“Ha!” Arnesson chuckled. “Quite in keeping. ‘I,’ said the Sparrow. . . . Very neat. Still, I don’t know how it’ll work out mathematically.”
“And, since we agreed to keep you posted,” continued Vance, “it may help your calculations to know that we have reason to believe that Robin was killed in the archery-room and placed on the range afterwards.”
“Glad to know it.” Arnesson became momentarily serious. “Yes, that may affect my problem.” He walked with us to the front door. “If there’s any way I can be of service to you, call on me.”
Vance had paused to light a cigarette, but I knew, by the languid look in his eyes, that he was making a decision. Slowly he turned to Arnesson.
“Do you know if Mr. Drukker or Mr. Pardee has a typewriter?”
Arnesson gave a slight start, and his eyes twinkled shrewdly.
“Aha! That Bishop note. . . . I see. Merely a matter of being thorough. Quite right.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Yes; both have typewriters. Drukker types incessantly—thinks to the keyboard, so he says. And Pardee’s chess correspondence is as voluminous as a movie hero’s. Types it all himself, too.”
“Would it be any great trouble to you,” asked Vance, “to secure a specimen of the typing of each machine, and also a sample of the paper these two gentlemen use?”
“None whatever.” Arnesson appeared delighted with the commission. “Have them for you this afternoon. Where’ll you be?”
“Mr. Markham will be at the Stuyvesant Club. You might phone him there, and he can arrange——”