“Moreover, all sadists have an infantile complex. And the child is totally amoral. A man, therefore, who experiences these infantile psychological reversals is beyond good and evil. Many modern mathematicians even hold that all convention, duty, morality, good, and the like, could not exist except for the fiction of free will. To them the science of ethics is a field haunted by conceptual ghosts; and they even arrive at the disintegrating doubt as to whether truth itself is not merely a figment of the imagination… Add to these considerations the sense of earthly distortion and the contempt for human life which might easily result from the speculations of higher mathematics, and you have a perfect set of conditions for the type of crimes with which we are dealing.”
When Vance had finished speaking, Markham sat silent for a long time. Finally he moved restively.
“I can understand,” he said, “how these crimes might fit almost any of the persons involved. But, on the basis of your argument, how do you account for the notes to the press?”
“Humor must be imparted,” returned Vance. “ ‘A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear of him who hears it.’ Also, the impulse toward exhibitionism enters into the present case.”
“But the ‘Bishop’ alias?”
“Ah! That’s a most vital point. The raison d’être of this terrible orgy of humor lies in that cryptic signature.”
Markham turned slowly. “Does the chess player and the astronomer fulfill the conditions of your theory as well as the mathematical physicist?”
“Yes,” Vance replied. “Since the days of Philidor, Staunton, and Kieseritzki, when chess was something of a fine art, the game has degenerated almost into an exact science; and during Capablanca’s régime it has become largely a matter of abstract mathematical speculation. Indeed, Maroczy, Doctor Lasker and Vidmar are all well-known mathematicians… And the astronomer, who actually views the universe, may get an even more intense impression of the unimportance of this earth than the speculative physicist. Imagination runs riot through a telescope. The mere theory of existing life on distant planets tends to reduce earthly life to second’ry consideration. For hours after one has looked at Mars, for instance, and dallied with the notion that its inhabitants outnumber and surpass in intelligence our own population, one has difficulty in readjusting oneself to the petty affairs of life here on earth. Even a reading of Percival Lowell’s romantic book* temporarily takes away from the imaginative person all consciousness of the significance of any single planet’ry existence.”
There was a long silence. Then Markham asked, “Why should Pardee have taken Arnesson’s black bishop that night instead of one from the club where it would not have been missed?”
“We don’t know enough of the motive to say. He may have taken it with some deliberate purpose in view.—But what evidence have you of his guilt? All the suspicions in the world would not permit you to take any step against him. Even if we knew indubitably who the murderer was, we’d be helpless… I tell you, Markham, we’re facing a shrewd brain—one that figures out every move and calculates all the possibilities. Our only hope is to create our own evidence by finding a weakness in the murderer’s combination.”
“The first thing in the morning,” declared Markham grimly, “I’m going to put Heath to work on Pardee’s alibi that night. There’ll be twenty men checking it up by noon, questioning every spectator at that chess game, and making a door-to-door canvass between the Manhattan Chess Club and the Drukker house. If we can find someone who actually saw Pardee in the vicinity of the Drukkers’ around midnight, then we’ll have a very suspicious piece of circumstantial evidence against him.”
“Yes,” agreed Vance, “that would give us a definite starting point. Pardee would have considerable difficulty in explaining why he was six blocks away from the club during his set-to with Rubinstein at the exact hour that a black bishop was being left at Mrs. Drukker’s door… Yes, yes. By all means have Heath and his minions tackle the problem. It may lead us forward.”
But the sergeant was never called upon to check the alibi. Before nine o’clock on the following morning Markham called at Vance’s house to inform him that Pardee had committed suicide.
Footnotes
*I am obviously unable to set down Vance’s exact words, despite the completeness of my notes; but I sent him a proof of the following passages with a request that he revise and edit them; so that, as they now stand, they represent an accurate paraphrase of his analysis of the psychological factors of the Bishop murders.
*Vance was here using the English connotation of “trillion,” which is the third power of a million, as opposed to the American and French system of numeration which regards a trillion as a mere million millions.
*Lumen was invented by the French astronomer to prove the possibility of the reversal of time. With a speed of 250,000 miles per second, he was conceived as soaring into space at the end of the battle of Waterloo and catching up all the light-rays that had left the battlefield. He attained a gradually increasing lead, until at the end of two days he was witnessing, not the end, but the beginning of the battle; and in the meantime he had been viewing events in reverse order. He had seen projectiles leaving the objects they had penetrated and returning to the cannon; dead men coming to life and arranging themselves in battle formation. Another hypothetical adventure of Lumen was jumping to the moon, turning about instantaneously, and seeing himself leaping from the moon to the earth backward.
*Vance requested me to mention here A. d’Abro’s recent scholarly work, The Evolution of Scientific Thought, in which there is an excellent discussion of the paradoxes associated with space-time.
*Vance’s M.A. thesis, I recall, dealt with Schopenhauer’s Ueber die vierfache Wurzel des Satzes vom zureichenden Grunde.
*I do not know whether Vance was here referring to Mars and Its Canals or Mars as the Abode of Life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The House of Cards
(Sunday, April 17; 9 a.m.)
THE ASTOUNDING NEWS of Pardee’s death had a curiously disturbing effect on Vance. He stared at Markham unbelievingly. Then he rang hastily for Currie and ordered his clothes and a cup of coffee. There was an eager impatience in his movements as he dressed.
“My word, Markham!” he exclaimed. “This is most extr’ordin’ry… How did you hear of it?”
“Professor Dillard phoned me at my apartment less than half an hour ago. Pardee killed himself in the archery room of the Dillard home sometime last night. Pyne discovered the body this morning and informed the professor. I relayed the news to Sergeant Heath and then came here. In the circumstances I thought we ought to be on hand.” Markham paused to light his cigar. “It looks as if the Bishop case was over… Not an entirely satisfactory ending, but perhaps the best for everyone concerned.”
Vance made no immediate comment. He sipped his coffee abstractedly and at length got up and took his hat and stick.
“Suicide…” he murmured, as we went down the stairs. “Yes, that would be wholly consistent. But, as you say, unsatisfact’ry—dashed unsatisfact’ry…”
We rode to the Dillard house and were admitted by Pyne. Professor Dillard had no more than joined us in the drawing room when the doorbell rang, and Heath, pugnacious and dynamic, bustled in.
“This’ll clean things up, sir,” he exulted to Markham after the usual ritualistic handshake. “Those quiet birds…you never can tell. Yet, who’d’ve thought… ?”
“Oh, I say, Sergeant,” Vance drawled, “let’s not think. Much too wearin’. An open mind—arid like a desert—is indicated.”
Professor Dillard led the way to the archery room. The shades at all the windows were drawn, and the electric lights were still burning. I noticed, too, that the windows were closed.
“I left everything exactly as it was,” explained the professor.
Markham walked to the large wicker center table. Pardee’s body was slumped in a chair facing the range door. His head and shoulders had fallen forward over the
table; and his right arm hung at his side, the fingers still clutching an automatic pistol. There was an ugly wound in his right temple; and on the table beneath his head was a pool of coagulated blood.
Our eyes rested but a moment on the body, for a startling and incongruous thing diverted our attention. The magazines on the table had been pushed aside, leaving an open space in front of the body; and in this cleared area rose a tall and beautifully constructed house of playing cards. Four arrows marked the boundaries of the yard, and matches had been laid side by side to represent the garden walks. It was a reproduction that would have delighted a child’s heart; and I recalled what Vance had said the night before about serious minds seeking recreation in children’s games. There was something unutterably horrible in the juxtaposition of this juvenile card structure and violent death.
Vance stood looking down at the scene with sad, troubled eyes.
“Hic jacet John Pardee,” he murmured with a sort of reverence. “And this is the house that Jack built…a house of cards… ”
He stepped forward as if to inspect it more closely; but as his body struck the edge of the table there was a slight jar, and the flimsy edifice of cards toppled over.
Markham drew himself up and turned to Heath. “Have you notified the medical examiner?”
“Sure.” The sergeant seemed to find it difficult to take his eyes from the table. “And Burke’s coming along in case we need him.” He went to the windows and threw up the shades, letting in the bright daylight. Then he returned to Pardee’s body and stood regarding it appraisingly. Suddenly he knelt down and leaned over.
“That looks to me like the .38 that was in the toolchest,” he remarked.
“Undoubtedly,” nodded Vance, taking out his cigarette case.
Heath rose and, going to the chest, inspected the contents of its drawer. “I guess that’s it, all right. We’ll get Miss Dillard to identify it after the doc has been here.”
At this moment Arnesson, clothed in a brilliant red-and-yellow dressing gown, burst excitedly into the room.
“By all the witches!” he exclaimed. “Pyne just told me the news.” He came to the table and stared at Pardee’s body. “Suicide, eh?…But why didn’t he choose his own home for the performance? Damned inconsiderate of him to muss up someone else’s house this way. Just like a chess player.” He lifted his eyes to Markham. “Hope this won’t involve us in more unpleasantness. We’ve had enough notoriety. Distracts the mind. When’ll you be able to take the beggar’s remains away? Don’t want Belle to see him.”
“The body will be removed as soon as the medical examiner has seen it,” Markham told him in a tone of frosty rebuke. “And there will be no necessity to bring Miss Dillard here.”
“Good.” Arnesson still stood staring at the dead man. Slowly a look of cynical wistfulness came over his face. “Poor devil! Life was too much for him. Hypersensitive—no psychic stamina. Took things too seriously. Brooded over his fate ever since his gambit went up in smoke. Couldn’t find any other diversion. The black bishop haunted him; probably tipped his mind from its axis. By Gad! Wouldn’t be surprised if the idea drove him to self-destruction. Might have imagined he was a chess bishop—trying to get back at the world in the guise of his nemesis.”
“Clever idea,” returned Vance. “By the by, there was a house of cards on the table when we first saw the body.”
“Ha! I wondered what the cards were doing there. Thought he might have sought solace in solitaire during his last moments… A card house, eh? Sounds foolish. Do you know the answer?”
“Not all of it. ‘The house that Jack built’ might explain something.”
“I see.” Arnesson looked owlish. “Playing children’s games to the end—even on himself. Queer notion.” He yawned cavernously. “Guess I’ll get some clothes on.” And he went upstairs.
Professor Dillard had stood watching Arnesson with a look at once distressed and paternal. Now he turned to Markham with a gesture of annoyance.
“Sigurd’s always protecting himself against his emotions. He’s ashamed of his feelings. Don’t take his careless attitude too seriously.”
Before Markham could make a reply, Pyne ushered Detective Burke into the room; and Vance took the opportunity of questioning the butler about his discovery of Pardee.
“How did it happen you entered the archery room this morning?” he asked.
“It was a bit close in the pantry, sir,” the man returned, “and I opened the door at the foot of the stairs to get a little more air. Then I noticed that the shades were down—”
“It’s not custom’ry to draw the shades at night, then?”
“No, sir—not in this room.”
“How about the windows?”
“I always leave them slightly open from the top at night.”
“Were they left open last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good.—And after you opened the door this morning?”
“I started to put out the lights, thinking Miss Dillard had forgotten to turn the switch last night; but just then I saw the poor gentleman there at the table and went straight up and informed Professor Dillard.”
“Does Beedle know about the tragedy?”
“I told her of it right after you gentlemen arrived.”
“What time did you and Beedle retire last night?”
“At ten o’clock, sir.”
When Pyne had left us, Markham addressed Professor Dillard.
“It might be well for you to give us what details you can while we’re waiting for Doctor Doremus.—Shall we go upstairs?”
Burke remained in the archery room, and the rest of us went to the library.
“I’m afraid there’s little I can tell you,” the professor began, settling himself and taking out his pipe. There was a noticeable reserve in his manner—a kind of detached reluctance. “Pardee came here last night after dinner, ostensibly to chat with Arnesson, but actually, I imagine, to see Belle. Belle, however, excused herself early and went to bed—the child had a bad headache—and Pardee remained until about half past eleven. Then he went out; and that was the last I saw of him until Pyne brought me the terrible news this morning… ”
“But if,” put in Vance, “Mr. Pardee came to see your niece, how do you account for his staying so late after she had retired?”
“I don’t account for it.” The old man exhibited perplexity. “He gave the impression, though, that there was something on his mind and that he desired a sense of human contact. The fact is, I had to hint rather broadly about being tired before he finally got up to go.”
“Where was Mr. Arnesson during the evening?”
“Sigurd remained here talking with us for an hour or so after Belle had retired, and then went to bed. He’d been busy with Drukker’s affairs all afternoon and was played out.”
“What time would that have been?”
“About half past ten.”
“And you say,” continued Vance, “that Mr. Pardee impressed you as being under a mental strain?”
“Not a strain exactly.” The professor drew on his pipe, frowning. “He appeared depressed, almost melancholy.”
“Did it strike you that he was in fear of something?”
“No, not in the least. He was more like a man who had suffered a great sorrow and couldn’t shake the effects of it.”
“When he went out, did you go with him into the hall—that is, did you note which direction he took?”
“No. We always treated Pardee very informally here. He said goodnight and left the room. I took it for granted he went to the front door and let himself out.”
“Did you go to your own room at once?”
“In about ten minutes. I stayed up only long enough to arrange some papers I’d been working on.”
Vance lapsed into silence—he was obviously puzzled over some phase of the episode; and Markham took up the interrogation.
“I suppose,” he said, “that it is useless to ask if you h
eard any sound last night that might have been a shot.”
“Everything in the house was quiet,” Professor Dillard replied. “And anyway no sound of a shot would carry from the archery room to this floor. There are two flights of stairs, the entire length of the lower hall and a passageway, and three heavy doors between. Moreover, the walls of this old house are very thick and solid.”
“And no one,” supplemented Vance, “could have heard the shot from the street, for the archery room windows were carefully closed.”
The professor nodded and gave him a searching look.
“That is true. I see you, too, noticed that peculiar circumstance. I don’t quite understand why Pardee should have shut the windows.”
“The idiosyncrasies of suicides have never been satisfactorily explained,” returned Vance casually. Then, after a short pause, he asked, “What were you and Mr. Pardee talking about during the hour preceding his departure?”
“We talked very little. I was more or less engaged with a new paper of Millikan’s in the Physics Review on alkali doublets, and I tried to interest him in it; but his mind, as I’ve said, was noticeably preoccupied, and he amused himself at the chessboard for the best part of the hour.”
“Ah! Did he, now? That’s most interestin’.”
Vance glanced at the board. A number of pieces were still standing on the squares; and he rose quickly and crossed the room to the little table. After a moment he came back and reseated himself.
“Most curious,” he murmured, and very deliberately lighted a cigarette. “He was evidently pondering over the end of his game with Rubinstein just before he went downstairs last night. The pieces are set up exactly as they were at the time he resigned the contest—with the inevitable black-bishop-mate only five moves off.”
Professor Dillard’s gaze moved to the chess table wonderingly. “The black bishop,” he repeated in a low tone. “Could that have been what was preying on his mind last night? It seems unbelievable that so trivial a thing could affect him so disastrously.”
The Bishop Murder Case Page 23