Part 15 (1/2)
With infinite care he weighed the two chessmen, then turned to me with a face alight with triumph.
”I was right. See you,'I was right. Impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot!”
He rushed to the telephone--waited impatiently.
”Is that j.a.pp? Ah! j.a.pp, it is you. Hercule Poirot speaks. Watch the man-servant, Ivan. On no account let him slip through your fingers. Yes, yes, it is as I say.”
He dashed down the receiver and turned to me.
”You see it not, Hastings? I will explain. Wilson was not poisoned, he was electrocuted. A thin metal rod pa.s.ses up the middle of one of those chessmen. The table was prepared beforehand and set upon a certain spot on the floor. When the bishop was placed upon one of the silver squares, the current pa.s.sed through Wilson's body, killing him instantly. The only mark was the electric burn upon his hand--his left hand, because he was left-handed. The 'special table' was an extremely cunning piece of mechanism. The table I examined was a duplicate, perfectly innocent. It was subst.i.tuted for the other immediately after the murder. The thing was worked from the flat below, which, if you remember, was let furnished. But one accomplice at least was in Savaronoff's flat. The girl is an agent of the Big Four, working to inherit Savaronoff's money.”
”And Ivan?”
”I strongly suspect that Ivan is none other than the famous Number Four.”
”What?”
”Yes. The man is a marvellous character actor. He can a.s.sume any part he pleases.”
I thought back over past adventures, the lunatic asylum keeper, the butcher's young man, the suave doctor, all the same man, and all totally unlike each other.
”It's amazing,” I said at last. ”Everything fits in.
Savaronoff had an inkling of the plot, and that's why he was so averse to playing the match.” Poirot looked at me without speaking. Then he turned abruptly away, and began pacing up and down.
”Have you a book on chess by any chance, mon amiV he asked suddenly.
”I believe I have somewhere.”
It took me some time to ferret it out, but I found it at last, and brought it to Poirot, who sank down in a chair and started reading it with the greatest attention.
In about a quarter of an hour the telephone rang. I answered it. It was j.a.pp. Ivan had left the flat, carrying a large bundle. He had sprung into a waiting taxi, and the chase had begun. He was evidently trying to lose his pursuers. In the end he seemed to fancy that he had done so, and had then driven to a big empty house at Hampstead. The house was surrounded.
I recounted all this to Poirot. He merely stared at me as though he scarcely took in what I was saying. He held out the chess book.
”Listen to this, my friend. This is the Ruy Lopez opening. 1 P-K4, P-K4; 2 Kt-KB3, Kt-QB3; 3BKt5; Then there comes a question as to Black's best third move. He has the choice of various defences. It was White's third move that killed Gilmour Wilson, 3BKt5.
Only the third move--does that say nothing to you?”
I hadn't the least idea what he meant, and told him so.
”Suppose, Hastings, that while you were sitting in this chair, you heard the front door being opened and shut, what would you think?”
”I should think some one had gone out, I suppose.”
”Yes--but there are always two ways of looking at things. Some one gone out--some one come w--two totally different things, Hastings. But if you a.s.sumed the wrong one, presently some little discrepancy would creep in and show you that you were on the wrong track.”
”What does all this mean. Poirot?”
Poirot sprang to his feet with sudden energy.
”It means that I have been a triple imbecile. Quick, quick, to the flat in Westminster. We may yet be in time.”
We tore off in a taxi. Poirot returned no answer to my excited questions. We raced up the stairs. Repeated rings and knocks brought no reply, but listening closely I could distinguish a hollow groan coming from within.
The hall porter proved to have a master key, and after a few difficulties he consented to use it.
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 any one 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 any one to impersonate the uncle.''
”What?”
”Savaronoff did die at the outbreak of the Revolution.
The man who pretended to have escaped with such terrible hards.h.i.+ps, the man so changed 'that his own friends could hardly recognise 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 realised most of the securities left by Madame Gospoja.”
”But--but who tried to kill him then?”
”n.o.body 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 known 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.
”Cerfainement, Hastings,” he said, ”there were other ways, but none so convincing. Besides, you are a.s.suming 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 events and to make the man his own executioner at the exact time that suits Number Four... . Oh, yes, Hastings, I begin to understand our friend and his psychology.”
I shrugged.