Poirot went straight to the inner room. A whiff of chloroform met us.
On the floor was Sonia Daviloff, gagged and bound, with a great wad of saturated cotton wool over her nose and mouth. Poirot tore it off and began to take measures to restore her. Presently a doctor arrived, and Poirot handed her over to his charge and drew aside with me. There was no sign of Dr. Savaronoff.
“What does it all mean?” I asked, bewildered.
“It means that before two equal deductions I chose the wrong one. You heard me say that it would be easy for anyone to impersonate Sonia Daviloff because her uncle had not seen her for so many years?”
“Yes?”
“Well, precisely the opposite held good also. It was equally easy for anyone to impersonate the uncle.”
“What?”
“Savaronoff did die at the outbreak of the Revolution. The man who pretended to have escaped with such terrible hardships, the man so changed ‘that his own friends could hardly recognize him,’ the man who successfully laid claim to an enormous fortune—”
“Yes. Who was he?”
“Number Four. No wonder he was frightened when Sonia let him know she had overheard one of his private conversations about the ‘Big Four.’ Again he has slipped through my fingers. He guessed I should get on the right track in the end, so he sent off the honest Ivan on a tortuous wild-goose chase, chloroformed the girl, and got out, having by now doubtless realized most of the securities left by Madame Gospoja.”
“But—but who tried to kill him then?”
“Nobody tried to kill him. Wilson was the intended victim all along.”
“But why?”
“My friend, Savaronoff was the second-greatest chess player in the world. In all probability Number Four did not even know the rudiments of the game. Certainly he could not sustain the fiction of a match. He tried all he knew to avoid the contest. When that failed, Wilson’s doom was sealed. At all costs he must be prevented from discovering that the great Savaronoff did not even know how to play chess. Wilson was fond of the Ruy Lopez opening, and was certain to use it. Number Four arranged for death to come with the third move, before any complications of defence set in.”
“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 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 anyone 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 Four had not made one small mistake he would have run no risk.”
“And his mistake?” I asked, although I suspected the answer.
“Mon ami, he overlooked the little grey cells of Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot has his virtues, but modesty is not one of them.
XII
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?”
This was somewhat of a poser, but I was not going to withdraw from my position.
“We ought to take the offensive,” I urged. “What have we done all this time?”
“More than you think, my friend. After all, we have established the identity of Number Two and Number Three, and we have learnt more than a little about the ways and methods of Number Four.”
I brightened up a little. As Poirot put it, things didn’t sound so bad.
“Oh! Yes, Hastings,
