Big Four - Agatha Christie [36]
‘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 locum orginally having been taken ill at the last minute.’
At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.
‘Have you got him?’ cried Poirot anxiously.
Japp 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 absentmindedly he drew a big 4 on the table with a fork.
Chapter 11
A Chess 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 Japp, 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 today is this “Big Four”. To what end they are tending, no one knows, but there has never been another such criminal organization. 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 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 Rubinstein and became Russian champion some years ago. Wilson was 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