The Nemesis
(Saturday, April 16; 1 p. m.)
It was past one o’clock, and Markham, Vance and I rode to the
Stuyvesant Club. Heath remained at the Drukker house to carry on the
routine work, to draw up his report, and to deal with the reporters
who would be swarming there shortly.
Markham was booked for a conference with the Police Commissioner at
three o’clock; and after lunch Vance and I walked to Stieglitz’s
Intimate Gallery and spent an hour at an exhibition of Georgia
O’Keeffe’s floral abstractions. Later we dropped in at Aeolian Hall
and sat through Debussy’s G-minor quartette. There were some Cézanne
water-colors at the Montross Galleries; but by the time we had pushed
our way through the late-afternoon traffic of Fifth Avenue the light
had begun to fail, and Vance ordered the chauffeur to the Stuyvesant
Club, where we joined Markham for tea.
“I feel so youthful, so simple, so innocent,” Vance complained
lugubriously. “So many things are happenin’, and they’re bein’
manipulated so ingeniously that I can’t grasp ’em. It’s very
disconcertin’, very confusin’. I don’t like it—I don’t at all like it.
Most wearin’.” He sighed drearily and sipped his tea.
“Your sorrows leave me cold,” retorted Markham. “You’ve probably spent
the afternoon inspecting arquebuses and petronels at the Metropolitan
Museum. If you’d had to go through what I’ve suffered——”
“Now, don’t be cross,” Vance rebuked him. “There’s far too much
emotion in the world. Passion is not going to solve this case.
Cerebration is our only hope. Let us be calm and thoughtful.” His mood
became serious. “Markham, this comes very near being the perfect
crime. Like one of Morphy’s great chess combinations, it has been
calculated a score of moves ahead. There are no clews; and even
if there were, they’d probably point in the wrong direction. And
yet . . . and yet there’s something that’s trying to break through. I
feel it: sheer intuition—that is to say, nerves. There’s an
inarticulate voice that wants to speak, and can’t. A dozen times I’ve
sensed the presence of some struggling force, like an invisible ghost
trying to make contact without revealing its identity.”
Markham gave an exasperated sigh.
“Very helpful. Do you advise calling in a medium?”
“There’s something we’ve overlooked,” Vance went on, disregarding the
sarcasm. “The case is a cipher, and the key-word is somewhere
before us, but we don’t recognize it. ’Pon my soul, it’s dashed
annoyin’. . . . Let’s be orderly. Neatness—that’s our desideratum.
First, Robin is killed. Next, Sprigg is shot. Then Mrs. Drukker is
frightened with a black bishop. After that, Drukker is shoved over a
wall. Makin’ four distinct episodes in the murderer’s extravaganza.
Three of ’em were carefully planned. One—the leaving of the bishop at
Mrs. Drukker’s door—was forced on the murderer, and was therefore
decided on without preparation. . . .”
“Clarify your reasoning on that point.”
“Oh, my dear fellow! The conveyor of the black bishop was obviously
acting in self-defence. An unexpected danger developed along his line
of campaign, and he took this means of averting it. Just before
Robin’s death Drukker departed from the archery-room and installed
himself in the arbor of the yard, where he could look into the
archery-room through the rear window. A little later he saw some one
in the room talking to Robin. He returned to his house, and at that
moment Robin’s body was thrown on the range. Mrs. Drukker saw it, and
at the same time she probably saw Drukker. She screamed—very natural,
what? Drukker heard the scream, and told us of it later in an effort
to establish an alibi for himself after we’d informed him that Robin
had been killed. Thus the murderer learned that Mrs. Drukker had seen
something—how much, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t taking any chances.
He went to her room at midnight to silence her, and took the bishop to
leave beside her body as a signature. But he found the door locked,
and left the bishop outside, by way of warning her to say nothing on
pain of death. He didn’t know that the poor woman suspected her own
son.”
“But why didn’t Drukker tell us whom he saw in the archery-room with
Robin?”
“We can only assume that the person was some one whom he couldn’t
conceive of as being guilty. And I’m inclined to believe he mentioned
the fact to this person and thus sealed his own doom.”
“Assuming the correctness of your theory, where does it lead us?”
“To the one episode that wasn’t elaborately prepared in advance. And
when there has been no preparation for a covert act there is pretty
sure to be a weakness in one or more of the details.—Now, please note
that at the time of each of the three murders any one of the various
persons in the drama could have been present. No one had an alibi.
That, of course, was cleverly calculated: the murderer chose an hour
when all of the actors were, so to speak, waiting in the wings. But
that midnight visit! Ah! That was a different matter. There was no
time to work out a perfect set of circumstances,—the menace was too
immediate. And what was the result? Drukker and Professor Dillard
were, apparently, the only persons on hand at midnight. Arnesson
and Belle Dillard were supping at the Plaza and didn’t return home
until half past twelve. Pardee was hornlocked with Rubinstein over
a chess-board from eleven to one. Drukker is now of course
eliminated. . . . What’s the answer?”
“I could remind you,” returned Markham irritably, “that the alibis of
the others have not been thoroughly checked.”
“Well, well, so you could.” Vance lay back indolently and sent a long
regular series of smoke-rings toward the ceiling. Suddenly his body
tensed, and with meticulous care he leaned over and put out his
cigarette. Then he glanced at his watch and got to his feet. He fixed
Markham with a quizzical look.
“_Allons, mon vieux._ It’s not yet six. Here’s where Arnesson makes
himself useful.”
“What now?” expostulated Markham.
“Your own suggestion,” Vance replied, taking him by the arm and
leading him toward the door. “We’re going to check Pardee’s alibi.”
Half an hour later we were seated with the professor and Arnesson in
the Dillard library.
“We’ve come on a somewhat unusual errand,” explained Vance; “but it
may have a vital bearing on our investigation.” He took out his
wallet, and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Here’s a document, Mr.
Arnesson, I wish you’d glance over. It’s a copy of the official
scoresheet of the chess game between Pardee and Rubinstein. Very
interestin’. I’ve toyed with it a bit, but I’d like your expert
analysis of it. The first part of the game is usual enough, but the
play after the adjournment rather appeals to me.”
Arnesson took the paper and studied it with cynical amusement.
“Aha! The inglorious record of Pardee’s Waterloo, eh?”
“What’s the meaning of this, Markham?” asked Professor Dillard
contemptuously. “Do you hope to run a murderer to earth by
dilly-dallying over a chess game?”
“Mr. Vance hoped something could be learned from it.”
“Fiddlesticks!” The professor poured himself another glass of port
and, opening a book, ignored us completely.
Arnesson was absorbed in the notations of the chess score.
“Something a bit queer here,” he muttered. “The time’s askew. Let’s
see. . . . The scoresheet shows that, up to the time of adjournment,
White—that is, Pardee—had played one hour and forty-five minutes, and
Black, or Rubinstein, one hour and fifty-eight minutes. So far, so
good. Thirty moves. Quite in order. But the time at the end of the
game, when Pardee resigned, totals two hours and thirty minutes for
White, and three hours and thirty-two minutes for Black—which means
that, during the second session of the game, White consumed only
forty-five minutes whereas Black used up one hour and thirty-four
minutes.”
Vance nodded.
“Exactly. There were two hours and nineteen minutes of play beginning
at 11 p. m., which carried the game to 1.19 a. m. And Rubinstein’s
moves during that time took forty-nine minutes longer than
Pardee’s.—Can you make out what happened?”
Arnesson pursed his lips and squinted at the notations.
“It’s not clear. I’d need time.”
“Suppose,” Vance suggested, “we set up the game in the adjourned
position and play it through. I’d like your opinion on the tactics.”
Arnesson rose jerkily and went to the little chess table in the
corner.
“Good idea.” He emptied the men from the box. “Let’s see now. . . .
Oho! A black bishop is missing. When do I get it back, by the way?” He
gave Vance a plaintive leer. “Never mind. We don’t need it here. One
black bishop was swapped.” And he proceeded to arrange the men to
accord with the position of the game at the time of adjournment. Then
he sat down and studied the set-up.
“It doesn’t strike me as a particularly unfavorable position for
Pardee,” ventured Vance.
“Me either. Can’t see why he lost the game. Looks drawish to me.”
After a moment Arnesson referred to the scoresheet. “We’ll run through
the play and find out where the trouble lay.” He made half a dozen
moves; then, after several minutes’ study, gave a grunt. “Ha! This is
rather deep stuff of Rubinstein’s. Amazing combination he began
working up here. Subtle, by Gad! As I know Rubinstein, it took him a
long time to figure it out. Slow, plodding chap.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it,” suggested Vance, “that the working out of
that combination explains the discrepancy in time between Black and
White?”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Rubinstein must have been in good form not to have
made the discrepancy greater. Planning the combination took him all of
forty-five minutes—or I’m a duffer.”
“At what hour, would you say,” asked Vance carelessly, “did Rubinstein
use up that forty-five minutes?”
“Well, let’s see. The play began at eleven: six moves before the
combination started. . . . Oh, say, somewhere between half past eleven
and half past twelve. . . . Yes, just about. Thirty moves before the
adjournment: six moves beginning at eleven—that makes thirty-six: then
on the forty-fourth move Rubinstein moved his pawn to Bishop-7-check,
and Pardee resigned. . . . Yes—the working out of the combination was
between eleven-thirty and twelve-thirty.”
Vance regarded the men on the board, which were now in the position
they had occupied at the time of Pardee’s resignation.*
28 For the benefit of the expert chess-player who may be
academically interested I append the exact position of the game when
Pardee resigned:—WHITE: King at QKtsq; Rook at QB8; Pawns at QR2 and
Q2. BLACK: King at Q5; Knight at QKt5; Bishop at QR6; Pawns at QKt7
and QB7.
“Out of curiosity,” he said quietly, “I played the game through to the
checkmate the other night.—I say, Mr. Arnesson; would you mind doin’
the same. I could bear to hear your comment on it.”
Arnesson studied the position closely for a few minutes. Then he
turned his head slowly and lifted his eyes to Vance. A sardonic grin
overspread his face.
“I grasp the point. Gad! What a situation! Five moves for Black to win
through. And an almost unheard-of finale in chess. Can’t recall a
similar instance. The last move would be Bishop to Knight-7, mating.
In other words, Pardee was beaten by the black bishop! Incredible!”*
* The final five unplayed moves for Black to mate, as I later
obtained them from Vance, were:—_45._ RxP; KtxR. _46._ KxKt; P—Kt8
(Queen). _47._ KxQ; K—Q6. _48._ K—Rsq; K—B7. _49._ P—Q3; B—Kt7 mate.
Professor Dillard put down his book.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed, joining us at the chess table. “Pardee
was defeated by the bishop?” He gave Vance a shrewd, admiring look.
“You evidently had good reason, sir, for investigating that chess
game. Pray overlook an old man’s temper.” He stood gazing down at the
board with a sad, puzzled expression.
Markham was frowning with deep perplexity.
“You say it’s unusual for a bishop alone to mate?” he asked Arnesson.
“Never happens—almost unique situation. And that it should happen to
Pardee of all people! Incomprehensible!” He gave a short ironic laugh.
“Inclines one to believe in a nemesis. You know, the bishop has been
Pardee’s _bête noir_ for twenty years—it’s ruined his life. Poor
beggar! The black bishop is the symbol of his sorrow. Fate, by
Gad! It’s the one chessman that defeated the Pardee gambit.
Bishop-to-Knight-5 always broke up his calculations—disqualified his
pet theory—made a hissing and a mocking of his life’s work. And now,
with a chance to break even with the great Rubinstein, the bishop
crops up again and drives him back into obscurity.”
A few minutes later we took our departure and walked to West End
Avenue, where we hailed a taxicab.
“It’s no wonder, Vance,” commented Markham, as we rode down-town,
“that Pardee went white the other afternoon when you mentioned the
black bishop’s being at large at midnight. He probably thought you
were deliberately insulting him—throwing his life’s failure in his
face.”
“Perhaps. . . .” Vance gazed dreamily out into the gathering shadows.
“Dashed queer about the bishop being his incubus all these years. Such
recurring discouragements affect the strongest minds sometimes; create
a desire for revenge on the world, with the cause of one’s failure
exalted to an Astræan symbol.”
“It’s difficult to picture Pardee in a vindictive rôle,” objected
Markham. Then, after a moment: “What was your point about the
discrepancy in time between Pardee’s and Rubinstein’s playing? Suppose
Rubinstein did take forty-five minutes or so to work out his
combination. The game wasn’t over until after one. I don’t see that
your visit to Arnesson put us ahead in any way.”
“That’s because you’re unacquainted with the habits of chess players.
In a clock game of that kind no player sits at the table all the time
his opponent is figuring out moves. He walks about, stretches his
muscles, takes the air, ogles the ladies, imbibes ice-water, and even
indulges in food. At the Manhattan Square Masters Tournament last year
there were four tables, and it was a common sight to see as many as
three empty chairs at one time. Pardee’s a nervous type. He wouldn’t
sit through Rubinstein’s protracted mental speculations.”
Vance lighted a cigarette slowly.
“Markham, Arnesson’s analysis of that game reveals the fact that
Pardee had three-quarters of an hour to himself around midnight.”