"I 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 _in_--two totally different things, Hastings.
But if you assumed 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 hardships, 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?"
"Nobody 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 know 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 rôle! 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.
"_Certainement_, Hastings," he said, "there were other ways, but
none so convincing. Besides, you are assuming 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."