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
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
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