A Room to Die In (6 page)

She wondered why
Jehane had chosen to marry him. Still, the match was no odder than dozens of
others she had wondered about.

Jehane performed
a casual introduction, then said, “I suppose I should see to lunch.”

Alexander
nodded. “Excellent idea. It seems to be a beautiful day. Miss Nelson and I will
go out on the deck.” His voice was slow, deep, resonant. “Perhaps you’d bring
us another round of drinks?”

He ushered Ann
through a pair of French windows out to the second-level deck, which was
cantilevered alarmingly over a rocky gulch.

“It’s quite safe,”
said Alexander in a patronizing tone. “But I agree the first sensation is apt
to be unpleasant.” He drew up a chair for Ann and settled himself in another.
The view was even more dramatic than from the terrace, with the full bulk of
Mount Tamalpais looming to the south. “Do you smoke?” asked Alexander.

“No. I’m one of
those annoying people who never acquired the habit.”

Alexander fitted
a cigarette into a long holder. “Jehane doesn’t smoke, either. I must say that
I derive an ignoble satisfaction whenever a nonsmoker contracts lung cancer. .
. . I don’t believe your father smoked.”

“Not to my
knowledge.”

“A peculiar man.
In many ways an admirable man. I suppose I knew him as well as anyone alive.”

“I’ve heard him
speak of you. In fact, five years ago, at the California Masters Tournament—”

“Alexander
chuckled, a deep, fruity croak. “I remember that very well. Your father made
one mistake—one little mistake. It was enough. Six moves later he resigned. It
was a hard game, though to be honest I never found myself in serious difficulty.”

Alexander
Cypriano seemed more than complacent about it, thought Ann—pompous, actually.

“I’ve given up
active competition. In fact, I rarely play these days. Chess is a young man’s
game, though of course a number of older men have played superbly. Steinitz . .
. Lasker. Do you play?”

The suddenness
of the question caught Ann off guard. She stammered, “I know the moves . . .
Yes, I play. I’ve played a few games with my father. Naturally, he won.”

“Your father was
highly competent—a beautiful tactician. He played a resourceful end game, where
most chess players are weak. My own end game is entirely adequate, and my
opening game considerably sounder than your father’s. When we played I usually
won.” He peered quizzically at Ann. “I hope I don’t seem vain?”

“Not at all,” said
Ann, thinking, “Oh, don’t you?”

“It’s often hard
to distinguish vanity from simple honesty. We played many an interesting game,
your father and I. He exhibited three characteristic faults. First, he refused
to study the openings, and often embroiled himself in a line which a more
profound student would have avoided. Second, he loved the spectacular
combination—he loved to astound, with lunges and sorties, gallops along the
edge of a precipice, cryptic exposures of his king . . . These tactics were
likely to outrage and confuse players of average ability, but a man maintaining
the grand view could usually refute such gasconades. His third fault was his
most singular and, I would say, paradoxical. I don’t know how to describe it.
Indecisiveness? At a crucial moment, when it came to administering the
coup
de grâce
,
he
would falter, veer, temporize. Inexplicable. He lost otherwise brilliant games
that way. By the way, my appraisal of your father’s character does not include
soft-heartedness. I would judge Roland to have been a man quite cold and
merciless where his own interests were involved.”

Ann, listening
with only half an ear, and wondering why she had been invited to lunch, was
brought back to reality by the hardening of Alexander Cypriano’s tone.

Rising, the man
went to the edge of the deck. He took a long, slow sip of the daiquiri that
Jehane had quietly brought out on a tray, and looked out toward the far gray
sheen of the Pacific.

Ann could think
of nothing to say.

Alexander swung
around. “But enough of chess. To a nonplayer nothing is less interesting than
the maunderings of an addict.”

“I’m interested
in anything that concerns my father,” Ann said politely. “We weren’t close, but
now that he’s dead . . .” She laughed in embarrassment. “I wouldn’t call it
remorse, because the neglect came from him, not from me—but, after all, he did
name me his heir.”

“He wrote a
will, then? Odd.”

“I’d say he had
some motive other than simple practicality.”

Alexander seemed
fascinated. “What makes you say that?”

For no
well-defined reason, Ann chose to be evasive. At least until she found out why
she had been invited to lunch. “Oh, the general tone of the will. Certain of
the bequests.”

Alexander
inquired humorously, “I take it I wasn’t mentioned?”

“No.”

He pursed his
lips.

“I understand
you knew my father’s second wife well,” said Ann after a moment’s silence.

“Yes, she was an
old friend of Jehane’s. An impulsive, warmhearted woman.”

“That was my
feeling, although I met her only once. I never did hear how she died, except
that it was in an automobile accident.”

“To be blunt,
she was driving while drunk and simply ran off Blue Hill Road.”

“Oh.” Ann
hesitated. “This may sound like an extraordinary thing to ask. Is there any possibility
that my father could have been involved?”

“Involved?”
Alexander shot her a sharp glance.

Ann said
steadily, “I mean, could he have been responsible?”

“I wouldn’t put
it past him,” said Alexander in a brand-new tone. “But I don’t see how he could
have managed it. In the first place, Roland could have had no idea she was
here. Why should the question occur to you?”

Ann reflected
before answering. Alexander Cypriano clearly regarded Roland Nelson as a
rival—possibly in more fields than chess—and seemed to relish any information
to Roland’s discredit, even after death. But if information was to be obtained
from the man, Ann would have to prime the pump. So, reluctantly, she said, “The
truth is, there’s some indication he was being blackmailed.”

“Blackmailed!”
Alexander seemed genuinely startled. He turned as Jehane came out on the deck
to announce that lunch was ready. “Miss Nelson tells me that Roland was being
blackmailed.”

Jehane became as
still as death. “That’s hard to believe. What could he possibly be blackmailed
for?”

“In everyone’s
life there are dark corners,” said Alexander. “There are one or two things
about myself I wouldn’t care to have known. And don’t forget, Jehane, we haven’t
seen him for months. Anything might have happened.”

“It’s silly,” said
his wife abruptly. “Let’s have lunch.”

She had set a
table on the cool eastern terrace with a green checked cloth and dishes
decorated with green leaves. In the center stood a tall green bottle of white
wine.

Lunch was as Ann
had expected: simple, ample, beautifully prepared. There was a salad of shrimp
and avocado; then breasts of chicken in individual iron skillets, swimming in a
piquant buttery sauce, served with small round potatoes and watercress; then a
dessert of strawberries and vanilla ice cream, with black coffee. Conversation
was desultory. Alexander apologized for the clutter of lumber, saw-horses,
reinforcing steel, and mesh. He pointed out the extent of the new terrace and
indicated where repair work was being done on the foundations. “If the
contractor had done his work properly to begin with,” he grumbled, “all this
mess could have been avoided.”

The reference,
thought Ann, was to Martin Jones.

After a second
cup of coffee, Alexander slapped his hands down on the table. “Since you’re
interested in chess, I imagine you’d like to see my den.”

Ann looked at
Jehane, but her face was completely neutral.

“I’m a collector
or sorts,” Alexander went on. “I believe I have the finest set of chess
portraits and photographs extant.”

Ann dutifully
rose to her feet. Alexander nodded to Jehane. “A delightful lunch, my dear.” Ann
hastily echoed the compliment. Jehane smiled faintly.

Cypriano led Ann
to his den, a large room at the rear of the house. One wall was covered with
drawings and photographs of chess masters of every age and physiognomy. There
was Sammy Reshevsky perched on a high stool; the autocratic Dr. Tarrasch; Paul
Morphy, leaning languidly over a piano like a young Oscar Wilde. Capablanca,
suave and handsome, faced a brooding Alekhine; Frank Marshall stared off to the
left; Tchigorin peered to the right. There were dozens of group photographs,
including a two-foot by three-foot enlargement depicting the participants of
the great AVRO tournament, with autographs beside each figure.

Alexander darted
back and forth, pointing, declaiming, expounding. When he had exhausted the
wall photographs he drew out albums of classic scores, autographed by the
competitors. In a cabinet he drew Aim’s attention to a group of trophies, cups,
and medals. “My own small achievements.” Another case held books in six
languages.

“Can you read
all these?” asked Ann in wonder.

“Oh, yes. I know
German, Russian, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Serbian, a
smattering of Chinese and Arabic—I’m what is known as a natural linguist.”

Ann expressed
her astonishment, and Alexander nodded his massive head in satisfaction. “I was
trained for the bar,” he said, “but I have always preferred music and chess.
Hence”—he held out his hands—“you see me. No pauper, but by no means a rich
man. Luckily I have a shrewd head for investments.”

He took Ann to
another cabinet, which contained perhaps two dozen sets of chessmen, in a
number of styles and materials: wood, stone, ivory, pewter. “Notice these,” said
Alexander, “. . . Hindu, of the eighteenth century. And these, once used by Ruy
Lopez himself. Which reminds
me . .
.
yes, before I forget. Among your father’s
effects you will find a handsome set of chessmen, which at one time belonged to
me, and which he acquired under circumstances that are irrelevant. I’d like the
set back, and I think he would want it so. I am naturally willing to pay any
reasonable valuation you put upon it.”

Could this have
been the motive
for
the invitation? Why else? Ann temporized. “I’m still not in charge
of my father’s estate.”

Alexander’s eyes
snapped. “Your father’s possession of the set came as the result of a joke.”

“I really can’t
make any commitments,” said Ann. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cypriano, but so far I haven’t
had time to think.”

He marched to the
door of the den; the conducted tour was over. He had clearly hoped for an
affirmative answer. After escorting Ann to the living room, he excused himself,
saying that he had an important letter to write.

Even with
Cypriano gone, the atmosphere seemed to cool in a manner Ann could not define.
Jehane was as charming as ever, but the cordiality was gone. Ann presently took
her leave. Her hostess accompanied her to the car and expressed the hope that
Ann would call again. Ann proposed that she should telephone her on the next
occasion she found herself in San Francisco. Jehane Cypriano promised to do so,
and Ann drove away.

In her rearview
mirror she caught a final glimpse of the woman looking after her: wistful,
fragile, lonely.

Ann drove down
the hill slowly. At Lagunitas Road she paused, then turned left, and drove into
Inisfail—for no active reason other than her vague conviction that there was
still much to be learned about her father’s death.

She turned down
Neville Road. Her father’s nearest neighbor, she noticed, occupied an old white
stucco house in a flourishing vineyard. The name on the mailbox was Savarini.
Ann weighed the idea of calling at the house. But what could they tell her?
That her father was unfriendly, eccentric, a recluse, without visible means of
support, of dubious morals and questionable politics? All this she already
knew.

A car was parked
at her father’s house. Drawing near, she saw the car to be the green pickup.
Martin Jones was in the front yard, guiding a roto-tiller. Ann turned into the
driveway. Jones ignored her. He started the clattering machine on another
furrow.

Ann compressed
her lips. “Mr. Jones!” she shouted.

Martin Jones
glanced at her sharply and frowned. He turned off the engine. The silence was
sudden and vehement.

“Well? What am I
doing that’s so damned humorous?”

Ann shrugged. “You’re
working so intently.”

“What of it?”

“There’s no need
to shout, now that the roto-tiller is off.”

Martin Jones
blinked. “If you’ve come to clear out the house, I’ll let you in.”

“The thought
hadn’t entered my mind.”

“As I told you
yesterday, the sooner the better.”