“No, but he’ll be here for lunch. He has no classes Tuesday afternoons.”
“In the meantime, then, we’ll confer with Beedle and the admirable Pyne.—And I might suggest that it would do Mrs. Drukker no end of good if you’d pay her a visit.”
With a troubled smile and a little nod the girl passed out through the basement door.
Heath at once went in search of Beedle and Pyne and brought them to the drawing room, where Vance questioned them about the preceding night. No information, however, was obtained from them. They had both gone to bed at ten o’clock. Their rooms were on the fourth floor at the side of the house; and they had not even heard Miss Dillard when she returned from the theater. Vance asked them about noises on the range, and intimated that the screen porch door of the Drukkers might have slammed shut at about midnight. But apparently both of them had been asleep at that hour. Finally they were dismissed with a warning not to mention to anyone the questions that had just been asked them.
Five minutes later Professor Dillard came in. Though surprised to see us, he greeted us amiably.
“For once, Markham, you’ve chosen an hour for your visit when I am not absorbed in work.—More questions, I suppose. Well, come along to the library for the inquisition. It’ll be more comfortable there.” He led the way upstairs, and when we were seated, he insisted that we join him in a glass of port, which he himself served from the sideboard.
“Drukker should be here,” he remarked. “He has a fondness for my ‘Ninety-six,’ though he’ll drink it only on rare occasions. I tell him he should take more port; but he imagines it’s bad for him, and points to my gout. But there’s no connection between gout and port—the notion is sheer superstition. Sound port is the most wholesome of wines. Gout is unknown in Oporto. A little physical stimulation of the right kind would be good for Drukker… Poor fellow. His mind is like a furnace that’s burning his body up. A brilliant man, Markham. If he had sufficient bodily energy to keep pace with his brain, he’d be one of the world’s great physicists.”
“He tells me,” commented Vance, “that you twitted him on his inability to work out a modification of the quantum theory in regard to light-interference.”
The old man smiled ruefully.
“Yes. I knew that such a criticism would spur him to a maximum effort. The fact is, Drukker is on the track of something revolutionary. He has already worked out some very interesting theorems… But I’m sure this isn’t what you gentlemen came here to discuss. What can I do for you, Markham? Or, perhaps you came to give me news.”
“Unfortunately we have no news. We have come to solicit aid again… ” Markham hesitated as if uncertain how to proceed; and Vance assumed the role of questioner.
“The situation has changed somewhat since we were here yesterday. One or two new matters have arisen, and there is a possibility that our investigation would be facilitated if we knew the exact movements of the members of your household last night. These movements, in fact, may have influenced certain factors in the case.”
The professor lifted his head in some surprise but made no comment. He said merely, “That information is very easily given. To what members do you refer?”
“To no member specifically,” Vance hastened to assure him.
“Well, let me see… ” He took out his old meerschaum pipe and began filling it. “Belle and Sigurd and I had dinner alone at six o’clock. At half past seven Drukker dropped in, and a few minutes later Pardee called. Then at eight Sigurd and Belle went to the theater, and at half past ten Drukker and Pardee went away. I myself turned in shortly after eleven, after locking up the house—I’d let Pyne and Beedle go to bed early.—And that’s about all I can tell you.”
“Do I understand that Miss Dillard and Mr. Arnesson went to the theater together?”
“Yes. Sigurd rarely patronizes the theater, but whenever he does, he takes Belle along. He attends Ibsen’s plays, for the most part. He’s a devout disciple of Ibsen’s, by the way. His American upbringing hasn’t in the least tempered his enthusiasm for things Norwegian. At heart he’s quite loyal to his native country. He’s as well grounded in Norwegian literature as any professor at the University of Oslo; and the only music he really cares for is Grieg’s. When he goes to concerts or the theater you’re pretty sure to find that the programs are liberally Norwegian.”
“It was an Ibsen play, then, he attended last night?”
“ ‘Rosmersholm,’ I believe. There’s a revival of Ibsen’s dramas at present in New York.”
Vance nodded. “Walter Hampden’s doing them.—Did you see either Mr. Arnesson or Miss Dillard after they returned from the theater?”
“No, they came in rather late, I imagine. Belle told me this morning they went to the Plaza for supper after the play. However, Sigurd will be here at any minute, and you can learn the details from him.” Though the professor spoke with patience, it was plain that he was annoyed by the apparently irrelevant nature of the interrogation.
“Will you be good enough, sir,” pursued Vance, “to tell us the circumstances connected with Mr. Drukker’s and Mr. Pardee’s visit here after dinner?”
“There was nothing unusual about their call. They often drop in during the evening. The object of Drukker’s visit was to discuss with me the work he had done on his modification of the quantum theory; but when Pardee appeared, the discussion was dropped. Pardee is a good mathematician, but advanced physics is beyond his depth.”
“Did either Mr. Drukker or Mr. Pardee see Miss Dillard before she went to the theater?”
Professor Dillard took his pipe slowly from his mouth, and his expression became resentful.
“I must say,” he replied testily, “that I can see no valid object in my answering such questions.—However,” he added, in a more indulgent tone, “if the domestic trivia of my household can be of any possible assistance to you, I will of course be glad to go into detail.” He regarded Vance a moment. “Yes, both Drukker and Pardee saw Belle last night. All of us, including Sigurd, were together in this room for perhaps an hour before theater time. There was even a casual discussion about Ibsen’s genius, in which Drukker annoyed Sigurd greatly by maintaining Hauptmann’s superiority.”
“Then at eight o’clock, I gather, Mr. Arnesson and Miss Dillard departed, leaving you and Mr. Pardee and Mr. Drukker alone here.”
“That is correct.”
“And at half past ten, I think you said, Mr. Drukker and Mr. Pardee went away. Did they go together?”
“They went downstairs together,” the professor answered, with more than a suggestion of tartness. “Drukker, I believe, went home, but Pardee had an appointment at the Manhattan Chess Club.”
“It seems a bit early for Mr. Drukker to have gone home,” mused Vance, “especially as he had come to discuss an important matter with you and had had no adequate opportunity to do so up to the time of his departure.”
“Drukker is not well.” The professor’s voice was again studiously patient. “As I’ve told you, he tires easily. And last night he was unusually played out. In fact, he complained to me of his fatigue and said he was going immediately to bed.”
“Yes…quite in keeping,” murmured Vance. “He told us a little while ago that he was up working at six yesterday morning.”
“I’m not surprised. Once a problem has posed itself in his mind, he works on it incessantly. Unfortunately he has no normal reactions to counterbalance his consuming passion for mathematics. There have been times when I’ve feared for his mental stability.”
Vance, for some reason, steered clear of this point.
“You spoke of Mr. Pardee’s engagement at the Chess Club last night,” he said, when he had carefully lighted a fresh cigarette. “Did he mention the nature of it to you?”
Professor Dillard smiled with patronizing lenity.
“He talked about it for fully an hour. It appears that a gentleman named Rubinstein—a genius of the chess world, I understand, who is now visiting this co
untry—had taken him on for three exhibition games. The last one was yesterday. It began at two o’clock, and was postponed at six. It should have been played off at eight, but Rubinstein was the lion of some dinner downtown; so the hour set for the playoff was eleven. Pardee was on tenterhooks, for he had lost the first game and drawn the second; and if he could have won last night’s game he would have broken even with Rubinstein. He seemed to think he had an excellent chance according to the way the game stood at six o’clock; although Drukker disagreed with him… He must have gone directly from here to the club, for it was fully half past ten when he and Drukker went out.”
“Rubinstein’s a strong player,” observed Vance. A new note of interest, which he strove to conceal, had come into his voice. “He’s one of the grand masters of the game. He defeated Capablanca at San Sebastian in 1911, and between 1907 and 1912 was considered the logical contender for the world’s title held by Doctor Lasker.* Yes, it would have been a great feather in Pardee’s cap to have beaten him. Indeed, it was no small compliment to him that he should have been matched with Rubinstein. Pardee, despite the fame of his gambit, has never been ranked as a master.—Have you heard the results of last night’s game, by the by?”
Again I noted a faint tolerant smile at the corners of the professor’s mouth. He gave the impression of looking down benevolently on the foolish capers of children from some great intellectual height.
“No,” he answered, “I didn’t inquire. But my surmise is that Pardee lost; for when Drukker pointed out the weakness of his adjourned position, he was more positive than usual. Drukker by nature is cautious, and he rarely expresses a definite opinion on a problem without having excellent grounds for so doing.”
Vance raised his eyebrows in some astonishment.
“Do you mean to tell me that Pardee analyzed his unfinished game with Drukker and discussed the possibilities of its ending? Not only is such a course unethical, but any player would be disqualified for doing such a thing.”
“I’m unfamiliar with the punctilio of chess,” Professor Dillard returned acidly, “but I am sure Pardee would not be guilty of a breach of ethics in that regard. And, as a matter of fact, I recall that when he was engaged with the chessmen at the table over there and Drukker stepped up to look on, Pardee requested him to offer no advice. The discussion of the position took place sometime later and was kept entirely to generalities. I don’t believe there was a mention of any specific line of play.”
Vance leaned slowly forward and crushed out his cigarette with that taut deliberation which I had long since come to recognize as a sign of repressed excitement. Then he rose carelessly and moved to the chess table in the corner. He stood there, one hand resting on the exquisite marquetry of the alternating squares.
“You say that Mr. Pardee was analyzing his position on this board when Mr. Drukker came over to him?”
“Yes, that is right.” Professor Dillard spoke with forced politeness. “Drukker sat down facing him and studied the layout. He started to make some remark, and Pardee requested him to say nothing. A quarter of an hour or so later Pardee put the men away; and it was then that Drukker told him that his game was lost—that he had worked himself into a position which, though it looked favorable, was fundamentally weak.”
Vance had been running his fingers aimlessly over the board; and he had taken two or three of the men from the box and tossed them back, as if toying with them.
“Do you remember just what Mr. Drukker said?” he asked without looking up.
“I didn’t pay very close attention—the subject was not exactly one of burning moment to me.” There was an unescapable note of irony in the answer. “But, as nearly as I can recall, Drukker said that Pardee could have won provided it had been a rapid-transit game, but that Rubinstein was a notoriously slow and careful player and would inevitably find the weak spot in Pardee’s position.”
“Did Pardee resent this criticism?” Vance now strolled back to his chair and selected another cigarette from his case; but he did not sit down again.
“He did—very much. Drukker has an unfortunately antagonistic manner. And Pardee is hypersensitive on the subject of his chess. The fact is, he went white with anger at Drukker’s strictures. But I personally changed the subject; and when they went away, the incident had apparently been forgotten.”
We remained but a few minutes longer. Markham was profuse in his apologies to the professor and sought to make amends for the patent annoyance our visit had caused him. He was not pleased with Vance for his seemingly garrulous insistence on the details of Pardee’s chess game, and when we had descended to the drawing room, he expressed his displeasure.
“I could understand your questions relating to the whereabouts of the various occupants of this house last night, but I could see no excuse for your harping on Pardee’s and Drukker’s disagreement over a game of chess. We have other things to do besides gossip.”
“A hate of gossip parlance also crown’d Tennyson’s Isabel thro’ all her placid life,” Vance returned puckishly. “But—my word, Markham!—our life is not like Isabel’s. Speakin’ seriously, there was method in my gossip. I prattled—and I learned.”
“You learned what?” Markham demanded sharply.
With a cautious glance into the hall Vance leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“I learned, my dear Lycurgus, that a black bishop is missing from that set in the library, and that the chessman left at Mrs. Drukker’s door matches the other pieces upstairs!”
Footnotes
*Captain Hagedorn was the firearms expert of the New York Police Department. It was he who, in the Benson murder case, gave Vance the data with which to establish the height of the murderer; and who made the examination of the three bullets fired from the old Smith & Wesson revolver in the Greene murder case.
*Akiba Rubinstein was then, and is today, the chess champion of Poland and one of the great international masters of the game. He was born in Stavisk, near Lodz, in 1882, and made his debut in international chess at the Ostend tournament in 1906. His recent visit to America resulted in a series of new triumphs.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
An Interview with Pardee
(Tuesday, April 12, 12.30 p.m.)
THIS PIECE OF news had a profound effect on Markham. As was his habit when agitated, he rose and began pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind him. Heath, too, though slower to grasp the significance of Vance’s revelation, puffed vigorously on his cigar—an indication that his mind was busy with a difficult adjustment of facts.
Before either had formulated any comment, the rear door of the hall opened and light footsteps approached the drawing room. Belle Dillard, returning from Mrs. Drukker’s, appeared in the archway. Her face was troubled and, letting her eyes rest on Markham, she asked, “What did you say to Adolph this morning? He’s in an awful state of funk. He’s going about testing all the door locks and window catches as if he feared burglars; and he has frightened poor Grete by telling her to be sure to bolt herself in at night.”
“Ah! He has warned Mrs. Menzel, has he?” mused Vance. “Very interestin’.”
The girl’s gaze turned swiftly to him.
“Yes, but he will give me no explanation. He’s excited and mysterious. And the strangest thing about his attitude is that he refused to go near his mother… What does it mean, Mr. Vance? I feel as though something terrible were impending.”
“I don’t know just what it does mean.” Vance spoke in a low, distressed voice. “And I’m afraid even to try to interpret it. If I should be wrong… ” He became silent for a moment. “We must wait and see. Tonight perhaps we’ll know.—But there’s no cause for alarm on your part, Miss Dillard.” He smiled comfortingly. “How did you find Mrs. Drukker?”
“She seemed much better. But there’s still something worrying her; and I think it has to do with Adolph, for she talked about him the whole time I was there and kept asking me if I’d noticed anything unusual in his manner l
ately.”
“That’s quite natural in the circumstances,” Vance returned. “But you mustn’t let her morbid attitude affect you.—And now, to change the subject: I understand that you were in the library for half an hour or so last night just before you went to the theater. Tell me, Miss Dillard—where was your handbag during that time?”
The question startled her, but after a momentary hesitation she answered, “When I came into the library, I placed it with my wrap on the little table by the door.”
“It was the lizard-skin bag containing the key?”
“Yes. Sigurd hates evening dress, and when we go out together, I always wear my day clothes.”
“So you left the bag on the table during that half-hour and then kept it with you the rest of the evening.—And what about this morning?”
“I went out for a walk before breakfast and carried it with me. Later I put it on the hatrack in the hall for an hour or so; but when I started for Lady Mae’s at about ten, I took it with me. It was then I discovered that the little pistol had been returned, and I postponed my call. I left the bag downstairs in the archery room until you and Mr. Markham came; and I’ve had it with me ever since.”
Vance thanked her whimsically.
“And now that the peregrinations of the bag have been thoroughly traced, please try to forget all about it.” She was on the point of asking a question, but he anticipated her curiosity and said quickly: “You went to the Plaza for supper last night, your uncle told us. You must have been late in getting home.”
“I never stay out very late when I go anywhere with Sigurd,” she answered, with a maternal note of complaint. “He has a constitutional aversion to any kind of night life. I begged him to stay out longer, but he looked so miserable I hadn’t the heart to remain. We actually got home at half past twelve.”
Vance rose with a gracious smile.
“You’ve been awfully good to bear with our foolish questions so patiently… Now we’re going to drop in on Mr. Pardee and see if he has any illuminatin’ suggestions to offer. He’s generally in at this time, I believe.”
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