CHAPTER VI

I ACQUIRE VARIOUS INFORMATION

By the sober light of morning, if I had been inclined to regard the Black Company as a myth, and the man Corby as a harmless lunatic, such thoughts would have been dispelled by a letter which came to me through the mail. It was post-marked Germantown, which, as you may know, is a suburb of Philadelphia, but the single sheet of paper bore no address nor date.

It contained merely what purported to be a typewritten game of chess in the algebraic notation, and at the bottom was appended the letter and numeral, E8--which had nothing to do with submarines or torpedo boats.

Here, then, was my first message from the head of the Black Company, for there was no doubt that this was their secret code, bearing the King's signature. Obviously, this code was only used when there was danger of messages falling into alien hands; thus there had been no necessity for Corby to employ it in his note to me.

To those who are familiar with the algebraic notation, I may explain it briefly. Beginning with White's queen's rook's square--the first square on the left-hand side of the board if you play White--the eight squares across the board are lettered from A to H, while down the board they are numbered from 1 to 8; thus each of the sixty-four squares has its own letter and number. E1 representing the White king's square, E8 is therefore the Black king's. It is unnecessary to give the entire game as it appeared, but the opening moves were those of the Ruy Lopez, Morphy Defense, and were as follows: 1. Pe4, Pe5. 2. Ktf3, Ktc6. 3. Bb5, Pa6--and so on for a matter of twenty odd moves.

It may be seen at a glance the possibilities in this for a clever code, utilizing both letters and number, whose apparent innocence would disarm suspicion. And though I have dabbled extensively in cryptograms and secret writings of all kinds, such things appealing to my mathematical bent, I may say here that, to my knowledge, this was the first time such ingenious use was made of the algebraic notation. That it held a secret code I was sure, from the significant fact, aside from all else, that no such game could ever have been played, the majority of the moves being quite impossible. They were there merely for the necessary purpose of the code, though this fact would not be detected except by a chess player trying over the game.

I had the code, but to read it without the key was another matter, and try though I did, familiar as I was with many, and the methods of detection, this one baffled me completely. I set my wits to working, and the result was a pair of handsomely inflamed eyes produced by a little elbow grease and black pepper. Heroic measures, perhaps, but they looked far worse than they were.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Miss Gelette, as I appeared with a pair of smoked goggles, bought the previous evening in anticipation of a close scrutiny from Frean. "What's the matter, Peter?"

"Motor eye, ma'am," I said, giving her a look. "I get it now and then. No, doctors are no use, thanking you all the same. There's nothing for it but smoked glasses till it wears off. I can still drive, though."

"You won't have to to-day, at any rate," she said.

Just then Frean drove up, with Corby sitting in the rumble. Frean gave me a good stare as he passed into the house, and I loafed out, presumably to have a look at the car.

"My lamps have gone bad," I said to Corby, raising the goggles to verify the statement. "I've just had a code message from headquarters. Will you read it? It's nothing but a blur to me."

"Stand between me and the house and slip it to me," he said.

I passed him the paper, and he decoded it quickly from memory, writing it on the back. "Be sure to destroy it," he said, slipping it to me as Frean and the girl came out of the house. And when they reached the car, they found a couple of chauffeurs, chance met, talking shop.

Alone, I had a look at what Corby had written:

Keep an eye on new member Frean, and report first hint of treachery.

This was no more than Corby had told me at Knight's, and my hope of learning something further about the Black Company thus came to naught. All the same, I now possessed a valuable weapon--the key to the secret code, for with Corby's translation as a working guide, I at length hit upon the method used. In future I would have no trouble with messages.

That evening, as Miss Gelette had predicted, old Varney did me the honor of asking me to play chess with him. He had called it an idiot's game, but, having recovered from his rage at the problem he couldn't solve, he was back at his old beloved vice. I could see that the game was a vice with him, like drink or gambling, and that for its sake, he was ready to waive even class distinction, implacable Bourbon though he was.

It was his only pastime so far as I could see; he had no visitors but Frean, no companionship but that of his niece, and, save for a daily sedate motor ride, when the weather permitted, spent all his time shut up in the study, browsing among his impressive collection of books, of which chess manuals were no small part.

"Well, Peter Henry," he said, rubbing his yellow claws, "we'll see if you're as good a player as a problem solver. But tell me, had you ever seen that two-mover before? I thought so." He chuckled maliciously. "You simply got the answer out of a book, I'll be bound. Well, I give you choice of men. Which will you have?"

"Black, sir. I'm partial to the Black Company," watching him covertly, but he gave no sign that this had a hidden meaning for him.

He proved a better player than problem solver, but even so, I should have beaten him with little effort and much pleasure, had it not been for his niece's request. However, I pushed him hard for over an hour, and then let him pull off a pretty but unsound mating combination, into which I had helped maneuver myself.

The change that took place in him during the game was really wonderful; his mummified look slowly disappeared, his eyes sparkled, his cheeks flushed, and he looked twenty years younger. All the venom and bitterness of the man was sponged out, and when he called mate it was not with malice, but with the naïve delight of a child proud of its own successful efforts.

"See here, my dear. Look at this!" he exclaimed to his niece, who entered just then. "A brilliant, a gem, not unworthy, I think, of some of Morphy's or Capablanca's." And he proceeded to point out and explain the combination which had led to my downfall.

If she detected its unsoundness, she gave nothing but praise, expressing an admiration and delight equal to his own. "Then it was a good game, uncle? I knew it must be, because you were so quiet."

"An excellent game!" exclaimed Varney, beaming and rubbing his hands. "One of the best I ever played. This young man is a worthy opponent, and, after he has learned the finer points, should be ready to tackle anybody. Peter Henry," he went on, with great formality and courtesy, "I beg to withdraw any slurs I may have cast on your teachers and your knowledge of chess. Unfortunately, I've the devil's own temper at times, and you must not mind an old man's evil humors. Brenda, my dear, will you make a note of the fact that Peter Henry's wages are raised seventy-five dollars per month?"

"But I'd rather not, sir, if you don't mind," I hastened to say. "I play for love of the game and I don't want or expect any extra pay. I couldn't think of it, sir."

"That's all very good," he replied; "but extra service is entitled to extra pay. Now that's enough; you speak well, but no man serves me for nothing. This isn't our last game by any means; I shall take pleasure in demonstrating to you, in actual play, the finer points."

"That's very good of you, sir."

"Not at all," he said with a regal gesture. "Your skill makes you worthy of being my pupil; I'll take pleasure in coaching you. You play a very sound game, and if I do say so myself, it is no humiliation to be beaten by me. Capablanca himself might be excused for falling a victim to that last mating combination. A gem, a brilliant!" And he turned again to the board, chuckling and rubbing his hands as he pondered anew the clever trap I had helped to set and spring.

This, then, was the beginning of a change in my attitude toward Theodore Varney, and I was soon convinced that my ideas regarding him must be altogether wrong, for Miss Gelette spoke to me fully the following day.

"Peter, you're a jewel," she said in her impulsive, unreserved way. "I know very well you conspired to bring about that 'brilliant,' to have yourself beaten after a most exciting game. You kept your promise. I don't know how you were able to do it without giving yourself away. You must be a far better player than I thought. At any rate, the result is that you've put him in the best humor I've seen for months."

"It did seem a bit of a tonic, ma'am. He's quite chipper to-day."

"Yes, you've done him more good than a dozen doctors. The mind can conquer the body. You haven't a gift for asking questions, Peter--which is another thing I like about you--and we are a close corporation here, as no doubt you've discovered. But I wish you to know now just what is wrong with Mr. Varney; it will help you to understand and condone things. I'll speak frankly, for I've found you are to be trusted. I told you my uncle was something of an invalid, but the truth is, he's a hopeless one, a sufferer from Addison's disease. Have you ever heard of it?"

"No, ma'am, I can't say I have. I've heard of Addison, of course----"

"No, no, it's not that one. I had never heard of this disease either; I don't think many people have. It's very rare and peculiar, known also as Bronze Skin, and it isn't infectious or contagious, you understand. The symptoms are a gradual darkening of the skin, increasing emaciation, and debility. There is no cure. There is nothing to do but grin and bear it--to the end. Peter, do you understand?" she finished, with misty eyes. "You see yourself growing a little darker, a little weaker every day, a little more repulsive, a stride nearer the grave--and nothing can be done. Nothing!"

"It must be very hard," I said. "Hard, too, for those who love him."

"It is, Peter. Think of one of your own loved ones dying slowly before your eyes, and you knowing that all the care, all the money and skill in the world are of no avail. It's the knowledge of one's helplessness, the inexorable and insidious progress of the disease that's so maddening."

"You've had the best specialists?"

"Yes. So many, in fact, that Mr. Varney can't bear the sight of a doctor. He knows that he's doomed, but, having always enjoyed the best of health, and having led a very active life, he refuses to let the world see how hard he is hit. He pretends nothing is wrong, and we must pretend, too. That is why he came down here where he wasn't known--to get away from the sympathy of friends, the vulgar curiosity of others. He has a very rare disease, and is therefore to be stared at and questioned, watched and examined by doctors, as if he were a clinical subject. He has become hypersensitive, and you mustn't let him see that you know; you must help to play the tragic farce. You will, won't you, Peter? And you won't mind if, when he has his bad days, he says spiteful things he doesn't mean? He's suffering, you know; suffering all the time."

"He may say anything he pleases, ma'am, if it helps him any."

"Peter, I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Mr. Fremstad for having that accident and in consequence giving up motoring. I say this, even at the risk of spoiling you. All the other servants have grown up, you might say, in our service, but the chauffeur's position has always been a worry and nuisance. None of them could stand my uncle's sharp tongue, and I'm sure I couldn't blame them at times. They had no opportunity of knowing, like the other servants, what a really good and kind man he is at heart. He pretends to be a cynic, but is one of those who likes to jeer at the world, while carefully hiding all the good he does. His nature has been warped through a very keen disappointment and sorrow he experienced long ago, and which he has never got over; this, added to his present physical suffering, makes him appear quite a different sort of character than he really is."

The growing favor in which I found myself with Varney and his niece was soon reflected in the servants' hall. Sympathy with their master and the willingness to enter into the "tragic farce" was evidently the passport to their confidence, and I gathered enough material at various odd times wherewith to piece together the family history.

It was quite innocent and intensely respectable, hinting of nothing dramatic, let alone such a bizarre concern as the Black Company. The family was an old Philadelphia one, and Varney's fortune was inherited. He had never engaged in business, was always something of a recluse, but had done an immense amount of philanthropic and educational work without his name appearing or any sort of advertising. He was a bachelor, and a brother and his niece were his only relatives. Brenda Gelette was an orphan, had made her home with him since early childhood, and was wealthy in her own right. She was devoted to her uncle, and had cheerfully given up all social pleasure and the society of friends when Varney was stricken with his peculiar and deadly complaint.

To sum up, I was presented with a very human, simple, and not unheroic picture; an old man, soured by youthful disappointment, yet sweet at heart, goaded by pain and his impending doom to fierce invective against even those whom he loved best. A man of unconquerable pride and spirit, who was dying on his feet, and dying game. A body of loyal and devoted servants, and a niece whose self-sacrifice stopped at nothing.

It was a picture whose immediate truth, as it slowly unfolded itself to me, there was no denying, and my theory that Varney was a "dope fiend" and a member of a sinister secret society had to go overboard wholesale. Yet that there was some connection between him and those styling themselves the Black Company was self-evident, and if they were not with him, then they must be against him; if they were not his friends, then they must be his enemies.