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."
"That will be very useful if any one should call with a bomb under his arm," said Poirot dryly.
"You're getting interested, Moosier Poirot," said Japp, with a twinkle. "Care to come round to the mortuary and see Wilson's body before the doctors start on it?
Who knows, his tie-pin may be askew, and that may give you a valuable clue that will solve the mystery."
"My dear Japp, all through dinner my fingers have been itching to rearrange your own tie-pin.
You permit, yes?
Ah! that is much more pleasing to the eye.
Yes, by all means, let us go to the mortuary."
I could see that Poirot's attention was completely captivated by this new problem.
It was so long since he had shown any interest over any outside case that I was quite rejoiced to see him back in his old form.
For my own part, I felt a deep pity as I looked down upon the motionless form and convulsed face of the hapless young American who had come by his death in such a strange way.
Poirot examined the body attentively.
There was no mark on it anywhere, except a small scar on the left hand.
"And the doctor says that's a burn, not a cut," explained Japp.
Poirot's attention shifted to the contents of the dead man's pockets which a constable spread out for our inspection.
There was nothing much - a handkerchief, keys, note-case filled with notes, and some unimportant letters.
But one object standing by itself filled Poirot with interest.
"A chessman!" he exclaimed. "A white bishop.