S. S. Van Dine

“ 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. ”

“ You’re a Cock Robin, and that archer’s a sparrow; and you remember what happened to your namesake when a Mr. Sparrow wielded the bow and arrow’—or something like that. No one paid much attention to it at the time. But now! . . .” Her voice trailed off into an awed murmur.
“Come, Belle; don’t be morbid.” Professor Dillard spoke consolingly, but not without impatience. “It was merely one of Sigurd’s ill-timed witticisms. You know he’s continually sneering and jesting at realities: it’s about the only outlet he has from his constant application to abstractions.” ”

“ 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 door-bell 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. ”

“ That was why he insisted that you visit him when Arnesson was safely away at an Ibsen revival——”
Vance ceased speaking abruptly and stood stock-still. A startled look came in his eyes.
“Oh, my aunt! Oh, my precious aunt! So that was why he asked me about Ibsen! . . . My word! How unutterably dull I’ve been!” He stared at Markham, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. “The truth at last!” he said with impressive softness. “And it is neither you nor the police nor I who has solved this case: it is a Norwegian dramatist who has been dead for twenty years. In Ibsen is the key to the mystery.” ”

“ Arnesson scoffed, “I can’t see that you have a cast-iron case against any one. A typewriter is not like a suit of clothes that fits only one person. And who can say how Drukker’s note-book found its way into our attic?—You must do better than that, Mr. Vance.”
“There is, of course, the factor of opportunity. The Bishop is a person who could have been on hand at the time of each murder.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ But there’s no connection between gout and port—the notion is sheer superstition. Sound port is the most wholesome of wines. Gout is unknown in Oporto. A little physical stimulation of the right kind would be good for Drukker. . . . Poor fellow. His mind is like a furnace that’s burning his body up. A brilliant man, Markham. If he had sufficient bodily energy to keep pace with his brain, he’d be one of the world’s great physicists.”
“He tells me,” commented Vance, “that you twitted him on his inability to work out a modification of the quantum theory in regard to light-interference.” ”

“ Markham knew and respected the man’s intelligence, and seemed at once to sense a serious purpose beneath his attitude of sneering flippancy.
“Ah! As yet I haven’t tackled the equation.” Arnesson drew out an old briar pipe and fingered it affectionately. “But I’ve always wanted to do a little detective work on a purely earthly plane—the insatiable curiosity and natural inquisitiveness of the physicist, you understand. And I’ve long had a theory that the science of mathematics can be advantageously applied to the trivialities of our life on this unimportant planet. ”

“ Eddington suggests the conclusion that there are no natural laws—namely, that nature is not amenable to the law of sufficient reason. Alas, poor Schopenhauer!34 And Bertrand Russell sums up the inevitable results of modern physics by suggesting that matter is to be interpreted merely as a group of occurrences, and that matter itself need not be existent! . . . Do you see what it all leads to? If the world is non-causative and non-existent, what is a mere human life?—or the life of a nation?—or, for that matter, existence itself? . . .”
Vance looked up, and Markham nodded dubiously. ”

“ A venomous contempt marked Drukker’s manner, but he managed to grin. “Various names, certainly. There’s the king and queen, the rook, the knight——” He broke off. “The bishop! . . .” He lay his head against the casement of the door and began to cackle mirthlessly. “So! That’s what you mean? The bishop! . . . You’re a lot of imbecile children playing a nonsense game.”
“We have excellent reason to believe,” said Vance, with impressive calmness, “that the game is being played by some one else—with the chess bishop as the principal symbol.” ”

“ But Heath had no opinion to express. He still held his astonished pose, though his eyes had now become mere slits in his broad, pugnacious face.
“Are you seriously suggesting——?” began Markham; but Vance interrupted him.
“Yes! I’m seriously suggesting that the person who killed Cock Robin with an arrow has vented his grim humor upon the hapless Sprigg. Coincidence is out of the question. Such repetitive parallels would knock the entire foundation out from all sanity and reason. ’Pon my soul, the world is mad enough; but such madness would dissipate all science and rational thinking. ”

“ When Professor Dillard had returned up-stairs, Markham took a turn up and down the room, his brows knit, his hands clasped behind him.
“What do you make of Drukker?” he asked, halting before Vance.
“Decidedly not a pleasant character. Diseased physically and mentally. A congenital liar. But canny—oh, deuced canny. An abnormal brain—you often find it in cripples of his type. Sometimes it runs to real constructive genius, as with Steinmetz; but too often it takes to abstruse speculation along impractical lines, as with Drukker. Still, our little verbal give-and-take has not been without fruit. ”

“ Markham sat down gloomily on the edge of a chair and inspected the end of his cigar.
“Damn it, Vance! Don’t start in with a mysteries-of-Udolpho attitude. The crime—if it is a crime—seems clear-cut enough. It’s an unusual method of murder, I’ll admit; but it’s certainly not senseless. Archery has become quite a fad of late. Bows and arrows are in use to-day in practically every city and college in America.” ”

“ Vance’s voice was heavy with discouragement. “We can’t risk exposing any one. . . .”
The door leading to the porch opened, and Drukker appeared on the threshold, his little eyes blinking in the sunlight. His gaze came to rest on Markham, and a crafty, repulsive smile contorted his mouth.
“I trust I am not disturbing you,” he apologized, with a menacing squint; “but the cook has just informed me that she told you she saw me enter here by the rear door on the morning of Mr. Robin’s unfortunate death.” ”

“ A little man shot Johnny Sprig with a little gun yesterday morning—the same little man that killed Cock Robin with a bow and arrow. It’s all a horrible game—and I’m afraid. . . . But I mustn’t tell—I can’t tell. The little man might do something awful. Maybe”—her voice became dull with horror—“maybe he has some insane idea that I’m the old woman who lived in a shoe! . . .”
“Come, come, Mrs. Drukker.” Vance forced a consoling smile. “Such talk is nonsense. You’ve let these matters prey on your mind. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for everything. ”

“ Slowly his laughter died away, and he waved his hand wearily.
“Too bad Robin and Sprigg were killed.” His tone was heavy and colorless. “But children are the only persons that matter. . . . You’ll probably find the murderer. If you don’t, maybe I’ll help you. But don’t let your imaginations run away with you. Keep to facts . . . facts. . . .”
The man was exhausted, and we left him.
“He’s scared, Markham—deuced scared,” observed Vance, when we were again in the hall. “I could bear to know what is hidden in that shrewd warped mind of his.”
He led the way down the hall to Mrs. Drukker’s door. ”