Charlie Chan in the Pawns of Death Read online

  Charlie Chan and Claude DeBevre, as shocked and puzzled as their fellows, made their way down the wide, curving staircase to the Frontenac’s lobby and then out into the warm Parisian night. They went to the Champs Elysees, off which the Frontenac was located, and walked along the tree-lined concourse until they came to one of the numerous sidewalk cafes offering a clear view of the Arc de Triomphe. Sitting at a table there, they ordered cafe au lait and sat sipping it while they discussed what they had recently witnessed.

  “But why, Charlie?” DeBevre was saying. “Why would M’sieur Mountbatten make such a public accusation as he did? In private, in a hotel lobby, yes. Rude, but not official. But in front of thousands? And it was an accusation; a man does not use the words ‘unethical’ and ‘illegal’ unless he means them.”

  “No, he does not,” Chan admitted with grave concern. “And yet, there appeared to be, nothing unethical or illegal about tonight’s contest.”

  “My opinion, exactly,” DeBevre concurred. “M’sieur Mountbatten’s words seem totally unfounded - and his actions most unfortunate.”

  “It would seem so,” Chan said. “However, there may be much to which we are not privileged at the moment. Before we judge either Mr. Mountbatten or Mr. Powell, we must wait until more facts are in our possession.”

  “You are right, of course, Charlie. Still, I cannot help but feel that tonight’s display by M’sieur Mountbatten is yet another of the animosities which have marked the past seven days.”

  Chan nodded agreement.

  DeBevre was referring to the stormy events which had taken place since the arrival of both the Mountbatten and Powell retinues one week earlier. Promoters of the tournament had made the mistake of quartering both parties at the Frontenac, intermingled on the same floor.

  From the beginning there had been difficulty. Mountbatten had been quoted in the international press as saying that he had “little respect for Grant Powell, both as a man and as a craftsman of chess”; Powell, in turn, had been quoted as saying that “Mountbatten is washed up as the Number One figure in Transcontinental chess” and that it would require “no more than thirteen games” to achieve the required 12-1/2 points for the unseating of the champion.

  Other followers and backers of the two men - such as Mountbatten’s business manager and monetary backer, Clive Kettridge; Powell’s best friend and adviser, Raymond Balfour; Powell’s wife, Laura; and ex-American Transcon champion, Melvin Randolph - had engaged in sniping attacks as well.

  Matters had threatened to get out of hand when there was personal and public confrontations between members of the two factions, which were played up in the press; and even though promoters and officials had managed to smooth things over somewhat, the atmosphere at the commencement of the match tonight had been one of open hostility.

  Obviously, the argument of the evening before had left Mountbatten smoldering. Else why this public outburst?

  Both Charlie Chan and Claude DeBevre were quiet for a time, sipping their coffee and watching the passage of tourists and natives on the narrow, crowded sidewalks of Champs Elysees. Chan’s black eyes narrowed as he saw the reporter Sprague approach.

  With a dramatic gesture Sprague said, “If you ask me, friends, something’s going to happen - tonight or tomorrow - that will shake up the chess world. I don’t know exactly what it will be yet, but whatever it is, it’ll make international headlines in the bargain.”

  He seemed happy at the prospect.

  Even as Chan and DeBevre exchanged looks, Sprague’s prophecy of trouble was beginning to come true.

  IV

  THE PERSON standing deep in the shadows on the Hotel Frontenac’s rooftop terrace, contemplated murder. The gun clenched tightly in the white fist had not yet been fired, but the killer only waited for an opportunity.

  Gazing past the now deserted swimming pool, over the parapet of the roof, the killer ignored the starlit skyline of Paris. Silvery in the moonlight, the outdoor pool was surrounded by statues of Venus and mermaids, terrazzo work, and collonades of cerd antique. During the day the guests laughed and swam in the heated water, but now the rooftop terrace was closed for the evening, silent and empty save for the lone individual waiting in tense rigidity under the blackened wing of a temple-shaped cabana.

  The weather, even this late in the night, was mild - the sky so limpid and soft that it enveloped the massive outline of the French capital, giving the impression of small islands captured in the moonshine. It hugged contours huge and high, embracing the deep blue stretches of horizon as well as the dark gray mists wisping mysteriously among the canyons of the streets below.

  Paris, seen from these heights, was like a living museum: a city retaining its lingering flair, its sweetness, its magic, despite the lamplit bridges, neon signs, the streams of traffic. One but turned slightly, and it became as it always had been: with finely-worked balconies, the facades of buildings askew, a maze of small lanes and covered passageways and twisting alleys.

  In the warm silence a small scraping sound caused the killer to grow more tense with anticipation; it had come from the closed doors that marked the entrance to the roof terrace. The intended victim was coming, and now, at last, the waiting was almost over. Transferring the gun from right hand to left, the watcher reclenched the weapon tightly.

  A moment later the doors opened and a masculine figure stepped out onto the roof terrace. The man paused, glancing about the deserted area, not seeing the waiting assassin in the shadows of the cabana.

  Methodically, he took a cigarette case from the pocket of his suit jacket, and a lighter flame flare briefly. Smoke drifted up into the dark velvet sky. The man, the victim, stood motionless for a time, smoking; finally, he moved toward the swimming pool, closer to the cabana.

  A few more steps, the watcher thought. Just a few more steps. I want to make absolutely sure when I pull the trigger…

  As if obeying that telepathic command, the man moved along the edge of the starlit pool. Then he stopped, less than twenty yards from the temple-shaped cabana where the murderer hid, and called the killer’s name in a soft voice. He called it again, and a third time, and then seemed to shrug; he showed his back, but didn’t move away.

  Now, the killer thought. Now!

  The gun muzzle raised, steadied; slowly, carefully, pressure drew the trigger inexorably back.

  And nothing happened; the gun failed to fire.

  A cry of frustration was stillborn in the assassin’s throat. The trigger was squeezed again, and again. It refused to be drawn back all the way, the mechanism was jammed, and there was no way to unleash the bullet into the back of the unsuspecting victim. After all the preparation and risk that had been gone through to obtain the revolver, it had now proved to be useless.

  Damn, Damn! the killer thought savagely. I should have checked it more thoroughly, I should have made sure it would fire! But now it’s too late, now what am I going to do? Step out and confront him, perhaps maneuver him over to the parapet and push him off? No, that’s too dangerous; there’s too much chance of failure. I have to think, I have to plan something else, some other way…

  The man by the pool lifted his left arm and looked at his watch. He muttered something with apparent irritation and began walking toward the entrance again. He paused one last time, letting his eyes sweep the seemingly deserted terrace, before disappearing through the door.

  Sagging limply against the cabana wall, the killer clutched the now useless gun and silently vowed: I won’t do it this way next time. I don’t even want to be there when he dies. What I need is a very clever method of murder. There’ll be plenty of publicity as a result of the Transcon tournament… yes, yes, I should have thought of that aspect before, the publicity.

  Well, suppose he were to die in a locked room? Oh, how perfect! A locked-room death to puzzle the police completely; that’s it, that’s exactly it! Chess and a baffling murder what a beautifully ironic combination!

  Five minutes passed in complete si
lence. Then the killer left the shadows and walked across the rooftop terrace, moving resolutely now, a new plan beginning to take shape.

  V

  CLAUDE DEBEVRE’S eyes were bright with expectation as he and Chan strolled into L’Odean for a midnight supper. He said, “You know, Charlie, that in Paris there is a gourmet society, Club de la Fourchette Agile.”

  “The Quick Fork,” Chan translated, amused.

  DeBevre nodded. “It holds competition for the most weight gained at one sitting. I believe we may well be in contest for the prize tonight.”

  Charlie Chan sighed ruefully, patting his girth. “A man’s folly should be his greatest secret; but in my case, the secret is out…”

  A white-frocked Maitre d’Hotel conducted them to their prominently located table, and for a few moments they gazed about the lavish interior, which was decorated in the gold-leaf Belle Epoque style. Then came a bottle of dry champagne as an aperitif, and fresh, succulent brook trout in brown butter. When they had finished this excellent appetizer, the two friends settled back to await the main course.

  Shortly, from behind the golden panels concealing the kitchen doors, came a small procession; the Maitre d, a waiter pushing what appeared to be a gleaming stockpot on wheels, and a solemn young busboy laden with a cloth-covered tray. All three came to a halt at a serving cart in front of Chan’s and DeBevre’s table.

  The Maitre d, ceremoniously lifted the lid of the stockpot, revealing a plump Bresse chicken studded with black flecks of truffle. He impaled the bird and held it up for a moment so that Chan and DeBevre could inhale the ambrosial fragrance, bringing murmurs of admiration from the patrons nearby. Then he carved breast, wings, and legs, laid each portion on a mound of rice, coated everything with a creamy golden sauce, and served them while the waiter poured a chilled Meursault into crystal glasses.

  The only word Charlie Chan could think of as he tasted the savory chicken was “sublime”.

  For some time both men were completely involved with their meal. In fact, so involved were they that neither of them noticed the young couple who approached their table until the man said, “Hello, Mr. Chan. Saw you from the entrance and decided we’d come over.”

  Charlie Chan glanced up, seeing the tall, muscular form of Grant Powell. The American chess champion was wearing his captivating and insolent smile, which, Chan observed, added a certain luster and intensity to Powell’s deep-set set eyes and gave him an unsettling impression of being able to read one’s mind. The Oriental detective considered what it would be like to sit across a chessboard from those mesmeric Powell features.

  “Mind if we join you?” the young man asked.

  Despite the blunt intrusion, Charlie Chan smiled graciously. “The flavor of our dinner would be spiced by your presence,” he said, “and its beauty enhanced by your wife’s. May I introduce Prefect de Police, Claude DeBevre.”

  “Enchante,” DeBevre murmured, rising to shake hands.

  “I hope this isn’t an imposition,” Laura Powell said with a hint of embarrassment.

  Almost as tall as her husband, she had burnished, copper-colored hair which fell in loose waves around both shoulders, contrasting startlingly with the jade green of her flaring silk pants-suit. She had the white translucent complexion of a true redhead, relieved only by the scarlet slash of her slightly parted lips and the dark, deep look of perpetual invitation which some women naturally possess.

  “It really is my fault,” Laura continued, allowing DeBevre to seat her. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Chan, and when I learned that Grant had met you yesterday, I simply had to make your acquaintance too.”

  “I am most honored,” Chan replied warmly.

  Powell signaled for the waiter, and ordered for two: French onion soup, Medallions de Boeuf, and a bottle of Bordeaux. His failure to consult his wife first, as any gentleman ought to have done, seemed to irritate DeBevre, who appreciated good manners and deference toward ladies; but Powell paid him no notice.

  “Well, Mr. Chan,” Powell said to the Honolulu detective, “you’ve no doubt heard the accusations those pompous windbags Mountbatten and Kettridge have been making about me. Tell me, do you think they’re right and that I cheated today?”

  “Grant!” Laura Powell said with a slight blush. “Why do you always have to be so damnably rude and offensive?”

  “What’s the point of pussyfooting around? I merely asked a question,” retorted her husband. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Then you have no objections to an investigation, M’sieur?” DeBevre asked, momentarily relieving Chan of the necessity of answering Powell’s premature question.

  “Of course not. In fact, I welcome it -“

  Powell stopped speaking, for at that moment Roger Mountbatten entered the dining room and, in the company of the Maitre d’Hotel, came toward them. Powell’s eyes narrowed as he watched the short, ramrod straight figure of the British champion.

  The Maitre d seated Mountbatten at a table two away from the one occupied by Chan, the Prefect, and the Powells. The tournament opponents faced one another across the relatively short distance. Then, suddenly, Powell said in a loud voice: “Speak of the devil and he appears. We’re in the presence of the soon-to-be dethroned Transcon champion in all his bitter, whining glory.”

  Laura Powell gasped at the viciousness of her husband’s words, and Chan and DeBevre looked disconcerted. It was impossible for Mountbatten not to have heard the slur, and his face congealed with dark anger. Abruptly he stood and came over to the table, glaring hatefully at Powell. Most of the conversation in the dining room had ceased now, and the patrons were nervously eyeing the two men.

  “How dare you!” Mountbatten said furiously. “You arrogant young pup! If I were a younger man myself -“

  “What would you do, Mountbatten?” Powell asked in calm insolence. “Give me ‘six of the best’?”

  “Blast you! I’ll have you blacklisted throughout the chess world! I’ll have you damned well arrested if the investigation proves you’ve been cheating, debasing the honorable game of chess!”

  “So you and Kettridge are going through with your ridiculous protest after all, are you?”

  “We hadn’t decided until this moment, but now I fully intend to launch an official complaint. I dislike you more than I’ve ever disliked anyone, inside or outside of chess. You ought to be flogged, you ought to be -“

  “- shot at sunrise?” Powell finished for him, a half-smile on his lips.

  Mountbatten sputtered, couldn’t seem to think of anything further to say, and spun abruptly to stalk from the dining room amid the shocked murmurs of the patrons.

  “Oh Grant, how could you?” Laura Powell moaned softly. “Why do you always have to make a scene? Why can’t you act decently for once in your life? Why can’t you grow up?”

  “What, and spoil my image?” Powell said. But he seemed to be somewhat subdued now, conscious of the staring eyes around him. If he was not exactly contrite, he was at least having second thoughts about his childish display. Finally he rose. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I think I need a drink more than I need food right now. Coming, Laura?”

  “Now that you’ve succeeded in shaming me, I don’t seem to have much choice and I certainly don’t have any appetite left. Mr. Chan, Prefect DeBevre - please accept my apologies for my husband’s insufferable rudeness.” Her voice was subdued but firm.

  “Such unfortunate incidents are best and often quickly forgotten,” Chan said tactfully.

  “I hope so,” Laura replied. She gripped her frowning husband by the arm and strode with him as regally as she was able from the dining room.

  “Whatever can be the matter with M’sieur Powell?” DeBevre demanded of Chan. “He is an intelligent man; there is no reason I can see for such actions.”

  “Youthful intelligence is sometimes a slave to emotions,” Charlie replied, “and allows the tongue to rule innate wisdom. A sad saying, but alas a true one.”

  The two frie
nds returned to their meal; but the previous gastronomic magic had somehow vanished now, and the remainder of their repast was a somber affair, though the excellence of the Frontenac’s haute cuisine did not go unnoticed.

  VI

  THE MEAL, as promised, had been sumptuous, a gourmand’s delight. Chan appreciated fully each elegant dish as it was served. As always, he was able to concentrate on the pleasant meal, enjoying it thoroughly despite all thoughts about the afternoon’s unpleasantness.

  Entering his room after dinner, Chan crossed the thick rose-patterned carpet and adjusted the window. It opened easily, without the noisome squeak of old hinges, and overlooked a palm-studded courtyard free of automobiles or scooters with their racket and stench. The curtains were thick and overlapped generously. The remainder of the room was opulent, containing a wardrobe, a dressing table, a writing desk, an easy chair, a telephone on the nightstand, a triptych mirror; the dressing table held only a basket of fruit, complete with a small plate, a paring knife, and a handwritten note reading:

  “Welcome to the Hotel Frontenac, Mr. Chan; please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant. M. Dumont, Manager.” The fruit and the note had been personally delivered when Chan arrived.

  The room’s piece de resistance was the ornate chandelier which hung from the middle of the ceiling. It dominated everything else, a magnificent example of the Empire period, sparkling with diamond-faceted glass baubles, intricately formed of rococo gilt arms wreathed in metal vines and leaves as though overgrown by golden grapes. Frosted globes clustered at each of the many arms, bathing the room in soft, warm light.

  And, as Chan noted with pleasure, there was a switch directly above the middle of the bed’s headboard which controlled the fixture when one finally wished to douse the light for sleep.

  Chan was delighted with the comfort and coziness of the room. Originally he had requested a suite, his usual preference, but because of the chess tournament and because of the general scarcity of Parisian hotel accommodations at all times, none had been available. He was, however, not in the least disappointed with this chamber.