If I sit at the chessboard for an hour, I don’t do it to exert myself; on the contrary, I want to relax from intellectual strain. I ‘play’ at chess, literally, while other, real chess players ‘work’ at the game. But in chess, as in love, you must have a partner, and I didn’t yet know whether there were other chess enthusiasts on board besides the two of us. Hoping to lure any of them present out of hiding, I set a primitive trap in the smoking-room, by acting as a decoy and sitting at a chessboard with my wife, although she is an even weaker player than I am. And sure enough, we hadn’t made six moves before someone passing by stopped, another man asked to be allowed to watch, and finally the partner I hoped for came along. His name was McConnor and he was a Scot, a civil engineer who, I heard, had made a great fortune drilling for oil in California. In appearance he was a sturdy man with pronounced, angular cheekbones, strong teeth and a high complexion, its deep red hue probably due, at least in part, to his lavish consumption of whisky. Unfortunately his strikingly broad, almost athletically energetic shoulders were evidence of his character even in a game, for this Mr McConnor was one of those men obsessed by their own success who feel that defeat, even in the least demanding of games, detracts from their self-image. Used to getting his own way without regard for others, and spoilt by his very real success, this larger-than-life, self-made man was so firmly convinced of his own superiority that he took offence at any opposition, seeing it as unseemly antagonism, almost an insult to him. When he lost the first game he was surly, and began explaining at length in dictatorial tones that it could only be the result of momentary inattention; at the end of the third, he blamed the noise in the saloon next door for his failure; he was never happy to lose a game without immediately demanding his revenge. At first this ambitious determination amused me; finally I took it as no more than the inevitable side effect of my own aim of luring the world champion to our table.

On the third day my ruse succeeded, although only in part. Whether Czentovic, looking through the porthole, had seen us at the chessboard from the promenade deck, or whether it was mere chance that he honoured the smoking-room with his presence I don’t know, but at any rate, as soon as he saw us amateurs practising his art, he automatically came a step closer, and from this measured distance cast a critical glance at our board. It was McConnor’s move. And that one move seemed enough to tell Czentovic how unworthy of his expert interest it would be to follow our amateurish efforts any further. With the same instinctive gesture one of my own profession might use in putting down a bad detective story offered to him in a bookshop, not even leafing through it, he walked away from our table and left the smoking-room. Weighed in the balance and found wanting, I told myself, slightly irritated by his cool, scornful glance, and to vent my annoyance somehow or other I said, turning to McConnor, ‘The champion doesn’t seem to have thought much of your move.’

‘What champion?’

I explained that the gentleman who had just passed us and taken a disapproving look at our game was Czentovic the chess champion. Well, I added, we’d both get over it and be reconciled to his illustrious scorn without breaking our hearts; the poor must cut their coat according to their cloth. But to my surprise my casual information had a completely unexpected effect on McConnor. He immediately became excited, forgot about our game, and his ambitious heart began thudding almost audibly. He’d had no idea, he said, that Czentovic was on board. Czentovic absolutely must play him. He had never in his life played a champion, except once at a simultaneous match with forty others; even that had been extremely exciting, and he had almost won then. Did I know the champion personally? I said no. Wouldn’t I speak to him and ask him to join us? I declined, on the grounds that to the best of my knowledge Czentovic wasn’t very willing to make new acquaintances. Anyway, what could tempt a world champion to mingle with us third-rate players?

I shouldn’t have made that remark about third-rate players to such an ambitious man as McConnor. He leaned back, displeased, and said curtly that for his part he couldn’t believe Czentovic would turn down a civil invitation from a gentleman; he’d see to that. At his request I gave him a brief personal description of the chess champion, and the next moment, abandoning our chessboard, he was storming after Czentovic on the promenade deck with unrestrained impatience. Yet again, I felt there was no holding the possessor of such broad shoulders once he had thrown himself into a venture.

I waited in some suspense. After ten minutes McConnor came back, not, it seemed to me, in a very good mood.

‘Well?’ I asked.

‘You were right,’ he said, rather annoyed. ‘Not a very pleasant gentleman.