The Philo Vance Megapack

by S. S. Van Dine

  “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 country—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 play-off was eleven, Pardee was on tenter-hooks, 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.93… 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 result 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 some time 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 up-stairs!”

  CHAPTER XV

  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 refuses 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 lately.”

  “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 theatre. Tell me, Miss Dillard: where was your hand-bag during that time?”

  The question startled her; but after a momentary hesitation she answered: “When I came into the librar
y 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 hat-rack 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 down-stairs 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.”

  “I’m sure he’s in now.” The girl walked with us to the hall. “He was here only a little while before you came, and he said he was returning home to attend to some correspondence.”

  We were about to go out when Vance paused.

  “Oh, I say, Miss Dillard; there’s one point I forgot to ask you about. When you came home last night with Mr. Arnesson, how did you know it was just half past twelve? I notice you don’t wear a watch.”

  “Sigurd told me,” she explained. “I was rather mean to him for bringing me home so early, and as we entered the hall here I asked him spitefully what time it was. He looked at his watch and said it was half past twelve.…”

  At that moment the front door opened and Arnesson came in. He stared at us in mock astonishment; then he caught sight of Belle Dillard.

  “Hallo, sis,” he called to her pleasantly. “In the hands of the gendarmerie, I see.” He flashed us an amused look. “Why the conclave? This house is becoming a regular police station. Hunting for clews of Sprigg’s murderer? Ha! Bright youth done away with by his jealous professor, and that sort of thing, eh?… Hope you chaps haven’t been putting Diana the Huntress through a third degree.”

  “Nothing of the kind,” the girl spoke up. “They’ve been most considerate. And I’ve been telling them what an old fogy you are—bringing me home at half past twelve.”

  “I think I was very indulgent,” grinned Arnesson. “Much too late for a child like you to be out.”

  “It must be terrible to be senile and—and mathematically inclined,” she retorted with some heat, and ran up-stairs.

  Arnesson shrugged his shoulders and looked after her until she had disappeared. Then he fixed a cynical eye on Markham.

  “Well, what glad tidings do you bring? Any news about the latest victim?” He led the way back to the drawing-room. “You know, I miss that lad. He’d have gone far. Rotten shame he had to be named Johnny Sprigg. Even ‘Peter Piper’ would have been safer. Nothing happened to Peter Piper aside from the pepper episode; and you couldn’t very well work that up into a murder.…”

  “We have nothing to report, Arnesson,” Markham broke in, nettled by the man’s flippancy. “The situation remains unchanged.”

  “Just dropped in for a social call, I presume. Staying for lunch?”

  “We reserve the right,” said Markham coldly, “to investigate the case in whatever manner we deem advisable. Nor are we accountable to you for our actions.”

  “So! Something has happened that irks you.” Arnesson spoke with sarcasm. “I thought I had been accepted as a coadjutor; but I see I am to be turned forth into the darkness.” He sighed elaborately and took out his pipe. “Dropping the pilot!—Bismarck and me. Alas!”

  Vance had been smoking dreamily near the archway, apparently oblivious of Arnesson’s complaining. Now he stepped into the room.

  “Really, y’ know, Markham, Mr. Arnesson is quite right. We agreed to keep him posted; and if he’s to be of any help to us he must know all the facts.”

  “It was you yourself,” protested Markham, “who pointed out the possible danger of mentioning last night’s occurrence.…”

  “True. But I had forgotten at the time our promise to Mr. Arnesson. And I’m sure his discretion can be relied on.” Then Vance related in detail Mrs. Drukker’s experience of the night before.

  Arnesson listened with rapt attention. I noticed that his sardonic expression gradually disappeared, and that in its place came a look of calculating sombreness. He sat for several minutes in contemplative silence, his pipe in his hand.

  “That’s certainly a vital factor in the problem,” he commented at length. “It changes our constant. I can see that this thing has got to be calculated from a new angle. The Bishop, it appears, is in our midst. But why should he come to haunt Lady Mae?”

  “She is reported to have screamed at almost the exact moment of Robin’s death.”

  “Aha!” Arnesson sat up. “I grasp your implication. She saw the Bishop from her window on the morning of Cock Robin’s dissolution, and later he returned and perched on her door-knob as a warning for her to keep mum.”

  “Something like that, perhaps.… Have you enough integers now to work out your formula?”

  “I’d like to cast an eye on this black bishop. Where is it?”

  Vance reached in his pocket, and held out the chessman. Arnesson took it eagerly. His eyes glittered for a moment. He turned the piece over in his hand, and then gave it back.

  “You seem to recognize this particular bishop,” said Vance dulcetly. “You’re quite correct. It was borrowed from your chess set in the library.”

  Arnesson nodded a slow affirmative.

  “I believe it was.” Suddenly he turned to Markham, and an ironic leer came over his lean features. “Was that why I was to be kept in the dark? Under suspicion, am I? Shades of Pythagoras! What penalty attaches to the heinous crime of distributing chessmen among one’s neighbors?”

  Markham got up and walked toward the hall.

  “You are not under suspicion, Arnesson,” he answered, with no attempt to conceal his ill-humor. “The bishop was left at Mrs. Drukker’s at exactly midnight.”

  “And I was half an hour too late to qualify. Sorry to have disappointed you.”

  “Let us hear if your formula works out,” said Vance, as we passed out of the front door. “We’ve a little visit to pay to Mr. Pardee now.”

  “Pardee? Oho! Calling in a chess expert on the subject of bishops, eh? I see your reasoning—it at least has the virtue of being simple and direct.…”

  He stood on the little porch and watched us, like a japish gargoyle, as we crossed the street.

  Pardee received us with his customary quiet courtesy. The tragic, frustrated look which was a part of his habitual expression was even more pronounced than usual; and when he drew up chairs for us in his study his manner was that of a man whose interest in life had died, and who was merely going through the mechanical motions of living.

  “We have come here, Mr. Pardee,” Vance began, “to learn what we can of Sprigg’s murder in Riverside Park yesterday morning. We have excellent reasons for every question we are about to ask you.”

  Pardee nodded resignedly.

  “I shall not be offended at any line of interrogation you take. After reading the papers I real
ize just how unusual a problem you are facing.”

  “First, then, please inform us where you were yesterday morning between seven and eight.”

  A faint flush overspread Pardee’s face, but he answered in a low, even voice.

  “I was in bed. I did not rise until nearly nine.”

  “Is it not your habit to take a walk in the park before breakfast?” (I knew this was sheer guesswork on Vance’s part, for the subject of Pardee’s habits had not come up during the investigation.)

  “That is quite true,” the man replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “But yesterday I did not go,—I had worked rather late the night before.”

  “When did you first hear of Sprigg’s death?”

  “At breakfast. My cook repeated the gossip of the neighborhood. I read the official account of the tragedy in the early edition of the evening Sun.”

  “And you saw the reproduction of the Bishop note, of course, in this morning’s paper.—What is your opinion of the affair, Mr. Pardee?”

  “I hardly know.” For the first time his lacklustre eyes showed signs of animation. “It’s an incredible situation. The mathematical chances are utterly opposed to such a series of interrelated events being coincidental.”

  “Yes,” Vance concurred. “And speaking of mathematics: are you at all familiar with the Riemann-Christoffel tensor?”

  “I know of it,” the man admitted. “Drukker uses it in his book on world lines. My mathematics, however, are not of the physicist’s type. Had I not become enamored of chess”—he smiled sadly—“I would have been an astronomer. Next to manoeuvring the factors in a complicated chess combination, the greatest mental satisfaction one can get, I think, is plotting the heavens and discovering new planets. I even keep a five-inch equatorial telescope in a pent-house on my roof for amateur observations.”

  Vance listened to Pardee with close attention; and for several minutes discussed with him Professor Pickering’s recent determination of the trans-Neptunean O,94 much to Markham’s bewilderment and to the Sergeant’s annoyance. At length he brought the conversation back to the tensor formula.