Vignette: Chess Men

By John A. Hopkins

On the Sea Lion Press Forums, we run a monthly Vignette Challenge. Contributors are invited to write short stories on a specific theme (changed monthly).

The theme for the 92nd contest was The Detective

London, August 1949

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man repeated.

With a sigh, Detective Inspector Percy Tankard pushed his chair back and rested his forehead on his palms. “Why were you at the British Museum?” he asked the floor.

“Visiting,” he said with a shrug. “I’m in London for a meeting. I had some free time. I was playing chess at the weekend and thought it would be nice to see the Lewis collection.”

The policeman raised his head. Dr. Klaus Fuchs didn’t look nervous, more resigned at the repetitive nature of the questions. Late thirties. Well-used brown suit. High forehead, dark slicked back hair, and rather small, round spectacles that gave him a professorial look. Who was this man Fuchs? The way he kept glancing at the one-way mirror suggested it wasn’t his first time in such an interrogation room. The light accent was German. What did the mysterious man from Five want?

Time for a change – the last titbit he’d been given. “I understand you’re a communist.”

Fuchs snorted. “This again. Was. I was young. Naïve. Believed in a more equitable society.”

“Believed?”

“Well, Stalin wasn’t Lenin. He’d have got on with Hitler, I suspect!”

Tankard smiled at the irony. “When do you head back to Cambridge?”

“Tomorrow night,” Fuchs said. “Unless you’re still asking the same questions.”

Tankard stood abruptly to leave but stopped at the door. “Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“Hard to say.”

Fuchs’ eyes closed slowly, and he nodded. “Coffee. Milk and sugar.”

Tankard left the room, barked an order for two coffees and strode down the corridor to the observation room. Dickie Blake stared at Fuchs through the glass. The subject returned his gaze, albeit only seeing himself. Blake looked frustrated and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Nope,” Tankard said with a shake of the head.

“You’re sure?”

Tankard slumped into an uncomfortable wooden chair. “What’s this about? Be easier if you told me a bit more. I’m working blind,” he added without bitterness. He understood national security.

“It has to come from the lab,” Blake muttered, almost to himself. He looked at Tankard. “Alright. This is all classified. Fuchs is an atomic physicist. One of the foremost experts in the country. He’s involved in a project of national importance. Can’t say any more. It’s imperative the Germans don’t catch up.” He thought briefly of the summary of the operation in Dresden that was including in the briefing papers.

“Is he important?”

“I’m no expert, but yes. Critical. Spoke to some professor at Cambridge. Most complimentary about our Dr. Fuchs.” Blake took a deep breath. “A few months ago, we got word out of Dresden about a leak. That’s where the Nazi’s equivalent programme is based. Sort of. Anyway, we’re worried there’s someone in our programme. Someone run by the ASD – German intelligence.”

Tankard nodded slowly. The ASD. It explained why he’d been called in – he was a known quantity to Five. Two years previously, on the verge of breaking a big black-market ring, just before they’d been about to start making arrests, he’d been warned off by a mysterious man who it turned out worked for Five. Patience was not a word associated with Tankard, and he chaffed under the delay, especially when two of his officers were hurt. However, eight months later he was cleared to not only break the ring but given evidence to arrest a senior city broker who was responsible for their funding – using German money! Three of the gang disappeared without trace, but the papers reported it as financial crime. It earned Tankard a promotion and kept an informant safe.

“Another German op. That’s why you got me to bring him in. Keep your mob behind the scenes.” Tankard pursed his lips. “Don’t think it worked. You said something about a lab.”

“The Cavendish. Cambridge. World leading atomic research,” Blake said. He sighed and pulled a few sheets of folded paper from his pocket. “This came through a few days ago. It’s proof of the leak. Don’t read it all, it’s Top Secret.”

Tankard flicked through the flimsy photostat copies. Five pages, typed by someone unused to doing so based on the numerous corrections. A few handwritten additions – that might be important. One line caught his attention:

British focus now on a plutonium implosion device. Removes the need to enrich uranium, which is a complex and expensive task. The building of a suitable…

“Er, don’t read too much, Inspector,” Blake said with a faint smile.

“Oh, right,” Tankard said, looking up sheepishly. “Sorry. Why him? Why today?”

“The source says they’ve learned the courier collects messages from museums in London. Fuchs always visits museums when he’s in London.”

“That’s why you wanted me to ask about the museum. Wait, always?” Tankard asked. “You’re following him?”

An enigmatic smile was his only answer. He glanced into the interrogation room. Fuchs sat with his coffee, fingers tapping on the table. He appeared deep in thought.

“Look at the top of the pages,” Blake said.

Tankard did. Each was stamped with a date – just over a week ago – and some German. The last word was in italics – Alekhine.

“What’s Alekhine?”

“Who,” Blake said. “Alekhine’s a Franco-Russian chess master and great friend of the Nazis. Lives in Spain but travels the world playing tournaments. And here’s our Dr. Fuchs, someone who was investigated for his links to Russia, in a London museum ambling around perhaps the most famous collection of chess pieces in the work.”

Tankard almost laughed. “That’s it? Because he admitted to looking at the Lewis collection? That’s… tenuous.” But he knew he had been involved in investigations that started with less. “Doesn’t it strike you as unlikely a communist, well, ex-communist, would pass anything to the Nazis? He’s had plenty of time to sabotage this project, I assume.”

“He has,” Blake admitted. “I don’t think you understand quite how important this work is. And we’ve got nothing else to go on. We can’t stake out every room of every museum in London looking for someone hiding a few sheets of paper in an exhibit.”

The police officer stood, wandered towards the glass. “You know, I’d bet good money he hates the Nazis more than us. When did he leave Germany?”

“Escaped in the early Thirties. Never been back. He’d be arrested if he tried. Probably executed. But… things change. Attitudes change.”

“I’m telling you, he’s not your problem.” Tankard turned slowly, waved the papers at Blake, and smiled. “But he could be the solution.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe he can tell us who is.”

Blake’s eyes flashed briefly. “An accomplice! That’s just as bad.”

“No,” Tankard snapped. “There’s probably not many people who understand this stuff. Maybe he can narrow the field. Give you some possible culprits.”

“You’re that sure?” Blake asked, but the hope in his voice was unmistakable. “Not just innocent, but willing to help? It’s a risk. If he’s involved, it tips them off. And we’d risk our source.”

“Worth a try, right? I won’t use these, unless we’re sure.”

Blake paused, then nodded.

“I’ll get back in there,” Tankard said. He dropped the papers on the desk. “If I’m making progress, alright if I take him to dinner? On expenses?”

Blake laughed, but he nodded.

***

An hour later, Tankard was as sure as he could be. Despite his hints he knew what Fuchs did, the German was reticent to share – maybe the policeman knew about Tube Alloys, but if he didn’t, Fuchs would be in a whole lot of trouble for divulging such information.

“Gott, I’m stupid,” Fuchs said, slapping his hand against his forehead. “You think I’m passing atomic secrets to the Nazis?” His voice rose. “Are you insane?”

Tankard remained silent, but his eyes flickered towards the mirror. Fuchs exploded.

“I know who's back there! Don’t you think I went through plenty of these when the war started? As a German. And then as a communist? Who knew where my allegiances might lie?” Fuchs’ voice softened. “I hate the Nazis with every bone in my body. They murdered my colleagues, my friends. They’d have murdered me if I’d stayed. I’d rather die than help them.”

“I apologise Dr. Fuchs,” Tankard said with unexpected sincerity. “Please excuse me for a moment.” Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared, leaving Fuchs to glare at the mirror. He retuned with the papers and two crisp five-pound notes in his pocket for expenses. “What do you think of these?”

Fuchs’ glanced at the top page, and his reaction was clear – this face clouded, not just with shock, but fury. “You shouldn’t be reading this,” he said seriously. “Where did you get them?”

“I haven’t,” Tankard said. “Just a few lines. Didn’t understand it. Doesn’t matter where we got them, but I assume you can read the stamps better than I can.”

“Yes,” Fuchs said. “Ausland-Sicherheitsdienst. The SS foreign intelligence service, I believe. Replaced the Abwehr. It is imperative you stop this.”

“I know.” Tankard glanced at his watch. “It’s late. I’ve got a couple of things to clear up. Read it and we’ll talk some more over dinner.” Fuchs nodded absently and waved a hand, engrossed in the papers he was reading.

In the observation room Blake stood so close to the mirror his breath steamed the glass. “You were right,” he said without moving.

Fuchs had finished reading and now flicked back and forth through the pages, shaking his head. The microphone picked up mutterings in German. Even after all these years, when angry he thought in his native language.

“Think he knows who it is?”

“Probably not,” Tankard said. “But he’ll figure it out! Where do I contact you? Unless you want to come.”

Blake shook his head and scribbled a number. “The switchboard can get me at any time.”

***

Tankard pushed through the doors of the famous Rules restaurant. Blake had called ahead and requested a corner table for an important friend. A bottle of wine sat on the table, and an attractive hostess escorted them to the table. The sommelier appeared almost immediately.

“Mr. Jones suggested you might enjoy this,” the man said, looking over half-rimmed spectacles. Tankard shrugged and nodded. He rarely drank red wine, certainly not claret. He took a sip as the sommelier waited expectantly and nodded approval. It was the best wine he had ever tasted – albeit against limited competition. A flash of panic – what if he couldn’t pay? But Blake knew his limits. Before he could speak, a waiter arrived.

“You must be Mr. Jones’ guests,” he said. “How is he?”

“Oh, very well,” Tankard said flippantly. “You know Jonesy.”

“Indeed, sir. He mentioned you might be rather hungry. Suggested I put in an order for the steak and kidney pudding, if you agree, gentlemen?” Nods of acceptance. Both were eager to talk. The adjacent tables were agreeably empty. The hum of conversation made it unlikely they’d be overheard.

“What did you make of the message?” Tankard asked.

“It’s incredible,” Fuchs said. “I can’t believe people are willing to work for the Nazis. Given what we’ve learnt.” He shook his head sadly. “They must realise what it’d do to London?” He stopped suddenly. He’d said too much.

“It’s some sort of weapon then,” Tankard said, then held up a hand. “Sorry, don’t answer that. It’s not why we’re here. I’m interested in who sent it.”

The food arrived and as they ate and talked Fuchs started to open up. It was evident he was lonely, and Tankard felt sorry for him. Chased from his home, living in exile. With no family, he was probably wedded to his work.

“You know I was interned?”

“I didn’t.”

“Hmmm. Isle of Man, then Canada. Then I was allowed to come back to England. Well, Scotland at first. That’s how I got involved with the er... project.” He sipped the wine. “They tried to contact me again. The communists.” Tankard’s face must have betrayed him because Fuchs laughed. “Don’t worry, I reported it. I’d lost faith by then.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe after Moscow. Seemed the whole ideal was broken.” He looked wistfully towards the ceiling. “Maybe fear of the darkness of Nazism. I’d decided Britain was the only hope.”

“Must have been hard.”

“It was. But I was young. Idealism and realism don’t mix.”

“They’re still fighting,” Tankard reminded him.

“The Soviets? I suppose,” Fuchs allowed. “It’s a military state now. Hardly Lenin’s idea of communism. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is the Nazis. Much as the West hated communism, it’s the Nazis that are pure evil.”

“I don’t disagree,” Tankard said as a waiter cleared their plates. They finished the wine and ordered coffee and brandy. “Will you help me catch whoever’s helping them?”

“I don’t think your Mr Blake would like that,” he said.

“Mr. Blake?” Tankard asked.

“It was in the book at the door. Jones was in brackets.”

Tankard smiled faintly. “Very observant.”

“Analytical. Anyway, even that’s probably not his real name. I don’t think his organisation would approve. Once an enemy…” He shrugged. “We’re all just pawns in the big game I suppose.”

“Forget that. Will you help me?”

“Yes.”

***

A month later Tankard sat in his stuffy office, a fug of cigarette smoke and humid late-summer air. The open window offered little respite. The phone rang noisily and he reached for it.

“DI Tankard.”

“Morphy.”

Tankard straightened and grabbed a pen. Morphy – the codename Fuchs used, after the great 19th century American chess master. The last time they spoke, he’d provided three names based on the content of the note. Blake had teams researching all three, all given the name of 19th century chess masters.

“Good morning,” Tankard said after checking his watch. He stood, stretching to kick the door shut. It was not the day for their weekly call.

“Somethings wrong with Rousseau,” Fuchs said. “Been agitated for a couple of days and announced a last-minute trip to London. Claims it’s a private matter. It’s not easy to get approval to leave on short notice. They’re staying at the Ritz over the weekend.”

“Thanks.” Tankard cut the line and called Blake to arrange to meet at lunchtime. The pub was close to the office, and they found space away from the crowd. Blake stared dubiously at his pint of mild. Tankard relayed Morphy’s message.

“Damn, that’s short notice. Rousseau. That’s… unexpected. Seems conscientious, widely admired. The Ritz, though. That’s not where I’d stay on a scientist’s salary.”

“Are you going to pick them up straight away?” Tankard asked.

“No,” Blake said. “We want the courier’s network. We’re pretty sure they’ll avoid any chance of being seen together. Figure we’ve got some time. Once Rousseau leaves, we’ll replace the note with Fuchs’ replacement. He said it could be quite dangerous, if they swallow it. We’re going to follow the courier, but you can pick up Rousseau at the Ritz. We’ll get a rush job done on the photos of them planting the drop – see if you can get them off guard.”

“Photos? That’s going to be tough, isn’t it? They’ll want an empty room.

“Or a full one.”

“How’s your man going to keep close enough to get pictures without being spotted?”

The infuriating, enigmatic smile.

“You know, don’t you. You know the drop site.” Tankard shook his head. “How can you possibly know?”

“Amazing what you can find out if you know what to look for.” Blake sipped his pint with distaste, scowled and put it on the table. “Should have met at my club. Still can’t believe we’ve a communist working for us!”

“Ex,” Tankard said and drained his pint. “Come on, we’ve work to do.”

***

“There must be some mistake, Detective Inspector,” the manager of the Ritz said in the same obsequious tone he had used since Tankard arrived. He noted the eyes. “Of course, we’ll do as you ask, but I do hope you aren’t going to make a scene. I’ll call the front desk for the key.” He reached for the phone, but Tankard slammed it down.

“We’ll collect it.”

The manager recoiled and gave Tankard a dark look. “Very well.” He stood and stomped moodily to the door, only to meet a firm hand in the chest.

“Mr. Smethers, let’s be clear. Don’t ask someone to get the key for you. Get it yourself. Without talking to anyone. This is not something your staff should be involved in. Clear?”

“Of course. However, you’ve nothing to worry about. My staff are impeccably discrete,” Smethers said haughtily.

“Be that as it may,” Tankard said. “Not a word. We’ll meet my men on the fourth floor. You’ll wait until we’re inside, then someone will escort you back here.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Smethers snapped. “This must be a misunderstanding. I trust you’ll make it clear this is nothing to do with the hotel.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, Smethers,” Tankard said coldly. There was no mistake – the barely dry photographs one of his men carried proved it.

***

On the fourth floor Tankard approached room 402. His shoes sank into the thick carpet, muffling any sound. Two officers stood on each side, and he edged the end of the key into the lock.

“Set?” he whispered. Four sharp nods. He thrust the key into the lock, turned sharply and pushed. “Police!” he shouted and rushed in.

A beautiful blonde in an impeccable pale blue dress – the dress in the photographs – shifted on the chaise longue set next to the open balcony door. 'Rousseau’s' shapely hand rose to her throat.

“What is this?”

“Dr. Andrews, I’m Detective Inspector Tankard, and you’re under arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Treason!”

She laughed hollowly, but her eyes gave her away. She knew the game was up. How long would she play, Tankard wondered. He snapped his fingers, held out his hand, and felt the manila folder. Eyes on Dr. Andrews, he pulled out one of the photographs – it didn’t matter which – and handed it to her. This was no hardened agent - Caroline Andrews burst into tears.

***

It was late the same evening, and Blake sat cross legged across from Tankard in a dark green leather wingback chair. He puffed a cigar, topped up the snifters with brandy, and handed one to the police officer.

“I have to hand it to you, Percy,” he said as he reached for his own glassed and tapped it against Tankard’s. “We’d not have got them so fast without your help.”

Tankard grinned and sipped the brandy. “I didn’t do much. It’s our friend Klaus Fuchs who broke this spy ring.”

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John A. Hopkins is the author behind the novel Atomic Secrets and its sequel Funny Money.