“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 brainpower. 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?”