Curiosity by Gary Blackwood Page A

me.”
    As we passed beneath a streetlamp, I saw a pained smile on the Frenchman’s face—or perhaps it was a wince. “It was not easy. By the end of even the shortest game, I was stiff and aching all over. I don’t know how I bore it as long as I did.”
    â€œWhen did you begin?”
    He gave me a look of mock exasperation. “You ask many questions, Rufus.”
    â€œNo one else will tell me anything.”
    â€œI am astonished. I supposed that you would have long, heartfelt conversations with Jacques nearly every day.”
    I laughed weakly. “No. And I seldom see Maelzel.”
    â€œHe gives far more attention to his machines than to his human workers. Now, what did you ask me? Ah, yes, when I took over the Turk.” Mulhouse sighed, as if it wearied him even to think about it. The sigh turned into a cough. He dug out his lozenges and let one soothe his throat as he spoke.
    â€œPerhaps thirty years ago, Maelzel bought the machine from its inventor and restored it. It quickly became the main attraction in his exhibition of automata and dioramas. Around 1820, he brought his show to Paris. I was still young enough to think that it was my destiny to become the best chess player in Europe. The fact that dozens of others had played the Turk and lost did not worry me; I was confident that I could defeat a clockwork man.
    â€œImagine my shame when he checkmated me in twelve moves. I knew there had to be a human player concealed inside; my pride would not let me think otherwise. But another six years passed before I found out for certain.
    â€œA letter was delivered to me at the Café de la Régence, where I was the resident chess master. It was from Maelzel. He was touring America, he said, and he offered me a good deal of money to demonstrate the Turk for audiences in Boston and New York. It was not until after I arrived that he revealed the truth: I would be operating the Turk.”
    â€œWhat happened to his usual operator?” I asked. The Frenchman didn’t reply at once. When we passed beneath another gaslight, I saw that his expression had turned grim. “Monsieur Mulhouse?”
    He coughed again, but it didn’t seem due to an irritation so much as to nervousness or a reluctance to answer. At last he said, “Well, the fact is, no one quite knows what became of her.”
    â€œHer?”
    â€œA young woman named Mademoiselle Bouvier—not an expert player, I gather, but good enough for Maelzel’s purposes. He hired her in France and brought her to America with him. But shortly after they arrived, she disappeared.”
    â€œShe quit, you mean?”
    â€œNo. I mean she simply disappeared. No one has seen her since.”
    â€œDid you ask Maelzel about her?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAnd . . . ?”
    â€œHe told me to mind my own business and to never mention the woman’s name again. I can think of only two reasons why he would despise her so much. One is that he made advances toward her, and she rejected him. The other is that she sold him out.”
    â€œSold him out?”
    â€œRevealed the Turk’s secret. To some rival, perhaps, or to a newspaper. If she did, nothing came of it. Still, I can’t help wondering . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, whether Maelzel had something to do with her disappearance.”
    â€œYou mean . . . ?” I drew a hand across my throat.
    â€œI don’t know. All I know is that, when it comes to business matters, he can be ruthless.”
    â€œBut surely not that ruthless.”
    â€œTo be honest, I would put nothing past him. Or Jacques, for that matter. I don’t know much about the fellow, and I don’t care to, but in France there were rumors that he killed a man; some say it was the reason he fled to America.”
    I shivered as I thought of Jacques waving that carving knife in my face.
    â€œAre you cold?”