Big Four Part 13

"You are surprised, Hastings? Ah Ling knew of the existence of the Big Four, that was evident--so evident that it was clear he knew nothing of their a.s.sociation with the crime until that moment. Had he been the murderer, he would have been able to retain his impa.s.sive face perfectly. So I decided then, to believe Ah Ling, and I fixed my suspicions on Gerald Paynter. It seemed to me that Number Four would have found an impersonation of a long lost nephew very easy."

"What!" I cried. "Number Four?"

"No, Hastings, not Number Four. As soon as I had read up the subject of yellow jasmine, I saw the truth. In fact, it leapt to the eye."

"As always," I said coldly, "it doesn't leap to mine."

"Because you will not use your little gray cells. Who had a chance to tamper with the curry?"

"Ah Ling. No one else."

"No one else? What about the doctor?"

"But that was afterwards."

"Of course it was afterwards. There was no trace of powdered opium in the curry served to Mr. Paynter, but acting in obedience to the suspicions Dr. Quentin had aroused, the old man eats none of it, and preserves it to give to his medical attendant, whom he summons according to plan. Dr. Quentin arrives, takes charge of the curry, and gives Mr. Paynter an injection--of strychnine, he says, but really of yellow jasmine--a poisonous dose. When the drug begins to take effect, he departs, after unlatching the window. Then, in the night, he returns by the window, finds the ma.n.u.script, and shoves Mr. Paynter into the fire. He does not heed the newspaper that drops to the floor and is covered by the old man's body. Paynter knew what drug he had been given, and strove to accuse the Big Four of his murder.

It is easy for Quentin to mix powdered opium with the curry before handing it over to be a.n.a.lysed. He gives his version of the conversation with the old man, and mentions the strychnine injection casually, in case the mark of the hypodermic needle is noticed. Suspicion at once is divided between accident and the guilt of Ah Ling owing to the poison in the curry."

"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 loc.u.m originally having been taken ill at the last minute."

At that minute, j.a.pp burst in, very red in the face.

"You have got him?" cried Poirot anxiously.

j.a.pp 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 absent-mindedly he drew a big 4 on the table with a fork.

The 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 j.a.pp, 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 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--"

j.a.pp 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 succ.u.mbed to heart failure, was the brilliant young American, Gilmour Wilson."

"Quite right. Savaronoff beat Rubinstein 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?"

j.a.pp gave a rather embarra.s.sed 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 j.a.pp 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 a.s.sume, 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 anyone want Gilmour Wilson out of the way-- that's what I'd like to know? Harmless una.s.suming 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. "j.a.pp 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 j.a.pp, 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 a.s.sumption 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, Moosier Poirot," said j.a.pp, 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 j.a.pp, 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 j.a.pp.

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, note-case 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 j.a.pp. "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 j.a.pp 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."