Zugzwang Read Free

replaced the king exactly in the centre of the square. ‘What is this position?’ he asked.
    I explained it was a correspondence game I was playing with my friend Kopelzon. At the mention of Reuven Moiseyevich’s name, Lychev’s eyes narrowed. A policeman with an appreciation of fine music? Or a policeman with a professional interest in one of my oldest friends?
    He appeared deeply absorbed in the position. ‘Whose move is it?’
    â€˜Mine. I’m White.’
    â€˜What was Black’s last move?’
    â€˜34 … Kh5,’ I said.
    â€˜Exchanging on g5 gives you nothing,’ he said pensively, turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘What are you going to play?’
    In all the years we had been playing chess together I had never beaten Kopelzon, but in this game I had come out of the opening with a slight advantage. My rather surprised opponent then decided to give up a pawn in return for an attack. Defending accurately, I had not only weathered the storm but held on to my extra pawn. However, by the time we reached the present position I had run out of ideas and my hopes of a first win over Kopelzon were evaporating; I was on the point of offering a draw.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said.
    Although I felt it almost to be a breach of etiquette – absurd, given the circumstances – curiosity was getting the better of me. I said, ‘How was Yastrebov murdered?’
    Lychev turned his pale eyes on me. ‘He was bludgeoned to death. His killers put the body in a carriage, then pushed it into the canal near Leinner’s Restaurant.’
    â€˜I’ve read something about this,’ I said.
    I went to a stack of old newspapers in the outer office and quickly found what I was looking for, in
Russkie Vedomosti
, asit happened, Gulko’s paper. The story appeared in the same edition as the report of Gulko’s murder, though it featured much less prominently. It related the recovery of the body of a young man after a motorcar accident on the Moika Embankment. According to the newspaper account, the unfortunate victim had lost control of his car on an icy stretch of road near Leinner’s and skidded into the canal.
    â€˜There’s nothing here about it being murder,’ I said.
    â€˜The murderers attempted to conceal their crime by passing it off as an accident. Evidently they succeeded in fooling the press.’ He indicated the newspaper and said, ‘Did you know Gulko?’
    â€˜No,’ I said.
    â€˜You never met him?’
    â€˜No,’ I said again. ‘Why? Is there some connection between the two murders?’
    â€˜It’s a possibility,’ he said, his voice like a shrug.
    â€˜Why was Yastrebov murdered?’
    â€˜Like Gulko’s murder, it’s still unclear,’ he replied in the same unemphatic way. I noted with relief that he was moving towards the door.
    â€˜I really have no idea how he got hold of my card,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.’
    â€˜I will see you tomorrow afternoon at police headquarters,’ he announced matter-of-factly. ‘Be there at five.’
    â€˜What for?’ I objected. ‘I’ve already told you – I know nothing about this Yastrebov.’
    â€˜Perhaps we will discover that you know more than you think you know. Surely you, as a psychoanalyst, will understand that.’
    â€˜It’s impossible. I have appointments tomorrow.’
    â€˜Would you prefer to come with me now?’ I did not answer. Lychev looked at me squarely. ‘Five o’clock tomorrow, then.’
    I was still in something of a trance when he indicated thephotographs on the wall. ‘Who is this woman?’ he asked, tapping the larger of the two.
    â€˜My wife Elena,’ I said.
    â€˜Shouldn’t that be “my late wife”?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said when I had absorbed the crassness of his provocation,