The Big Four
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 to-day is this 'Big Four.' To what end they are tending, no
one knows, but there has never been another such criminal organisation.
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 world-wide reputation, and one died during the game?"
"I saw a 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 Rubenstein and became Russian champion
some years ago. Wilson is 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?"
"To-night. 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 any one
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 recognised 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 man-servant 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 any one 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 man-servant 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."
A sudden sound behind us made me spin round, and Poirot spring nimbly
to his feet. A girl was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, full
upon us, were dark with suspicion. She was of medium height, with a
beautiful, rather sullen face, dark blue eyes, and very black hair
which was cut short. Her voice, when she spoke, was rich and sonorous,
and completely un-English.
"I fear my uncle will be unable to see you. He is a great invalid."
"That is a pity, but perhaps you will kindly help me instead. You are
Mademoiselle Daviloff, are you not?"
"Yes, I am Sonia Daviloff. What is it you want to know?"
"I am making some inquiries about that sad affair the night before
last--the death of M. Gilmour Wilson. What can you tell me about it?"
The girl's eyes opened wide.
"He died of heart failure--as he was playing chess."
"The police are not so sure that it was--heart failure, mademoiselle."
The girl gave a terrified gesture.
"It was true then," she cried. "Ivan was right."
"Who is Ivan, and why do you say he was right?"
"It was Ivan who opened the door to you--and he has already said to me
that in his opinion Gilmour Wilson did not die a natural death--that he
was poisoned by mistake."
"By mistake."
"Yes, the poison was meant for my uncle."
She had quite forgotten her first distrust now, and was speaking
eagerly.
"Why do you say that, mademoiselle. Who should wish to poison Dr.
Savaronoff?"
She shook her head.
"I do not know. I am all in the dark. And my uncle, he will not trust
me. It is natural, perhaps. You see, he hardly knows me. He saw me as
a child, and not since till I came to live with him here in London.
But this much I do know, he is in fear of something. We have many
secret societies in Russia, and one day I overheard something which
made me think it was of just such a society he went in fear. Tell me,
monsieur"--she came a step nearer, and dropped her voice--"have you
ever heard of a society called the 'Big Four'?"
Poirot jumped nearly out of his skin. His eyes positively bulged with
astonishment.
"Why do you--what do you know of the Big Four, mademoiselle?"
"There is such an association, then! I overheard a reference to them,
and asked my uncle about it afterwards. Never have I seen a man so
afraid. He turned all white and shaking. He was in fear of them,
monsieur, in great fear, I am sure of it. And, by mistake, they killed
the American, Wilson."