing the operations outside. My boots were smeared with a preparation of aniseed tonight, before I came down to the terrace in my brother’s place. Hounds are following the trail. It will lead them infallibly to the rock in the Felsenlabyrinth where the entrance is situated. You see, do what you will to us, the net is drawn tightly round you. You cannot escape.”
Madame Olivier laughed suddenly.
“You are wrong. There is one way we can escape, and, like Samson, of old, destroy our enemies at the same time. What do you say, my friends?”
Ryland was staring at Achille Poirot.
“Suppose he’s lying,” he said hoarsely.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
“In an hour it will be dawn. Then you can see for yourself the truth of my words. Already they should have traced me to the entrance in the Felsenlabyrinth.”
Even as he spoke, there was a far-off reverberation, and a man ran in shouting incoherently. Ryland sprang up and went out. Madame Olivier moved to the end of the room and opened a door that I had not noticed. Inside I caught a glimpse of a perfectly equipped laboratory which reminded me of the one in Paris. Number Four also sprang up and went out. He returned with Poirot’s revolver which he gave to the countess.
“There is no danger of their escaping,” he said grimly. “But still you had better have this.”
Then he went out again.
The countess came over to us and surveyed my companion attentively for some time. Suddenly she laughed.
“You are very clever, M. Achille Poirot,” she said mockingly.
“Madame, let us talk business. It is fortunate that they have left us alone together. What is your price?”
“I do not understand. What price?”
“Madame, you can aid us to escape. You know the secret way out of this retrea
t. I ask you, what is your price?”
She laughed again.
“More than you could pay, little man! Why, all the money in the world would not buy me!”
“Madame, I did not speak of money. I am a man of intelligence. Nevertheless, this is a true fact—everyone has his price! In exchange for life and liberty, I offer you your heart’s desire.”
“So you are a magician!”
“You can call me so if you like.”
The countess suddenly dropped her jesting manner. She spoke with passionate bitterness.
“Fool! My heart’s desire! Can you give me revenge upon my enemies? Can you give me back youth and beauty and a gay heart? Can you bring the dead to life again?”
Achille Poirot was watching her very curiously.
“Which of the three, Madame? Make your choice.”
She laughed sardonically.
“You will send me the Elixir of Life, perhaps? Come, I will make a bargain with you. Once, I had a child. Find my child for me—and you shall go free.”
“Madame, I agree. It is a bargain. Your child shall be restored to you. On the faith of—on the faith of Hercule Poirot himself.”
Again that strange woman laughed—this time long and unrestrainedly.
“My dear M. Poirot, I am afraid I laid a little trap for you. It is very kind of you to promise to find my child for me, but, you see, I happen to know that you would not succeed, and so that would be a very one-sided bargain, would it not?”
“Madame, I swear to you by the Holy Angels that I will restore your child to you.”
“I asked you before, M. Poirot, could you restore the dead to life?”
“Then the child is—”
“Dead? Yes.”
He stepped forward and took her wrist.
“Madame, I—I who speak to you, swear once more. I will bring the dead back to life.”
She stared at him as though fascinated.
“You do not believe me. I will prove my words. Get my pocketbook which they took from me.”
She went out of the room, and returned with it in her hand. Throughout all she retained her grip on the revolver. I felt that Achille Poirot’s chances of bluffing her were very slight. The Countess Vera Rossakoff was no fool.