Then, as suddenly, it was impassive again, and repeating his grave disclaimer, he withdrew.
Japp departed in search of young Paynter, and Poirot and I were left alone together.
"The Big Four, Hastings," cried Poirot. "Once again, the Big Four. Paynter was a great traveller. In his book there was doubtless some vital information concerning the doings of Number One, Li Chang Yen, the head and brains of the Big Four."
"But who - how -"
"Hush, here they come."
Gerald Paynter was an amiable, rather weak-looking young man. He had a soft brown beard, and a peculiar flowing tie. He answered Poirot's questions readily enough.
"I dined out with some neighbours of ours, the Wycherlys," he explained. "What time did I get home? Oh, about eleven. I had a latch-key, you know. All the servants had gone to bed, and I naturally thought my uncle had done the same. As a matter of fact, I did think I caught sight of that soft-footed Chinese beggar Ah Ling just whisking round the corner of the hall, but I fancy I was mistaken."
"When did you last see your uncle, Mr. Paynter? I mean before you came to live with him."
"Oh! not since I was a kid of ten. He and his brother (my father) quarrelled, you know."
"But he found you again with very little trouble, did he not? In spite of all the years that had passed?"
"Yes, it was quite a bit of luck my seeing the lawyer's advertisement."
Poirot asked no more questions.
Our next move was to visit Dr. Quentin. His story was substantially the same as he had told at the inquest, and he had little to add to it. He received us in his surgery, having just come to the end of his consulting patients.
He seemed an intelligent man. A certain primness of manner went well with his pince-nez, but I fancied that he would be thoroughly modern in his methods.
"I wish I could remember about the window," he said frankly. "But it's dangerous to think back, one becomes quite positive about something that never existed. That's psychology, isn't it, M. Poirot? You see, I've read all about your methods, and I may say I'm an enormous admirer of yours. No, I suppose it's pretty certain that the Chinaman put the powdered opium in the curry, but he'll never admit it, and we shall never know why. But holding a man down in a fire - that's not in keeping with our Chinese friend's character, it seems to me."
I commented on this last point to Poirot as we walked down the main street of Market Handford.
"Do you think he let a confederate in?" I asked. "By the way, I suppose Japp can be trusted to keep an eye on him?" (The Inspector had passed into the police station on some business or other.) "The emissaries of the Big Four are pretty spry."
"Japp is keeping an eye on both of them," said Poirot grimly. "They have been closely shadowed ever since the body was discovered."
"Well, at any rate we know that Gerald Paynter had nothing to do with it."
"You always know so much more than I do, Hastings, that it becomes quite fatiguing."
"You old fox," I laughed. "You never will commit yourself."
"To be honest, Hastings, the case is now quite clear to me - all but the words, Yellow Jasmine - and I am coming to agree with you that they have no bearing on the crime. In a case of this kind, you have got to make up your mind who is lying. I have done that. And yet -"
He suddenly darted from my side and entered an adjacent bookshop. He emerged a few minutes later, hugging a parcel. Then Japp rejoined us, and we all sought quarters at the inn.
I slept late the next morning. When I descended to the sitting-room reserved for us, I found Poirot already there, pacing up and down, his face contorted with agony.
"Do not converse with me," he cried, waving an agitated hand. "Not until I know that all is well - that the arrest is made. Ah! but my psychology has been weak. Hastings, if a man writes a dying message, it is because it is important. Every one has said - 'Yellow Jasmine'. There is yellow jasmine growing up the house - it means nothing.'"
"Well, what does it mean? Just what it says. Listen."
He held up a little book he was holding.
"My friend, it struck me that it would be well to inquire into the subject. What exactly is yellow jasmine? This little book has told me. Listen."
He read.
"'Gelsemini Radix. Yellow Jasmine. Composition: Alkaloids gelseminine C22H26N2O3, a potent poison acting like coniine; gelsemine C12H14NO2, acting like strychnine; gelsemic acid, etc. Gelsemium is a powerful depressant to the central nervous system. At a late stage in its action it paralyses the motor nerve endings, and in large doses causes giddiness and loss of muscular power. Death is due to paralysis of the respiratory centre.'
"You see, Hastings? At the beginning I had an inkling of the truth when Japp made his remark about a live man being forced into the fire. I realised then that it was a dead man who was burned."
"But why? What was the point?"
"My friend, if you were to shoot a man, or stab a man after he were dead, or even knock him on the head, it would be apparent that the injuries were inflicted after death. But with his head charred to a cinder, no one is going to hunt about for obscure causes of death, and a man who has apparently just escaped being poisoned at dinner, is not likely to be poisoned just afterwards. Who is lying, that is always the question? I decided to believe Ah Ling -"
"What?" I exclaimed.
"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 association with the crime until that moment. Had he been the murderer, he would have been able to retain his impassive 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 manuscript, 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 analysed. 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 locum originally having been taken ill at the last minute."
At that minute, Japp burst in, very red in the face.
"You have 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 absent-mindedly 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 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 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?"
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?"
"Tonight. 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 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."
