“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. He refused several times point blank, and it was only when the newspapers took it up and began making a fuss about the ‘unsportsmanlike refusal’ that he gave in. Gilmour Wilson had gone on challenging him with real Yankee pertinacity, and in the end he got his way. Now I ask you, Moosior Poirot, why wasn’t he willing? Because he didn’t want attention drawn to him. Didn’t want somebody or other to get on his track. That’s my solution—Gilmour Wilson got pipped by mistake.”
“There is no one who has any private reason to gain by Savaronoff’s death?”
“Well, his niece, I suppose. He’s recently come into an immense fortune. Left him by Madame Gospoja whose husband was a sugar profiteer under the old regime. They had an affair together once, I believe, and she refused steadfastly to credit the reports of his death.”
“Where did the match take place?”
“In Savaronoff’s own flat. He’s an invalid, as I told you.”
“Many people there to watch it?”
“At least a dozen—probably more.”
Poirot made an expressive grimace.
“My poor Japp, your task is not an easy one.”
“Once I know definitely that Wilson was poisoned, I can get on.”
“Has it occurred to you that, in the meantime, supposing your assumption that Savaronoff was the intended victim to be correct, the murderer may try again?”
“Of course it has. Two men are watching Savaronoff’s flat.”
“That will be very useful if anyone should call with a bomb under his arm,” said Poirot dryly.
“You’re getting interested, Moosior Poirot,” said Japp, with a twinkle. “Care to come round to the mortuary and see Wilson’s body before the doctors start on it? Who knows, his tie pin may be askew, and that may give you a valuable clue that will solve the mystery.”
“My dear Japp, all through dinner my fingers have been itching to rearrange your own tie pin. You permit, yes? Ah! that is much more pleasing to the eye. Yes, by all means, let us go to the mortuary.”
I could see that Poirot’s attention was completely captivated by this new problem. It was so long since he had shown any interest over any outside case that I was quite rejoiced to see him back in his old form.
For my own part, I felt a deep pity as I looked down upon the motionless form and convulsed face of the hapless young American who had come by his death in such a strange way. Poirot examined the body attentively. There was no mark on it anywhere, except a small scar on the left hand.
“And the doctor says that’s a burn, not a cut,” explained Japp.
Poirot’s attention shifted to the contents of the dead man’s pockets which a constable spread out for our inspection. There was nothing much—a handkerchief, keys, notecase filled with notes, and some unimportant letters. But one object standing by itself filled Poirot with interest.
“A chessman!” he exclaimed. “A white bishop. Was that in his pocket?”
“No, clasped in his hand. We had quite a difficulty to get it out of his fingers. It must be returned to Dr. Savaronoff sometime. It’s part of a very beautiful set of carved ivory chessmen.”
“Permit me to return it to him. It will make an excuse for my going there.”
“Aha!” cried Japp. “So you want to come in on this case?”
“I admit it. So skilfully have you aroused my interest.”
“That’s fine. Got you away from
your brooding. Captain Hastings is pleased, too, I can see.”
“Quite right,” I said, laughing.
Poirot turned back towards the body.
“No other little detail you can tell me about—him?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“Not even—that he was left-handed?”
“You’re a wizard, Moosior Poirot. How did you know that? He was left-handed. Not that it’s anything to do with the case.”
“Nothing whatever,” agreed Poirot hastily, seeing that Japp was slightly ruffled. “My little joke—that was all. I like to play you the trick, see you.”
We went out upon an amicable understanding.
The following morning saw us wending our way to Dr. Savaronoff’s flat in Westminster.
“Sonia Daviloff,” I mused. “It’s a pretty name.”
Poirot stopped, and threw me a look of despair.
“Always looking for romance! You are incorrigible. It would serve you right if Sonia Daviloff turned out to be our friend and enemy the Countess Vera Rossakoff.”
At the mention of the countess, my face clouded over.
“Surely, Poirot, you don’t suspect—”
“But, no, no. It was a joke! I have not the Big Four on the brain to that extent, whatever Japp may say.”
The door of the flat was opened to us by a manservant with a peculiarly wooden face. It seemed impossible to believe that that impassive countenance could ever display emotion.
Poirot presented a card on which Japp had scribbled a few words of introduction, and we were shown into a low, long room furnished with rich hangings and curios. One or two wonderful ikons hung upon the walls, and exquisite Persian rugs lay upon the floor. A samovar stood upon a table.
I was examining one of the ikons which I judged to be of considerable value, and turned to see Poirot prone upon the floor. Beautiful as the rug was, it hardly seemed to me to necessitate such close attention.
“Is it such a very wonderful specimen?” I asked.
“Eh? Oh! the rug? But no, it was not the rug I was remarking. But it is a beautiful specimen, far too beautiful to have a large nail wantonly driven through the middle of it. No, Hastings,” as I came forward, “the nail is not there now. But the hole remains.”