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, notecase filled with notes, and some unimportant letters. But one object standing by itself filled Poirot with interest.

“A chessman!” he exclaimed. “A white bishop. Was that in his pocket?”