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.”