“Do you know, I cannot help regretting sometimes that you have practically given up the game,” he added, as he placed the ivory chess-men one by one in the box. “It is a long while since England has had a really great chess-player.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Crewe. “There are more things in life than chess.”
“Some people do not think so,” replied Sir George, with a smile. “Your old opponent Merton was telling me at the club the other night that he would consider his life had been well spent if he could but find a sound answer to that new opening of Talsker’s.”
“That is proof that chess gets hold of one too much,” replied Crewe, with an answering smile.
“Still, you might have been champion of England,” pursued Sir George meditatively.
Crewe shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“One cannot have it both ways,” he said.
“You prefer crime investigation to chess?” continued Sir George inquiringly.
“In some ways—yes. Both have their fascination, but in chess the human element is lacking. It is true you have an opponent, but he is not like your hidden opponent in crime. When your hidden opponent has intelligence, then the game is wonderful—while it lasts. But intelligence in crime is as rare as it is in every other walk of life. Most crimes are like chess problems—once you find the key-move, the rest is easy. The really perfect crime mystery is as rare as a perfect chess problem. As a rule, the machinery of the human brain is not delicately adjusted enough, or sufficiently complex, to devise a problem both complex and subtle in crime—or in chess.”
Sir George did not speak. It was so rarely that Crewe could be induced to speak of his experiences in crime investigation that he did not wish to check him by interrupting. But Crewe showed no sign of continuing. He sighed slightly, threw his half-smoked cigar into the fire, produced a large brierwood pipe with an amber mouthpiece, and slowly filled it, with his eyes fixed on the flames.