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 Rubenstein 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.