furious. It was as though the man knew her exact hand at all times. For a while, she began to suspect some kind of trick, but Abraham had spent his career being ahead of the game, and this was no different.
Chess, however, was far different. Abraham found his side of the board pitifully barren. Margaret was ruthless, and sacrificed not even the most insignificant pawn. Several seemingly pointless moves would be followed by a succession of captures. She appeared to be in control of his pieces. They always ended up exactly where she wanted them. He didn’t doubt that Margaret was the type who could play twenty moves ahead of her opponent.
As they played, Margaret and Abraham talked of old cases, old friends, and old times, and at about the tenth hour of the night, Margaret turned her head and made a gesture at Abraham, who listened closely, aware that his friend had developed very keen senses during her own time as a policewoman. The sound of footsteps fading away on his walkway were barely audible above the fire, the clock, and the wind outside. He got up slowly and moved to the door. Margaret followed him shortly, stopping in the frame between his office and the parlor.
Abraham Surd glimpsed through one of the little glass windows outlining his front door, but saw no one. The object on the floor had not gone unnoticed in the darkness, and he reached down and picked up the small, white square. After a moment’s contemplation, he turned to his friend.
“Another letter from the mystery thief?”
“Could be, could be. Let’s sit down and have a look.”
They returned to the parlor. Abraham produced a letter opener and cut open the envelope. He removed two squares of paper and unfolded the larger first. It read:
I am humbled by your wit. There are few extraordinary
men left in this world, and I am glad to have at one time
made your acquaintance. For solving the unsolvable,
please accept this as a token of my superlative respect for
your talent.
The letter was signed and dated by Straukauss Newberry. So was the modest check it contained.
“Straukauss Newberry?” Margaret gasped. “Isn’t he the big monorail tycoon that lives over on Kelter Drive?”
“Just past the moors in the Newberry mansion, yes.”
“Wow.” Margaret stared at him as though she’d never seen him before. “What did you do to warrant his attention?”
Abraham seemed just as puzzled as she. “I don’t know.”
He folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “I met him once, at one of the mayor’s parties. He was a strange, old man. Odd sense of humor. He told...interesting stories.”
“Seems like someone you’d get along with. He probably found your line of work to be amusing.”
“Could be. He’s one of those kind that like to play these games.”
Margaret said nothing.
“But he has paid me for solving a case that couldn’t be solved. It may just be fun to him, but he is a patron to my cause nonetheless, and I can respect that. Would you like more tea?”
“One more, please, and then I should get home. It’s getting late.”
Abraham nodded and got up to go to the kitchen. Margaret watched him fill the pot and wondered just how many people like Newberry and Surd there were in the world. She didn’t think she could cope with more than two. The first letter was still on the table. She picked it up and read it through once more. She gave a small chuckle.
“‘Humiliated in your own forté.’ Fort! Your own home! Hah!” The letter was tossed back to the table, and Margaret fell back into her chair. There was a sudden silence in the kitchen. She looked up and saw Abraham standing with his back to her. He’d stopped pouring the tea altogether.
“I never thought of that...” he said.
Margaret smiled inwardly. “I guess things get by even the ‘great’ Abraham Surd once in a while, huh?”
“On occasion, it has been known to happen, yes.”
Margaret relaxed once more. It felt good to have the metaphorical last word for once. An Abraham Surd who makes mistakes was more human than what she had gotten used to. His technique both frustrated and intrigued her, but Margaret would admit that there was a need for people like that.
So long, she added as an afterthought, that somewhere, somehow, they can be beaten.
Abraham Surd returned with the tea. He handed one mug to Margaret and took his seat with the drink already going to his lips. Margaret watched, waiting to see if Abraham would catch his mistake this time. Up, up went the mug...
...And it continued going up, further and further, as he drank deeply from the steaming liquid. He did so quite deliberately. Margaret held her hand over her own mug. The steam alone was a searing heat. No one could drink something that hot.
When he was finished, he placed the mug on the table and wiped his mouth. He looked at Margaret, whose face was a mask of confusion.
“I always drop in an ice cube. I’m impatient.”
Margaret went to speak, coughed, then cleared her throat. “Always?”
“Always.”
Another of those silences that Surd’s parlor had made infamous drifted over them.
“So, when you burnt your tongue earlier...?”
“When did I burn my tongue?”
Too observant...He was right when he said that much. I am too observant, Margaret thought to herself. He tricked me. He tricked me and waited the whole night for this, because he knew I’d notice. He knew I’d notice and wonder why he’d go to all this trouble to play these games with me. He isn’t observant enough–he never noticed the pun. But here he is, drinking his tea and proving his point without ever saying a word. He always wins.
“Margaret?”
Margaret blinked and brought her slightly annoyed train of thought back to the tracks of the peaceful, warm night. She sipped her tea. “Don’t you go patronizing me now, Abraham Surd.”
They talked a little while longer, and when Margaret had finished her tea, she excused herself.
“I think I’d better get home. It’s been an interesting night, Abraham.”
“Any time, old friend.”
At the door, Margaret threw on her coat. The light from the parlor fell into the deep gloom of the office, where one fan was still running high up on the filing cabinet. Margaret looked past Abraham to the fireplace, to the table, and to the chairs. That chair, the soft leather and perfectly contoured armrests...it looked comfortable enough, let alone to be sitting in it.
Then there was the solid, wooden chair, which Abraham Surd had sat upon the whole night, never shifting. It looked like such a rough chair to endure for so long.
Of course, that was the thing about looks. If you knew about looks and you knew about people like Abraham Surd, you sometimes saw things differently.
“Abraham?”
“Yes, Margaret?”
“That chair...I suppose you like that chair a lot?”
Abraham turned. “It’s a good chair. Very comfortable.”
Margaret nodded. They exchanged glances.
“Good night, Abraham.”
“Good night, Margaret.”
Margaret began the short walk to her own home a few blocks away. She waved to Abraham as she left his porch. All the way home, passing under street lights and watching the cars drive by, she wondered why she put up with his games to begin with.
Probably because of the cozy chair.
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