“Oh, my aunt!” murmured Vance, turning away and busying himself with the selection of a fresh cigarette. “That tears it.”
Drukker shot him an inquisitive look, and drew himself up with a kind of cynical fortitude.
“And what about it, Mr. Drukker?” demanded Markham.
“I merely desired to assure you,” the man replied, “that the cook is in error. She has obviously confused the date,—you see, I come and go so often by this rear door. On the morning of Mr. Robin’s death, as I explained to you, I left the range by the 75th-Street gate and, after a brief walk in the park, returned home by the front way. I have convinced Grete that she is mistaken.”
Vance had been listening to him closely. Now he turned and met the other’s smile with a look of bland ingenuousness.
“Did you convince her with a chessman, by any chance?”
Drukker jerked his head forward and sucked in a rasping breath. His twisted frame became taut; the muscles about his eyes and mouth began to twitch; and the ligaments of his neck stood out like whipcord. For a moment I thought he was going to lose his self-control; but with a great effort he steadied himself.
“I don’t understand you, sir.” There was the vibrancy of an intense anger in his words. “What has a chessman to do with it?”
“Chessmen have various names,” suggested Vance softly.
“Are you telling me about chess?” 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.”