The Death of Dr. Alekhine by Kevin F. X. Toon

Author:Kevin F. X. Toon [Toon, Kevin F. X.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781481752176
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Published: 2013-07-18T00:00:00+00:00

VI

DR. ALEKHINE TRAVERSED THE river Styx, his remains in a beggarly, closed wooden casket, on the morning of Tuesday, April 2. The cemetery grass was shaved to a millimeter and the grounds maintained in immaculate condition: the French have profound respect for their dead. The World Chess Champion received a Catholic service, recited perfunctorily by a priest, and a tribute by Henri Castelogne. He lay underneath a modest stone marker, underwritten by contributions to the Paris Chess Club. The effect was melancholy and the scene could not quite escape a sense of shabbiness.

Greek legend requires that drachma be placed on each of the deceased eyes, in order to pay Charon, the bleak boatman, who then transports the body to Hades.

A handful of chess players attended. The Inspector knew most everyone present and exchanged muted greetings. There were brief, sad embraces and handshakes. Men crossed themselves. People had aged: their faces were pinched, their postures stooped; a few leaned heavily on canes. Snatches of conversation floated above the gathering.

* * *

“Auguste, it has been too long.”

“So, so, my dear Jean-Louis. I daresay we are both stricken by the years. How is your wound?”

“De rien.” It’s nothing.

* * *

“I am surprised you are here.”

“It is a duty. We cannot forget our artists.”

“Our politicians would be droll if we were not starving.”

* * *

“I am grieved about your son. Where did he fall?”

“At Vincennes, in the first few weeks.”

“Ah well. Best to die a man and a patriot. Your wife and daughter?”

“In good health, thank God.”

* * *

It was a cold, bitter day, the sky swirling with fog and soot. The brusque wind caused coats to flap at the knees. Ears reddened and hair became tousled as men removed their hats in respect. They stood upright as far as possible, hands in their pockets, shifting or stamping their feet to stay warm. Everyone seemed relieved when the ceremony was over. They headed toward the nearest café for a brandy. Even as Colbert began his sojourn to the Prefecture, two husky, begrimed men in overalls shoveled soil into the grave.

The Inspector’s refusal to speak to the press did not prevent Je Suis Partout and other publications from running brief editorials on the subject of Dr. Alekhine’s death. Predictably they criticized the police for their plodding incompetence. Colbert ignored them. It would blow over shortly.

He retrieved Dr. Alekhine’s dossier, then proceeded to his appointment.

Albeit the Chief’s office was double the size of Colbert’s, the towering stacks of paper, filing cabinets, multiple telephones, two desks, and a round meeting table conspired to make it look smaller. The brass nameplate on his desk bore his name and title: Charles Renault, Chief of Homicide. One would never have guessed his age. In his mid-fifties, he seemed at least ten years younger. He was wiry and fit, with high cheekbones, a full head of hair, and eyes that slanted, apparently, in a habitual state of benign good nature. He appeared exceptionally dashing in his uniform.

Today, however, was not among his best.

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