A Room to Die In by Jack Vance, Ellery Queen

telephone. So now he loathes all women.
The prettier they are, the more he hates them.”
    “I should be
flattered,” said Ann. “He practically snarled at me. Although, in a way, I can
see his point.”
    Jehane shrugged.
“Alexander can’t bear the sight of him.”
    She raised her
head. Ann, listening, heard languid footsteps. “Here comes Alexander now,” said
Jehane.
    Alexander
entered the room: a heavy-shouldered man with thin flanks, short legs, and a
magnificent head. His hair was thick, dove-gray; his eyes were large,
coal-black; his mouth and chin were small and almost dainty; his nose was a
small parrot’s beak. He wore dark-gray slacks and a shirt of maroon gabardine.
    Not a man to
inspire instant liking, thought Ann.
    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