Charlie Chan in the Pawns of Death

by Earl Derr Biggers;Bill Pronzini

  THE PAWNS OF DEATH

  by Robert Hart Davis

  CHARLIE CHAN MYSTERY MAGAZINE, August 1974.

  The chess match was to continue until one of the players lost his king or gave up. No one dreamed that the game was for higher stakes than winning. Yet Charlie Chan found death to be the third player.

  I

  CHARLIE CHAN and Prefect Claude DeBevre returned to the Hotel Frontenac from their sightseeing tour of Paris late in the afternoon. They were pleasantly tired and in high spirits, for they had visited the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Napoleon’s Tomb, Les Invalides and that compelling mosaic of great art, the Louvre.

  The quaintness, the color, the contrasts, the great ambiance of Paris had touched Chan deeply; and DeBevre had enjoyed revisiting the attractions of his city as much as his guest.

  The portly detective was in the French capital on a rare pleasure trip, having been one of those privileged individuals personally invited to attend the Transcontinental Chess Tournament. His interest in, and love of, the intricate game was well known throughout the chess world; and yet, typically, he was both surprised and honored to receive the invitation.

  Chan had not had a vacation in some time, and since he was not involved in a case, he was delighted to accept.

  Through Prefect DeBevre, whom he had met during a crime conference in San Francisco, he had made reservations weeks earlier at the Frontenac - he was, in fact, quartered on the same floor as the contenders for the chess championship, Lord Roger Mountbatten and Grant Powell and their parties, though not by any personal choice.

  If he had been in another profession, Chan might have remained in Paris for the entire match, but in his capacity as a criminal investigator, he would be fortunate to be able to attend the first six to eight games of the tournament before being called back to duty.

  His friend, Claude DeBevre, was a big man, taller and more muscularly heavy. His face had a granite-like cast, now shadowed beneath the widow’s peak of his salt-and-pepper hair. His admiration and friendship for Chan, however, had softened his normally stern countenance, and his eyes were a warm blue behind his shell-rimmed glasses.

  The two friends entered the Frontenac, and paused just inside the wide double-entrance doors. Too early for a crowd, the high ceilinged lobby seemed imposingly vast and yet discreet in its tasteful furnishings and air of quiet luxury. There was none of the usual administrative noise: no whirring, banging cash registers, no gossiping clerks in cages, only a receptionist, and a concierge, and an occasional porter or page-boy.

  Beyond the lobby, to the right of the elevators, was the hotel arcade of boutiques, coiffeurs, travel agency, and cinema. To the left was the lounge, and a bright cabaret which opened only at night; there was also the double tiered L’Odean dining room. The winding staircase which led to the mezzanine, the Grand Ballroom, and the breakfast salon was directly opposite the main entrance.

  DeBevre indicated the opening to the lounge. “It has been a full day, and I believe a cognac would go well at this time. I will buy you one, Charlie.”

  “French cognac is excellent on the palet, but not so excellent, I fear, on my stomach,” Chan admitted ruefully. “However, my throat is dry and a glass of milk would be most welcome.”

  “Bien,” DeBevre said. “Shall we go into the lounge?”

  Charlie Chan nodded, and the two men started across to the entrance. As they did so, a wiry, youthful-looking man entered the lobby from the shop area and crossed to the elevators; at that same moment, the doors of one lift whispered open and the wiry man suddenly stood face to face with a bearish man in his late fifties and a svelte, blonde-haired girl no more than about twenty-one.

  The wiry man, who was Raymond Balfour, Grant Powell’s friend and adviser, clenched his hands into fists and glared at the older one, ignoring the girl.

  “Well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t Mountbatten’s silent partner. On your way to make more trouble, Kettridge?”

  Clive Kettridge, Roger Mountbatten’s wealthy backer, retorted in as loud and vitriolic a tone, “If anyone’s making trouble these days, Balfour, it’s you and that damned egocentric Grant Powell!”

  Both Chan and DeBevre stopped, turning toward the sound of the angry voices. It was not because they wished to eavesdrop, but because they were trained police officers who sensed immediately that their presence might soon be required in order to circumvent violence or a public disturbance.

  “Your protest is sheer insanity,” Balfour said angrily. He was intense, dark-haired, with bright brown eyes that were flashing now with rage and indignation. In his early thirties, he wore a modish blue suit and a flowered French cravat. “It’s nothing but a cheap attempt to excuse Mountbatten’s shoddy playing by casting aspersions on a brilliant young talent like Grant Powell!”

  “Rubbish!” Kettridge shouted back. He had a bushy mane of silvering hair and a fat, ruddy-complected face, and was addicted to heavy British tweeds and a long, curved, briar pipe. “You know bloody damn well, Balfour, that Powell couldn’t possibly hope to win this tournament without the aid of unethical tactics. And by God, we shan’t stand for it! It’s a disgrace, an outrage -“

  “Father, please,” the blonde girl warned. She was Jennifer Kettridge, Clive’s only daughter. Dressed in a chic ice-blue pants suit, which matched the color of her eyes, she was stunningly attractive. “You mustn’t allow yourself to become upset again.” Turning, Jennifer glared at Balfour. “Haven’t you said quite enough?”

  “Now listen here, Jennifer -” Balfour began.

  “Miss Kettridge to you, Mister Balfour. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one behind the whole nasty business. I simply can’t believe Grant would undertake to… to cheat on his own.”

  “Cheat is precisely the word for it,” her father growled. “Secret chemicals, electronic equipment - we’ll find out exactly what it is. When we do, that will be the end of you and Mr. Grant Powell, Balfour.”

  Almost as crimson now as the Englishman, Balfour asked in a low, cold tone, “Are you making an official complaint claiming illegalities?”

  Kettridge pursed his lips tightly. “Give us another game like the first, and I promise you we shall. We shall have the Grand Ballroom cleared and completely examined by experts. Tables, chairs, floor, ceiling, spectators’ seating, everything!”

  “Fine,” Balfour snapped. “And you won’t find a thing, because there’s nothing to find. No illegalities, no trickery of any kind. Grant doesn’t need any assistance in beating Roger Mountbatten; all he needs is the same sort of brilliant play as he exhibited with his classic Nimzo-Indian defense. I suggest, Mr. Kettridge, that you make your asinine protest, and when the official investigation uncovers nothing, I trust you’ll have the good grace to apologize to Grant and to myself - publicly.”

  When he’d finished speaking, Balfour didn’t wait for a reaction or a response; he whirled and stalked off across the lobby, past Chan and Prefect DeBevre, and out of the hotel. Kettridge, his face mottled, stood spluttering impotently for a moment. Then, grasping his daughter’s arm, he pulled Jennifer into the elevator, and a second later the lift ascended out of sight.

  Chan and DeBevre exchanged glances. The Oriental detective said ruefully, “It would seem that the troubled waters grow more turbulent instead of calm with the passage of time.”

  DeBevre sighed. “Ah, Charlie, I have always believed that chess was a noble game, one indulged in by gentlemen of discriminating taste, great intellect, and rational outlook. Yet M’sieur Mountbatten and M’sieur Powell act as if they are opposing generals involved in a campaign of war.”

  “Your analogy is most ap
t,” Chan acknowledged. “Chess was originally conceived as a game of war - the Hindu chaturanga - and has kept its spirit well in modern times. Lord Mountbatten and Mr. Powell are not unique among chess opponents. The British master, Blackburne, once flung Stenitz from a window when the latter defeated him in a match. This was more than one hundred years ago! Tradition, alas, often wears a long beard.”

  “Well put, Charlie; it does indeed.” DeBevre sighed again. “Shall we have our refreshments now, in the lounge?”

  “Yes, please.”

  II

  THE TWO police investigators crossed to enter the dark, mahogany-paneled room. Rococo brass fixtures were on the walls, and sumptuous blue velvet covered the booths along one wall as well as the stools arranged before the long bar decorated with fleur-de-lis. Most of the booths were filled, this being the cocktail hour, but there was only the black-jacketed barman and three men at the bar.

  Chan and DeBevre stepped up to the mahogany plank, some distance from the trio. In the dim lighting, Chan recognized the tallest of the men as the reporter, Tony Sprague; he also knew the other two, having been introduced to them because of their connection with the Transcontinental Chess Tournament. They were Melvin Randolph, the ex-American Transcon champion defeated by Powell for the right to meet Mountbatten, and Hans Dorner, the Swiss referee who had presided over the match the night before.

  Sprague, a fair-haired man in his late twenties who wore bright red bow ties and an expression of brash, sardonic amusement, was saying, “Well, Randolph, do you believe what Kettridge has been telling people today? That Grant Powell is using some sort of illegal device to distract Mountbatten, to put him off his game?”

  Randolph, leaning against the polished brass railing of the bar, frowned deeply. He was dressed expensively and fastidiously - he had a reputation as a fussy individual when it came to his personal appearance - in a charcoal gray suit, lime-green shirt, and handmade silk tie. His well-lined face was freshly shaven, except for a pencil-thin waxed mustache, and if Sprague’s expression was one of cynicism, Randolph’s seemed to be worried, almost agitated.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know. It seems hard to believe…”

  Dorner - a fiftyish man with a ring of wispy hair around his bald pate and the pale, brittle look of middle-aged efficiency - said: “There has been no official protest registered.”

  “Not yet,” Sprague admitted, “but I’ve got a feeling there will be, and damned soon. Kettridge has been raving about illegalities since Mountbatten stormed out of the ballroom last night. He’s getting himself into a corner where he’ll have to follow through.”

  “But I still can’t believe Grant would cheat,” Randolph said.

  “No? Well, maybe not. But don’t forget, Grant Powell was trained in computer work before turning to professional chess full time. In fact, I understand he was a genius at working with those machines.”

  “It is impossible that electronic equipment was used in any manner last night,” Dorner said sententiously. He scowled into his glass of Pernod. “But I would welcome an investigation nevertheless. At least it will put an end to this foolish talk; and it will prove once and for all that Hans Dorner is a competent referee of tournament chess.”

  The barman poured a snifter of cognac for Prefect DeBevre, and was returning with a glass of milk for Chan, as Sprague swiveled on his stool and saw the two police officers.

  “Well, Mr. Chan, Prefect DeBevre,” he said. “When did you come in?”

  “A few moments ago, Mr. Sprague,” Charlie Chan answered quietly.

  “Then you overheard our conversation?”

  “It was unavoidable. One’s ears unfortunately are not like one’s mouth: they cannot be closed at will.”

  Sprague laughed. “What’s your opinion on the controversy?”

  “As an interested spectator only,” Chan replied carefully, “I am not in a position to offer a qualified opinion.”

  “In other words, no comment.” Sprague laughed again and then turned to Claude DeBevre. “And you, Inspector?”

  “I have no comment either, M’sieur Sprague.”

  “Well, so much for both sides of the Atlantic,” the reporter said with his customary flippancy. He stood up, slapped Randolph on the back, nodded to Hans Dorner, Chan, and DeBevre, and left the lounge.

  “I do not think I care for that young man, or his attitude,” Dorner said moodily. “Is there not already too much adverse publicity without that man constantly fishing for more?”

  Randolph said nothing, still deep in thought. After a moment, he finished his Cointreau and quickly departed.

  Dorner ordered another Pernod and brooded into it, obviously not wishing further conversation. Chan honored this since he did not relish further involvement in the pyrotechnics surrounding the tournament. He personally felt Grant Powell was not using illegal methods in his play, and that the problems between the rival chess factions could be satisfactorily resolved without further bickering.

  But then bickering seemed to be a part of the game. Chess devotees could be as temperamental as opera stars. Chan allowed his thoughts to turn to contemplation of the pleasant day he had spent with DeBevre, and of the evening to come, particularly the evenings’ dining.

  According to the Prefect, who, like Chan, was an acknowledged expert in matter of haute cuisine, the Hotel Frontenac’s chef was one of the best in all of Paris. A friend of the chef’s, DeBevre had asked him to prepare one of his several specialties - the choice had been left up to him - in honor of Chan; and as a result, the meal in L’Odean was a memorable one.

  III

  IN THE EXACT center of the massive Grand Ballroom, which comprised the entire mezzanine of the Frontenac, one of Paris’ most luxurious and Gallic hotels, the two grim-visaged men faced one another across that miniaturized battlefield known as a chessboard.

  Set along the two high, protracted side walls were specially constructed tiers of seats, similar to those in an American basketball field house where nearly three thousand avid enthusiasts from all over the world had gathered for this, the opening game of the $100,000 Transcontinental Chess Tournament. The great hall was filled with absolute quiet, but there was an electric tension in the air that was almost tangible.

  The two players, both seated in leather armchairs, were stiffly motionless as they studied the positioning of the few remaining pieces on the board. The game had begun five hours before, at four p.m. of this warm spring day, and it was now nearing an obvious culmination: victory for one, defeat for the other.

  But both victory and defeat would be short-lived; two nights hence, in this same ballroom, the two men would again assemble for a third game - and would continue to meet head-to-head until one of them acquired a total of 12-1/2 points and was crowned the new champion of Transcon chess. It was conceivable that a total of twenty-four games would have to be played in order for this to happen, since each triumph earned one point and each draw one-half point for the respective opponents.

  Playing white was the reigning and three-time Transcon champion, Roger Mountbatten, a craggy, outspoken Englishman of middle-age. With his mutton-chop beard and military bearing, he looked more like a retired army major than an expert at the world’s most cerebral game.

  The challenger, playing black, was an unorthodox and equally outspoken American named Grant Powell, who was half Mountbatten’s age and whose rise in the chess world had been meteoric. Powell had thick black hair, worn modishly long, and possessed a smooth boyish face; his normal air was one of genial insolence, though he displayed none of that quality at the present moment.

  Seconds continued to tick off on the clock, and the tableau in the center of the ballroom remained frozen. Nearby, Swiss referee Hans Dorner stared at the positioning of the board with an intensity akin to that of the players.

  At the closed end of the ballroom, a bilingual Frenchman presided over a muted public address system, ready to announced to the crowd the game’s 48th move - which was to be Po
well’s - as soon as it was made and confirmed by Dorner.

  Then, almost lazily, the American challenger leaned forward and moved his king; the gesture was clearly one of insolent triumph, the Powell trademark when he was personally assured of victory. Dorner confirmed the move, the announcer related it in four languages to the crowd, and a ripple of excited murmuring passed through the vast assemblage.

  Mountbatten clutched the arms of his chair, and his face began gradually to redden until it was the color of spoiled beef. Staring at the board, he realized - as did some of the more expert members of the audience - that he had been placed in an impossible position, and that the second game now belonged solely to Grant Powell.

  According to propriety, he should now stand, extend his hand to the challenger, and officially concede. Instead, to the vocal and shocked surprise of the crowd, Mountbatten jumped explosively to his feet, nearly upsetting the chessboard, and pointed a finger at the American challenger. The extended arm trembled with apparent rage.

  “Very good, Powell!” he bellowed. His voice was stentorian in its fury, ringing throughout the ballroom. “Another example of the Nimzo-Indian defense. And yet another example of unethical if not downright illegal chess to boot!”

  With those bitter, savage words, Mountbatten spun on his heel and stalked out of the ballroom, through the double entrance doors at the front of the enclosure.

  Everyone else in attendance seemed to be stunned - everyone, that is, except Grant Powell. Smiling, his wide mouth quirked insolently, the young chess expert stood up and crossed to the bewildered-looking Swiss official, Hans Dorner. He patted Dorner on the back, then looked at the murmuring sea of faces on both sides of him, raised both his arms in a sign of victory, and walked casually from the ballroom in the wake of his angry opponent.

  It wasn’t until after both players had disappeared, and Dorner had hurried to the room where officials of the tournament had gathered in conference at the closed end, that the crowd, still buzzing at the unexpected turn of events, began to disperse.