Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  ‘Is this the sum of what you have learned about Pikser?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘Some very interesting people have been going in and out of the house on Kirochny Street.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. Your friend Kopelzon.’

  I leaned back against the booth. ‘Kopelzon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  I turned around in the booth and looked out over the lobby, trying to gather my thoughts. A man dressed in a dark-blue suit and wearing an old-fashioned Russian collar took a seat in one of the armchairs. He unfolded a newspaper and began to read. I turned away again.

  ‘I’m not in a position to answer that yet,’ Lychev said. ‘But it is intriguing, don’t you think? It proves a link between Pikser and Kopelzon.’

  ‘Pikser never went to the house on Kirochny Street.’

  ‘The link is not negated. That they both knew of the house demonstrates the connection.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have men watching the house from an apartment across the street. Kopelzon arrived this morning, stayed an hour, then left. Shortly afterwards a second man came out. I had him followed, but all he did was buy bread and cigarettes before returning to the house.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Average height, rather sturdy, short dark hair, moustache, about thirty-five years. Average in just about every way. Why do you ask? Do you know him?’

  I thought immediately of the anxious Pole who came to A l’Ours to find Kopelzon.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I strongly advise you to stay away from Kopelzon, at least for the next few days. Goodbye.’

  ‘Wait!’ I said before he ended the call. ‘Is it possible that the police records from Kazan are incomplete?’

  ‘Incomplete in what sense?’

  ‘Could they have missed out, for whatever reason, the murder of an elderly woman?’

  ‘Theoretically anything is possible. Policemen are human, after all. They make mistakes. Files are put away in the wrong place. Names are forgotten. Why?’

  ‘The fourth male victim, the intruder killed while breaking into the house.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is it possible an old woman was killed, or perhaps seriously injured, during the breakin?’

  ‘Do you have reason to think there is more to this incident than the report suggests?’

  ‘I have information about a very similar event which occurred in Kazan, also in August 1889. It seems too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ Lychev said.

  Turning again to look out to the lobby, I saw the man in the blue suit still in the chair. He was making very little effort to pretend he was reading the newspaper.

  ‘I think I’m being followed,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the Architects’ Club. There’s a man in the lobby. I’m certain he’s watching me.’

  ‘Do you have your alibi ready?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to have to lie for me.’

  Lychev let out a grunt of irritation. ‘I advise you to come up with something fast. Keep it simple and stick as closely to the truth as you can,’ he said, ending the call.

  I stepped out of the booth and crossed the lobby to the main door. The man in the blue suit folded his newspaper, got up and followed me out. He rode the same tram to Sadovaya Street and got off at the same stop. Only when I turned left to go to my office did our paths diverge.

  *

  Opening the door, I saw Minna at her desk. She was wearing a new lilac-coloured blouse with a bow. I was about to say good morning when she indicated two men sitting on the bench to the side, where my patients sometimes waited.

  ‘These men wish to speak to you, Doctor,’ Minna said, fidgeting with her collar.

  I knew exactly who they were but had to go through with the performance. ‘Yes?’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘We have some questions for you, Dr Spethmann,’ the taller of the two replied. ‘About the doorman – Semevsky.’

  ‘Semevsky? I don’t understand,’ I said.

  The taller man’s smile intended no warmth. He said, ‘Semevsky’s body was pulled out of the canal yesterday.’

  ‘How terrible,’ I said. ‘You must be police officers?’

  ‘Similar,’ the taller man said, his smile fading.

  I offered them tea, which they declined, and showed them into my office. As I went to my desk, the taller man said, ‘Do you have a certificate of political reliability, Dr Spethmann?’

  ‘My political reliability has never been in question,’ I said.

  ‘It is now,’ the taller man’s colleague said, removing his overcoat and folding it over his lap.

  I said nothing.

  ‘When did you last see Semevsky?’ the taller man said.

  ‘I saw him’ – I had to be careful not to overact – ‘let’s see. It wasn’t yesterday … The day before. Yes, that’s right. My car suffered a minor accident as I was coming into work and he very kindly offered to have it mended.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘In the morning – I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘You are certain that was the last time you saw Semevsky?’

  ‘Yes. He brought the keys up after the car was fixed and gave them to my secretary, but I was with a patient and didn’t speak to him then.’

  The two men exchanged a look. The slighter man took over. ‘What time did you leave the office?’

  I went to my desk and made a show of checking my diary to refresh my memory. I saw Rozental’s name entered for the seven o’clock appointment. ‘I had a patient at seven,’ I said. ‘Usually I see patients for an hour but I remember this session being more difficult. It ran over by another thirty or forty minutes.’

  ‘What did you do then?’

  Again, with carefully measured hesitation, as though trying to recollect the ordinary, I said, ‘I had a dinner appointment at ten o’clock. At A l’Ours, with a friend. There was no point in going home first. So I stayed here and made up my notes.’

  ‘What time did you leave to go to the restaurant?’

  ‘Around ten o’clock.’

  ‘Did anyone see you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know what other people saw.’

  ‘Did you see Semevsky?’

  I paused. ‘No,’ I said, ‘now I come to think of it, he didn’t let me out.’

  The two men exchanged a glance.

  ‘How did you get to the Donon?’

  ‘It was A l’Ours.’

  ‘How did you get there?’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘Why did you walk when your car had been repaired?’

  ‘I wanted the exercise.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can corroborate this?’

  ‘I can’t think of anyone,’ I said, ‘not at the moment.’

  ‘At what time did your secretary leave the office?’

  ‘Shortly after my last patient arrived.’

  ‘You’re certain of that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They exchanged another glance. ‘Your secretary says she did not leave until you did, shortly before ten.’

  I frowned, genuinely puzzled. ‘She’s mistaken.’

  I could not work out what was going on. What had Minna said? Were they trying to catch me out?

  ‘Who was the patient?’

  I hesitated. ‘There is a matter of confidentiality –’ I began.

  ‘This is a matter of murder,’ the slighter man interrupted. ‘What’s the patient’s name?’

  ‘I cannot divulge that,’ I said.

  The slighter man stood up in a smooth, deliberate motion, put his overcoat on the seat and came over to the desk. ‘I am ordering you to hand over your diary,’ he said.

  I clos
ed the book and put my hand protectively over it. I was completely unprepared for the rapidity and violence of his reaction. My head was suddenly on the desk, yanked violently down by the hair. Almost simultaneously I received a shuddering blow to the back of my neck.

  He took the diary, opened it and ran a finger down the page.

  ‘Rozental,’ he said to his colleague when he came to the entry.

  He tossed the book contemptuously back onto the desk. I sat up slowly. The back of my head was numb. There was bile in my mouth.

  ‘Is there anything else you think you should tell us?’ the taller man said. ‘Think very carefully.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

  The taller man turned to his colleague. ‘Bring the woman in.’

  I protested. ‘What do you want with Minna?’

  My interrogator gave me a contemptuous look. ‘Sit down, Spethmann, and keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise.’

  Minna was ushered in. She gave me a look and then guiltily hung her head.

  The taller man addressed her. ‘What time did you leave the office?’

  Minna replied in a small voice, ‘Shortly before ten o’clock.’

  ‘Dr Spethmann says you left just after seven. He’s quite certain about that.’

  I searched Minna’s face for some kind of clue: why was she saying this?

  ‘No,’ she said, returning my look. ‘We were here together until ten.’

  ‘Why does the doctor not remember?’

  She paused. ‘He probably wishes he could forget,’ she said; then she added, ‘Because of what happened … between us.’

  The taller man studied her carefully, then turned to me. ‘Were you carrying on with your secretary, Dr Spethmann? Is that what you were doing?’

  ‘I refuse to answer that question,’ I said, ‘or any others from you.’

  The taller man scratched the bridge of his nose with his left index finger, sighed and got to his feet. At the door, he said, ‘You shall be hearing from us again, Dr Spethmann.’

  Minna stood where she was, facing me. We heard the outer door open and close. She turned to go.

  ‘Minna,’ I called after her.

  But she ignored me and left the room.

  Whether he admits it or not, every psychoanalyst has patients who bore him. It was my bad luck that day to have to listen to the young foreign office clerk as he regaled me with his depraved exploits as he scoured the Vyborg for his victims. My next appointment was with the wife of a timber merchant. A vicious snob, she complained chiefly of her husband’s lack of refinement. Perhaps I should have been grateful for the distraction they offered but all I really wanted to do was talk to Minna. Why had she lied for me?

  It was not until I’d hurried out the last of my patients that I had an opportunity to talk to her in private. She was at her desk, bringing the diary up to date.

  ‘I tried Rozental again but he’s not answering the telephone,’ she said, as if nothing had happened.

  I sat on the bench to the side of her desk. ‘What’s going on, Minna?’ I said.

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. Nothing.

  ‘Why did you lie to those men?’

  ‘If you will forgive me, Doctor, I have to finish some correspondence before I go.’

  She pushed back her chair, lifted a sheaf of papers and went to the cabinet. She pretended to concentrate on sorting the papers. I got up and stood behind her.

  ‘It was a very dangerous thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘I did it to help you,’ she said, enunciating each word carefully so that I could not possibly misunderstand.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. She froze and spun round, her eyes wide and startled as if I were about to assault her. I snatched my hand away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want you to get into any trouble on my account.’

  The papers filed away, she pushed the drawer shut, went back to her desk and picked up a pen.

  ‘I do not want to talk about this again,’ she said.

  Twenty-One

  By the time I arrived at the opening ceremony, Saburov, as president of the St Petersburg Chess Union, had already started his speech. Manoeuvring through the throng to the French windows at the far end of the ballroom, I scanned the faces around me. Of the players, I glimpsed Capablanca and also Bernstein, but I could not find Rozental. Saburov was thanking the organising committee for their hard work and the benefactors for their generosity. At the mention of Tsar Nicholas’s subscription of one thousand roubles, there was a burst of reverent applause.

  ‘This tournament,’ Saburov intoned, ‘which marks the jubilee of the St Petersburg Chess Union, is the strongest ever seen in the history of chess. The committee decided to invite only the first-prize winners in great international masters tournaments, that is, masters who have triumphed in open contest with the very strongest of their peers.’ Saburov smiled, obviously enjoying every second of his time in the limelight. ‘Thus we are delighted to welcome Dr Lasker, the reigning World Champion.’

  There was another, less restrained burst of applause. I caught sight of Lasker, bowing in acknowledgement. It was the first time I had seen him in person. Although quite short and unremarkable-looking, he projected a determination that could not but command attention.

  ‘From Cuba,’ Saburov went on through the roll, ‘the man already being talked of as “the chess machine”, Senor José Raul Capablanca.’

  The audience clapped and cheered, and the suave Cuban inclined his head graciously. Lasker was World Champion, but Capablanca was the true celebrity. He glanced at Lasker, the young lion eyeing the old; it was well known the two hated the sight of each other. Extraordinarily handsome, with sleek black hair and burning dark eyes, he gave off an astonishing confidence. Surrounded by awestruck admirers with fixed and silly grins – they included a large number of women – he was irresistibly suited to glory in a way Rozental never would be.

  Saburov continued, ‘Five years ago, here in St Petersburg, many of you will have been present at a now legendary game. It was one of Dr Lasker’s rare defeats but I’m sure, great sportsman that he is, the World Champion will not object to my reminding you of his epic encounter with Avrom Chilowicz Rozental.’

  The applause started up but soon faltered when Saburov failed to locate Rozental in the crowd.

  ‘Is Avrom Chilowicz present?’ he asked somewhat plaintively.

  People craned their necks and turned to their neighbours with the question in their eyes.

  ‘I could not prevail on him to come,’ a voice next to me whispered. It was Kopelzon. ‘Nothing to worry about. Avrom never attends these things.’

  Saburov made a little joke about Rozental’s legendary modesty and went on with his speech.

  ‘How is Avrom?’ I whispered to Kopelzon.

  ‘Well enough,’ he whispered back. ‘He’ll be able to play, that’s the important thing.’

  Saburov next introduced the American, Marshall.

  ‘Avrom’s first game tomorrow is with Marshall,’ Kopelzon said. ‘He’s a tricky player, but tactical, and shallow. Avrom should beat him comfortably.’

  We clapped each of the remaining competitors as they were introduced: Tarrasch, Alekhine, Nimzowitsch, Blackburne, Janowski, Bernstein and Gunsberg.

  ‘Only Lasker and Capablanca present any real difficulties,’ Kopelzon said, raising his voice as the applause climaxed. ‘The rest are cannon fodder.’

  Saburov signalled for quiet.

  ‘I have one final but very important and very exciting announcement,’ he said, making his voice grave. ‘As you know, the scheme of play is that there will be a preliminary tournament in which each of the eleven competitors will play one game with every other. The five leaders of the preliminary tournament will then play off in a double-round final section. The winner of the final section, the winner of the 1914 St Petersburg tournament, will have the inestimable honour …’ Saburov paused
for dramatic effect. ‘Of being presented at the Peterhof to His Imperial Highness Tsar Nicholas II to be created the first Grandmaster of Chess.’

  There was a frenzy of cheers and applause. Kopelzon was in good form, beaming smiles at friends and admirers, but it was hard for me to look at him without feelings of anger and hurt. If he knew about the house on Kirochny Street, then he knew about Yastrebov, which made his pretended concern for me and Catherine and his outrage at our arrests a hypocritical fiction.

  Oblivious as always to others’ moods, Kopelzon said cheerfully, ‘It seems the appropriate moment to give you my move, Otto. I play 44 … Ke7.’ He checked my reaction, then said, ‘We each have king and queen. I can protect the f-pawn with as many defenders as you have attackers. I really don’t see how you think you are going to make progress.’

  Spethmann–Kopelzon

  After 44 … Ke7. Kopelzon says it’s a draw. Is he right or is he

  bluffing? Can White make further progress?

  Perhaps he was right but I didn’t care; I wanted to win. Or, rather, I wanted to beat him. I concentrated on visualising the position. If I played 45 Kg8 to attack the pawn, he would respond simply with 45 … Qc8 +, so I played 45 Qg5+. It didn’t help me with the f-pawn, but there was a trap.

  Kopelzon grinned amiably. ‘Really, Otto. Aren’t you embarrassed to play these cheap tricks? Did you really think I was going to allow you to checkmate me on the back rank? I play 45 … Ke8.’

  ‘46 Kg8.’

  ‘Still going after the f-pawn, eh, Otto? You won’t get it. 46 … Qc7.’

  Chess without sight of the board, at least for more than a move or two, was beyond my powers. Even with so little material remaining I was having trouble keeping track of the pieces, as Kopelzon knew only too well.

  ‘You’ll be here for Rozental’s opening game tomorrow, won’t you?’ he said rather patronisingly. ‘Give me your move then.’

  A waiter came round and refilled our glasses with champagne.

  ‘Come and meet Lasker,’ Kopelzon said. ‘Saburov introduced me earlier – and guess what? Lasker congratulated me on my performance in Vienna last summer. Can you believe it? The World Champion came to see me perform. He said my playing moved him to tears.’