I ACQUIRE VARIOUS INFORMATION
By the sober light of morning, if I had been inclined to regard the
Black Company as a myth, and the man Corby as a harmless lunatic, such
thoughts would have been dispelled by a letter which came to me through
the mail. It was post-marked Germantown, which, as you may know, is a
suburb of Philadelphia, but the single sheet of paper bore no address
nor date.
It contained merely what purported to be a typewritten game of chess in
the algebraic notation, and at the bottom was appended the letter and
numeral, E8--which had nothing to do with submarines or torpedo boats.
Here, then, was my first message from the head of the Black Company,
for there was no doubt that this was their secret code, bearing the
King's signature. Obviously, this code was only used when there was
danger of messages falling into alien hands; thus there had been no
necessity for Corby to employ it in his note to me.
To those who are familiar with the algebraic notation, I may explain
it briefly. Beginning with White's queen's rook's square--the first
square on the left-hand side of the board if you play White--the eight
squares across the board are lettered from A to H, while down the board
they are numbered from 1 to 8; thus each of the sixty-four squares has
its own letter and number. E1 representing the White king's square, E8
is therefore the Black king's. It is unnecessary to give the entire
game as it appeared, but the opening moves were those of the Ruy Lopez,
Morphy Defense, and were as follows: 1. Pe4, Pe5. 2. Ktf3, Ktc6. 3.
Bb5, Pa6--and so on for a matter of twenty odd moves.
It may be seen at a glance the possibilities in this for a clever code,
utilizing both letters and number, whose apparent innocence would
disarm suspicion. And though I have dabbled extensively in cryptograms
and secret writings of all kinds, such things appealing to my
mathematical bent, I may say here that, to my knowledge, this was the
first time such ingenious use was made of the algebraic notation. That
it held a secret code I was sure, from the significant fact, aside from
all else, that no such game could ever have been played, the majority
of the moves being quite impossible. They were there merely for the
necessary purpose of the code, though this fact would not be detected
except by a chess player trying over the game.
I had the code, but to read it without the key was another matter,
and try though I did, familiar as I was with many, and the methods of
detection, this one baffled me completely. I set my wits to working,
and the result was a pair of handsomely inflamed eyes produced by a
little elbow grease and black pepper. Heroic measures, perhaps, but
they looked far worse than they were.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Miss Gelette, as I appeared with a pair of smoked
goggles, bought the previous evening in anticipation of a close
scrutiny from Frean. "What's the matter, Peter?"
"Motor eye, ma'am," I said, giving her a look. "I get it now and then.
No, doctors are no use, thanking you all the same. There's nothing for
it but smoked glasses till it wears off. I can still drive, though."
"You won't have to to-day, at any rate," she said.
Just then Frean drove up, with Corby sitting in the rumble. Frean
gave me a good stare as he passed into the house, and I loafed out,
presumably to have a look at the car.
"My lamps have gone bad," I said to Corby, raising the goggles to
verify the statement. "I've just had a code message from headquarters.
Will you read it? It's nothing but a blur to me."
"Stand between me and the house and slip it to me," he said.
I passed him the paper, and he decoded it quickly from memory, writing
it on the back. "Be sure to destroy it," he said, slipping it to me as
Frean and the girl came out of the house. And when they reached the
car, they found a couple of chauffeurs, chance met, talking shop.
Alone, I had a look at what Corby had written:
Keep an eye on new member Frean, and report first hint of treachery.
This was no more than Corby had told me at Knight's, and my hope of
learning something further about the Black Company thus came to naught.
All the same, I now possessed a valuable weapon--the key to the secret
code, for with Corby's translation as a working guide, I at length hit
upon the method used. In future I would have no trouble with messages.
That evening, as Miss Gelette had predicted, old Varney did me the
honor of asking me to play chess with him. He had called it an idiot's
game, but, having recovered from his rage at the problem he couldn't
solve, he was back at his old beloved vice. I could see that the game
was a vice with him, like drink or gambling, and that for its sake, he
was ready to waive even class distinction, implacable Bourbon though he
was.
It was his only pastime so far as I could see; he had no visitors but
Frean, no companionship but that of his niece, and, save for a daily
sedate motor ride, when the weather permitted, spent all his time shut
up in the study, browsing among his impressive collection of books, of
which chess manuals were no small part.
"Well, Peter Henry," he said, rubbing his yellow claws, "we'll see if
you're as good a player as a problem solver. But tell me, had you ever
seen that two-mover before? I thought so." He chuckled maliciously.
"You simply got the answer out of a book, I'll be bound. Well, I give
you choice of men. Which will you have?"
"Black, sir. I'm partial to the Black Company," watching him covertly,
but he gave no sign that this had a hidden meaning for him.
He proved a better player than problem solver, but even so, I should
have beaten him with little effort and much pleasure, had it not been
for his niece's request. However, I pushed him hard for over an hour,
and then let him pull off a pretty but unsound mating combination, into
which I had helped maneuver myself.
The change that took place in him during the game was really wonderful;
his mummified look slowly disappeared, his eyes sparkled, his cheeks
flushed, and he looked twenty years younger. All the venom and
bitterness of the man was sponged out, and when he called mate it was
not with malice, but with the naïve delight of a child proud of its own
successful efforts.
"See here, my dear. Look at this!" he exclaimed to his niece, who
entered just then. "A brilliant, a gem, not unworthy, I think, of some
of Morphy's or Capablanca's." And he proceeded to point out and explain
the combination which had led to my downfall.
If she detected its unsoundness, she gave nothing but praise,
expressing an admiration and delight equal to his own. "Then it was a
good game, uncle? I knew it must be, because you were so quiet."
"An excellent game!" exclaimed Varney, beaming and rubbing his hands.
"One of the best I ever played. This young man is a worthy opponent,
and, after he has learned the finer points, should be ready to tackle
anybody. Peter Henry," he went on, with great formality and courtesy,
"I beg to withdraw any slurs I may have cast on your teachers and your
knowledge of chess. Unfortunately, I've the devil's own temper at
times, and you must not mind an old man's evil humors. Brenda, my dear,
will you make a note of the fact that Peter Henry's wages are raised
seventy-five dollars per month?"
"But I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind," I hastened to say. "I
play for love of the game and I don't want or expect any extra pay. I
couldn't think of it, sir."
"That's all very good," he replied; "but extra service is entitled to
extra pay. Now that's enough; you speak well, but no man serves me for
nothing. This isn't our last game by any means; I shall take pleasure
in demonstrating to you, in actual play, the finer points."
"That's very good of you, sir."
"Not at all," he said with a regal gesture. "Your skill makes you
worthy of being my pupil; I'll take pleasure in coaching you. You play
a very sound game, and if I do say so myself, it is no humiliation
to be beaten by me. Capablanca himself might be excused for falling
a victim to that last mating combination. A gem, a brilliant!" And
he turned again to the board, chuckling and rubbing his hands as he
pondered anew the clever trap I had helped to set and spring.
This, then, was the beginning of a change in my attitude toward
Theodore Varney, and I was soon convinced that my ideas regarding
him must be altogether wrong, for Miss Gelette spoke to me fully the
following day.
"Peter, you're a jewel," she said in her impulsive, unreserved way. "I
know very well you conspired to bring about that 'brilliant,' to have
yourself beaten after a most exciting game. You kept your promise. I
don't know how you were able to do it without giving yourself away. You
must be a far better player than I thought. At any rate, the result is
that you've put him in the best humor I've seen for months."
"It did seem a bit of a tonic, ma'am. He's quite chipper to-day."
"Yes, you've done him more good than a dozen doctors. The mind can
conquer the body. You haven't a gift for asking questions, Peter--which
is another thing I like about you--and we are a close corporation here,
as no doubt you've discovered. But I wish you to know now just what
is wrong with Mr. Varney; it will help you to understand and condone
things. I'll speak frankly, for I've found you are to be trusted. I
told you my uncle was something of an invalid, but the truth is, he's a
hopeless one, a sufferer from Addison's disease. Have you ever heard of
it?"
"No, ma'am, I can't say I have. I've heard of Addison, of course----"
"No, no, it's not that one. I had never heard of this disease
either; I don't think many people have. It's very rare and peculiar,
known also as Bronze Skin, and it isn't infectious or contagious,
you understand. The symptoms are a gradual darkening of the skin,
increasing emaciation, and debility. There is no cure. There is nothing
to do but grin and bear it--to the end. Peter, do you understand?" she
finished, with misty eyes. "You see yourself growing a little darker, a
little weaker every day, a little more repulsive, a stride nearer the
grave--and nothing can be done. Nothing!"
"It must be very hard," I said. "Hard, too, for those who love him."
"It is, Peter. Think of one of your own loved ones dying slowly before
your eyes, and you knowing that all the care, all the money and skill
in the world are of no avail. It's the knowledge of one's helplessness,
the inexorable and insidious progress of the disease that's so
maddening."
"You've had the best specialists?"
"Yes. So many, in fact, that Mr. Varney can't bear the sight of a
doctor. He knows that he's doomed, but, having always enjoyed the best
of health, and having led a very active life, he refuses to let the
world see how hard he is hit. He pretends nothing is wrong, and we must
pretend, too. That is why he came down here where he wasn't known--to
get away from the sympathy of friends, the vulgar curiosity of others.
He has a very rare disease, and is therefore to be stared at and
questioned, watched and examined by doctors, as if he were a clinical
subject. He has become hypersensitive, and you mustn't let him see
that you know; you must help to play the tragic farce. You will, won't
you, Peter? And you won't mind if, when he has his bad days, he says
spiteful things he doesn't mean? He's suffering, you know; suffering
all the time."
"He may say anything he pleases, ma'am, if it helps him any."
"Peter, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Fremstad for having that
accident and in consequence giving up motoring. I say this, even at the
risk of spoiling you. All the other servants have grown up, you might
say, in our service, but the chauffeur's position has always been a
worry and nuisance. None of them could stand my uncle's sharp tongue,
and I'm sure I couldn't blame them at times. They had no opportunity of
knowing, like the other servants, what a really good and kind man he
is at heart. He pretends to be a cynic, but is one of those who likes
to jeer at the world, while carefully hiding all the good he does. His
nature has been warped through a very keen disappointment and sorrow he
experienced long ago, and which he has never got over; this, added to
his present physical suffering, makes him appear quite a different sort
of character than he really is."
The growing favor in which I found myself with Varney and his niece
was soon reflected in the servants' hall. Sympathy with their master
and the willingness to enter into the "tragic farce" was evidently the
passport to their confidence, and I gathered enough material at various
odd times wherewith to piece together the family history.
It was quite innocent and intensely respectable, hinting of nothing
dramatic, let alone such a bizarre concern as the Black Company. The
family was an old Philadelphia one, and Varney's fortune was inherited.
He had never engaged in business, was always something of a recluse,
but had done an immense amount of philanthropic and educational
work without his name appearing or any sort of advertising. He was
a bachelor, and a brother and his niece were his only relatives.
Brenda Gelette was an orphan, had made her home with him since early
childhood, and was wealthy in her own right. She was devoted to her
uncle, and had cheerfully given up all social pleasure and the society
of friends when Varney was stricken with his peculiar and deadly
complaint.
To sum up, I was presented with a very human, simple, and not unheroic
picture; an old man, soured by youthful disappointment, yet sweet
at heart, goaded by pain and his impending doom to fierce invective
against even those whom he loved best. A man of unconquerable pride and
spirit, who was dying on his feet, and dying game. A body of loyal and
devoted servants, and a niece whose self-sacrifice stopped at nothing.
It was a picture whose immediate truth, as it slowly unfolded itself
to me, there was no denying, and my theory that Varney was a "dope
fiend" and a member of a sinister secret society had to go overboard
wholesale. Yet that there was some connection between him and those
styling themselves the Black Company was self-evident, and if they
were not with him, then they must be against him; if they were not his
friends, then they must be his enemies.