“Oh, by all means.” It was Vance who answered before Markham could reach a decision. “You’ll find them in the library, Mr. Pardee.”
The man left the room with a polite murmur of thanks.
“Queer fellow,” commented Arnesson, when Pardee was out of hearing. “Cursed with money. Leads an indolent life. His one passion is solving chess problems. . . .”
“Chess?” Vance looked up with interest. “Is he, by any chance, John Pardee, the inventor of the famous Pardee gambit?”
“The same.” Arnesson’s face crinkled humorously. “Spent twenty years developing a cast-iron offensive that was to add new decimal points to the game. Wrote a book about it. Then went forth proselytizing like a crusader before the gates of Damascus. He’s always been a great patron of chess, contributing to tournaments, and scurrying round the world to attend the various chess jousting-bouts. Consequently was able to get his gambit tested. It made a great stir among the infra-champions of the Manhattan Chess Club. Then poor Pardee organized a series of Masters Tournaments. Paid all the expenses himself. Cost him a fortune, by the way. And of course he stipulated that the Pardee gambit be played exclusively. Well, well, it was very sad. When men like Doctor Lasker and Capablanca and Rubinstein and Finn got to combating it, it went to pieces. Almost every player who used it lost. It was disqualified—even worse than the ill-fated Rice gambit. Terrible blow for Pardee. It put snow in his hair, and took all the rubber out of his muscles. Aged him, in short. He’s a broken man.”
“I know the history of the gambit,” murmured Vance, his eyes resting pensively on the ceiling. “I’ve used it myself. Edward Lasker[9] taught it to me. . . .”
The uniformed officer again appeared in the archway and beckoned to Heath. The Sergeant rose with alacrity—the ramifications of chess obviously bored him—and went into the hall. A moment later he returned bearing a small sheet of paper.
“Here’s a funny one, sir,” he said, handing it to Markham. “The officer outside happened to see it sticking outa the mail-box just now, and thought he’d take a peep at it.—What do you make of it, sir?”
Markham studied it with puzzled amazement, and then without a word handed it to Vance. I rose and looked over his shoulder. The paper was of the conventional typewriter size, and had been folded to fit into the mail-box. It contained several lines of typing done on a machine with élite characters and a faded blue ribbon.
The first line read: