Big Four - Agatha Christie [51]
‘No,’ I said hopelessly. ‘We’ve nothing to go by whatsoever.’
Poirot smiled.
‘Do not, I pray of you, give way to such enthusiastic despair. We know one or two things.’
‘What kind of things?’ I asked sceptically.
‘We know that he is a man of medium height, and of medium or fair colouring. If he were a tall man of swarthy complexion he could never have passed himself off as the fair, stocky doctor. It is child’s play, of course, to put on an additional inch or so for the part of James, or the Professor. In the same way he must have a short, straight nose. Additions can be built on to a nose by skilful make-up, but a large nose cannot be successfully reduced at a moment’s notice. Then again, he must be a fairly young man, certainly not over thirty-five. You see, we are getting somewhere. A man between thirty and thirty-five, of medium height and colouring, an adept in the art of make-up, and with very few or any teeth of his own.’
‘What?’
‘Surely, Hastings. As the keeper, his teeth were broken and discoloured, in Paris they were even and white, as a doctor they protruded slightly, and as Savaranoff they had unusually long canines. Nothing alters the face so completely as a different set of teeth. You see where all this is leading us?’
‘Not exactly,’ I said cautiously.
‘A man carries his profession written in his face, they say.’
‘He’s a criminal,’ I cried.
‘He is an adept in the art of making-up.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘Rather a sweeping statement, Hastings, and one which would hardly be appreciated by the theatrical world. Do you not see that the man is, or has been, at one time or another, an actor?’
‘An actor?’
‘But certainly. He has the whole technique at his fingertips. Now there are two classes of actors, the one who sinks himself in his part, and the one who manages to impress his personality upon it. It is from the latter class that actor-managers usually spring. They seize a part and mould it to their own personality. The former class is quite likely to spend its days doing Mr Lloyd George at different music halls, or impersonating old men with beards in repertory plays. It is among that former class that we must look for our Number Four. He is a supreme artist in the way he sinks himself in each part he plays.’
I was growing interested.
‘So you fancy you may be able to trace his identity through his connection with the stage?’
‘Your reasoning is always brilliant, Hastings.’
‘It might have been better,’ I said coldly, ‘if the idea had come to you sooner. We have wasted a lot of time.’
‘You are in error, mon ami. No more time has been wasted than was unavoidable. For some months now my agents have been engaged on the task. Joseph Aarons is one of them. You remember him? They have compiled a list for me of men fulfilling the necessary qualifications—young men round about the age of thirty, of more or less nondescript appearance, and with a gift for playing character parts—men, moreover, who have definitely left the stage within the last three years.’
‘Well?’ I said, deeply interested.
‘The list was, necessarily, rather a long one. For some time now, we have been engaged on the task of elimination. And finally we have boiled the whole thing down to four names. Here they are, my friend.’
He tossed me over a sheet of paper. I read its contents aloud.
‘Ernest Luttrell. Son of a North Country parson. Always had a kink of some kind in his moral make-up. Was expelled from his public school. Went on the stage at the age of twenty-three. (Then followed a list of parts he had played, with dates and places.) Addicted to drugs. Supposed to have gone to Australia four years ago. Cannot be traced after leaving England. Age 32, height 5ft. 10½in., clean-shaven, hair brown, nose straight, complexion fair, eyes grey.
‘John St Maur. Assumed name. Real name not known. Believed to be of cockney extraction.