“But Dr. Quentin cannot be Number Four?”
“I fancy he can. There is undoubtedly a real Dr. Quentin who is probably abroad somewhere. Number Four has simply masqueraded as him for a short time. The arrangements with Dr. Bolitho were all carried out by correspondence, the man who was to do locum originially having been taken ill at the last minute.”
At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.
“Have you got him?” cried Poirot anxiously.
Japp shook his head, very out of breath.
“Bolitho came back from his holiday this morning—recalled by telegram. No one knows who sent it. The other man left last night. We’ll catch him yet, though.”
Poirot shook his head quietly.
“I think not,” he said, and absentmindedly he drew a big 4 on the table with a fork.
XI
A Chess Problem
Poirot and I often dined at a small restaurant in Soho. We were there one evening, when we observed a friend at an adjacent table. It was Inspector Japp, and as there was room at our table, he came and joined us. It was some time since either of us had seen him.
“Never do you drop in to see us nowadays,” declared Poirot reproachfully. “Not since the affair of the Yellow Jasmine have we met, and that is nearly a month ago.”
“I’ve been up north—that’s why. How are things with you? Big Four still going strong—eh?”
Poirot shook a finger at him reproachfully.
“Ah! You mock yourself at me—but the Big Four—they exist.”
“Oh! I don’t doubt that—but they’re not the hub of the universe, as you make out.”
“My friend, you are very much mistaken. The greatest power for evil in the world today is this ‘Big Four.’ To what end they are tending, no one knows, but there has never been another such criminal organization. The finest brain in China at the head of it, an American millionaire, and a French woman scientist as members, and for the fourth—”
Japp interrupted.
“I know—I know. Regular bee in your bonnet over it all. It’s becoming your little mania, Moosior Poirot. Let’s talk of something else for a change. Take any interest in chess?”
“I have played it, yes.”
“Did you see that curious business yesterday? Match between two players of worldwide reputation, and one died during the game?”
“I saw mention of it. Dr. Savaronoff, the Russian champion, was one of the players, and the other, who succumbed to heart failure, was the brilliant young American, Gilmour Wilson.”
“Quite right. Savaronoff beat Rubinstein and became Russian champion some years ago. Wilson was said to be a second Capablanca.”
“A very curious occurrence,” mused Poirot. “If I mistake not, you have a particular interest in the matter?”
Japp gave a rather embarrassed laugh.
“You’ve hit it, Moosior Poirot. I’m puzzled. Wilson was sound as a bell—no trace of heart trouble. His death is quite inexplicable.”
“You suspect Dr. Savaronoff of putting him out of the way?” I cried.
“Hardly that,” said Japp dryly. “I don’t think even a Russian would murder another man in order not to be beaten at chess—and anyway, from all I can make out, the boot was likely to be on the other leg. The doctor is supposed to be very hot stuff—second to Lasker they say he is.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“Then what exactly is your little idea?” he asked. “Why should Wilson be poisoned? For, I assume, of course, that it is poison you suspect.”
“Naturally. Heart failure means your heart stops beating—that’s all there is to that. That’s what a doctor says officially at the moment, but privately he tips us the wink that he’s not satisfied.”
“When is the autopsy to take place?”
“Tonight. Wilson’s death was extraordinarily sudden. He seemed quite as usual and was actually moving one of the pieces when he suddenly fell forward—dead!”
“There are very few poisons would act in such a fashion,” objected Poirot.
“I know. The autopsy will help us, I expect. But why should anyone want Gilmour Wilson out of the way—that’s what I’d like to know? Harmless, unassuming young fellow. Just come over here from the States, and apparently hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“It seems incredible,” I mused.
“Not at all,” said Poirot, smiling. “Japp has his theory, I can see.”
“I have, Moosior Poirot. I don’t believe the poison was meant for Wilson—it was meant for the other man.”
“Savaronoff?”
“Yes. Savaronoff fell foul of the Bolsheviks at the outbreak of the Revolution. He was even reported killed. In reality he escaped, and for three years endured incredible hardships in the wilds of Siberia. His sufferings were so great that he is now a changed man. His friends and acquaintances declare they would hardly have recognized him. His hair is white, and his whole aspect that of a man terribly aged. He is a semi-invalid, and seldom goes out, living alone with a niece, Sonia Daviloff, and a Russian manservant in a flat down Westminster way. It is possible that he still considers himself a marked man. Certainly he was very unwilling to agree to this chess contest.
