Big Four - Agatha Christie [38]
‘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.’
A sudden sound behind us made me spin round, and Poirot sprang 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