|
|||||||||
|
|
|||||||||
|
Chessville
Advertise to Single insert:
|
Down These Mean Ranks... Perry The PawnPusher By Rick Kennedy I started the clock. When enough time had passed, and my opponent had not made a single move, I claimed the win by time forfeit. Of course, by then we all knew that he was dead. As the Club filled up with police, I realized with a sigh that the tournament’s next round would probably not start on time. “Down these mean ranks and files a knight must go,” came a gravelly voice behind me. “Who is neither tarnished nor afraid…” “Perry!” I interrupted, turning slowly to face him. “That’s the worst rendering of Raymond Chandler I’ve ever heard.” The disheveled pawnpusher managed a small smile. “I was trying for Bogart.” “Marlowe.” “Marlowe, yeah.” He nodded toward the board. “A shame.” “A shame,” I echoed. “I expect to play Sheffield next round, and I have a surprise for him in his favorite variation of the Sicilian. I don’t want him to have too much time to consult his databases and prepare. The delay will kill me.” “Shame,” Perry persisted, and then waggled a scrawny finger in my face. “You’re alive. That guy’s dead – and all you can think about is chess.” “Shame,” I said, nodding my head, but not feeling anything of the sort. The pawnpusher sidled closer, with a conspiratorial look. “What do you think, eh? Maybe he swallowed a poisoned pawn? Or perhaps the infamous death by draw? Should we blame it on a Sicilian?” Perry then giggled like a kid, and finally covered his mouth with both hands as faces turned to glare at him. “With all this brainpower assembled,” I mused, sweeping the room with my arm, “You would think someone could find a way to help the authorities solve this mess and get us back on schedule.” “You would think.” Perry turned up his collar dramatically, and returned to his growl. “You want justice? Fat chance, pal. Answers? Maybe. Gonna get my hat and my gat. Keep an eye peeled for roscoes. Ankle on over and brace some dames. Shake up the gunsels…” I recognized a challenge when I heard one. “Go ahead,” I chuckled, languidly adopting a bogus British accent for myself. “As for me, my good man, I will retire to an armchair by the fireplace, and will, by sheer dint of logic, deduce how the foul deed was done…” It took a mere three-fourths of an hour. I was eyeing a possible victory pipe and the Club’s despotic “No Smoking” sign simultaneously when a body was literally tossed over the back of the couch, landing inelegantly at my feet. Guess who? “Hoerth,” said my partner in crime detection, struggling to his feet and dusting himself off. “Word in the skittles room is your opponent took a dive in his last round game in a big bucks tournament a week ago. Won nothing, of course, but caused somebody” – Perry suddenly glanced around nervously – “to finish out of the prize money.” He rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his voice. “Not that he admitted it, of course.” “Rubbish” I responded, expansively. “An analysis of the third round score sheets shows irrefutably that the deceased nicked a full point off of Sheridan, using the entirely discredited and infantile ‘Terrible Two-Step’ opening” – Perry glared at this – “The resulting loss of face and abject humiliation required retribution. It was Sheridan. Q.E.D.” Perry would have none of it. “Nadolski, then. He sweated bullets when I cornered him. Admitted he was dating the dead guy’s daughter and the two had fought over some analysis of the Rice Gambit. Daddy must have done the old Montague/Capulet thing, and ‘Romeo’…” “Hardly possible, now is it?” I cut him off brusquely. “In the unlikely event that it somehow was not Hoerth, then it had to be Cesa. The first round evisceration of Cesa’s Benoni Defense – the Bb5+ variation of course – inaugurated a bad tournament, a string of losses, and, by my calculation, a tumble of over 200 rating points. So far.” I sighed at the malignity of it all. “My opponent was a marked man.” I give him credit: the Untarnished Knight would go down swinging. “Hoover. Shifty eyes. Too soon to laugh…” “No, no, no. Shapiro. Compare the relevant game scores. A clear case of purloined analysis…” I admit we were still arguing a half-hour later when the authorities announced that the man had died of a heart attack. On
the other hand, the next round then quickly got under way.
|
The
|
|||||||
|
|||||||||
