With a little sensitivity, I thought, he might have pointed out our mistakes, or encouraged us with a friendly word. Even after the match, however, that inhuman chess automaton said not a word after ‘Checkmate’, but waited motionless at the table to see if we wanted another game with him. I had risen to my feet, helpless as one always is in the face of thick-skinned incivility, to indicate with a gesture that now this financial transaction was completed the pleasure of our acquaintance was over, at least for my part, when to my annoyance McConnor, beside me, said hoarsely, ‘A rematch!’

I was quite alarmed by his challenging tone of voice; in fact, at this moment McConnor gave the impression of a boxer about to lash out rather than a gentleman in polite society. Whether it was the unpleasant nature of the treatment meted out to us by Czentovic, or just his own pathologically touchy pride, McConnor seemed a completely different man. Red in the face right up to his hairline, nostrils flaring with internal pressure, he was visibly perspiring, and a deep line ran from his compressed lips to the belligerent thrust of his chin. In his eyes, as I saw with concern, was the light of the uncontrolled passion that usually seizes on people only at the roulette table, when they have been constantly doubling their stakes and the right colour fails to come up for the sixth or seventh time. At that moment I knew that even if it cost him his entire fortune, this fanatically ambitious man would play and play and play against Czentovic, on his own or with someone else, until he had won at least a single game. If Czentovic stayed the course he had found a gold-mine in McConnor, and could mint a few thousand dollars by the time he reached Buenos Aires.

Czentovic was unmoved. ‘By all means,’ he politely replied. ‘You gentlemen take Black this time.’

The second game went just the same way as the first, except that several curious onlookers had made our circle not just larger but also livelier. McConnor was gazing at the board as fixedly as if he intended to magnetize the chessmen by his will to win; I sensed that he would happily have given a thousand dollars for the joy of crying ‘Checkmate!’ to his cold, insensitive opponent. Curiously, something of his grimly excited determination passed unconsciously to us. Every single move was discussed far more passionately than before; one of us would keep holding the others back at the last moment before we united in giving the signal that brought Czentovic back to our table. Slowly, we had reached the thirty-seventh move, and to our own astonishment were in a position that seemed surprisingly advantageous, for we had succeeded in bringing the pawn in file c to the penultimate square c2; we had only to move it to c1 to promote it to a new queen. We didn’t in fact feel particularly comfortable about this over-obvious chance; we all suspected that the advantage we appeared to have won must have been intentionally thrown out as bait by Czentovic, whose view of the situation ranged far wider. But despite intensive study and discussion among ourselves, we couldn’t see the concealed trick. Finally, as the agreed deadline approached, we decided to risk the move. McConnor had already put out his hand to the pawn to move it to the last square when he felt his arm abruptly taken, while someone whispered quietly and urgently, ‘For God’s sake no!’

We all instinctively turned. A man of about

forty-five, whose thin, angular face I had already noticed on the promenade deck because of its strange, almost chalky pallor, must have joined us in the last few minutes as we were lending our entire attention to the problem. He quickly added, feeling our eyes on him, ‘If you make a queen now, he’ll take her at once with the bishop on c1, and you’ll counter with the knight. But meanwhile he’ll take his passed pawn to d7, endangering your rook, and even if you check him with the knight, you’ll lose after nine or ten moves. It’s almost the same combination as Alekhine used against Bogolyubov at the grand tournament in Pistyan in 1922.’

The surprised McConnor withdrew his hand from the piece, and stared in no less amazement than the rest of us at the man who had unexpectedly come to our aid like an angel from heaven. Someone who could work out a checkmate nine moves ahead must be an expert of the first rank, perhaps even a rival for the championship travelling to the same tournament, and his sudden arrival and intervention at this critical moment had something almost supernatural about it. McConnor was the first to pull himself together.

‘What would you advise?’ he whispered in agitation.

‘I wouldn’t advance just yet, I’d take evasive action first! Above all, move the king out of danger from g8 to h7. That will probably make him attack the other flank, but you can parry the attack with rook c8 to c4; it will cost him two tempos, a pawn, and his advantage. Then it’s passed pawn against passed pawn, and if you defend properly you can draw with him. You can’t get anything better.’

Yet again we were astonished. There was something bewildering about his precision as well as the speed of his calculations; it was as if he were reading the moves from the pages of a book. But anyway, the unexpected prospect of drawing our game against a grandmaster thanks to his intervention was enchanting. We all moved aside to give him a clear view of the board.