Demolished Man Page 7

  "No." Dishonest Abe took over and answered smoothly. "You'd never believe it, but the occupational disease of detectives is Laterality. That's right-handedness or left-handedness. Most detectives suffer from strange changes of Laterality. I was naturally left-handed until the Parsons Case when I—"

  Abruptly, Powell choked off his lie. He took two steps away from his fascinated audience and sighed deeply. When he turned back to them. Dishonest Abe was gone.

  "I'll tell you about that another time," he said. "Tell me what happened after Maria and the guests saw the blood dripping down on your cuff."

  Reich glanced at the bloodstains on his cuff. "She yelled bloody murder and we all went tearing upstairs to the Orchid Suite."

  "How could you find your way in the dark?"

  "It was light. Maria yelled for lights."

  "You didn't have any trouble locating the suite with the light on, eh?"

  Reich smiled grimly. "I didn't locate the suite. It was secret. Maria had to lead the way."

  "There were guards there... knocked out or something?"

  "That's right. They looked dead."

  "Like stone, eh? They hadn't moved a muscle?"

  "How would I know?"

  "How indeed?" Powell looked hard at Reich.

  "What about D'Courtney?"

  "He looked dead too. Hell, he was dead."

  "And everybody was standing around staring?"

  "Some were in the rest of the suite, looking for the daughter."

  "That's Barbara D'Courtney. I thought nobody knew D'Courtney and his daughter were in the house. Why look for her?"

  "We didn't know. Maria told us and we looked."

  "Surprised to find her gone?"

  "We were beyond surprise."

  "Any idea where she went?"

  "Maria said she'd killed the old man and rocketed."

  "Would you buy that?"

  "I don't know. The whole thing was crazy. If the girl was lunatic enough to sneak out of the house without a word and go running naked through the streets, she may have had her father's scalp in her hand."

  "Would you permit me to peep you on all this for background and detail?"

  "I'm in the hands of my lawyer."

  "The answer is no," ¼maine said. "A man's got the constitutional right to refuse Esper Examination without prejudice to himself. Reich is refusing."

  "And I'm in one hell of a mess," Powell sighed and shrugged. "Well, let's start the investigation."

  They turned and walked toward the study. Across the hall, Beck scrambled into police code and asked:

  "Linc, why'd you let Reich make a monkey out of you?"

  "Did he?"

  "Sure he did. That shark can stiff you any time."

  "Well you better get your knife ready, Jax. This shark is ripe for Demolition."

  "What?"

  "Didn't you hear the slip when he was busy stiffing me? Reich didn't know there was a daughter. Nobody did. He didn't see her. Nobody did. He could infer that the murder made her run out of the house. Anybody could. But how did he know she was naked?"

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then, as Powell went through the north arch into the study, a broadcast of fervent admiration followed him: "I bow, Linc. I bow to the Master."

  * * *

  The "study" of Beaumont House was constructed on the lines of a Turkish Bath. The floor was a mosaic of jacinth, spinel and sunstone. The walls, cross-hatched with gold wire cloisons were glittering with inset synthetic stones... ruby, emerald, garnet, chrysolite, amethyst, topaz... all containing various portraits of the owner. There were scatter rugs of velvet, and scores of chairs and lounges.

  Powell entered the room and walked directly to the center, leaving Reich, Tate, and ¼maine behind him. The buzz of conversation stopped, and Maria Beaumont struggled to her feet. Powell motioned her to remain seated. He looked around him, accurately gauging the mass psyche of the assembled sybarites, and measuring the tactics he would have to use. At length he began.

  "The law," he remarked, "makes the silliest damned fuss about death. People die by the thousands every day; but simply because someone has had the energy and enterprise to assist old D'Courtney to his demise, the law insists upon turning him into an enemy of the people. I think it's idiotic, but please don't quote me."

  He paused and lit a cigarette. "You all know, of course, that I'm a peeper. Probably this fact has alarmed some of you. You imagine that I'm standing here like some mind-peeping monster, probing your mental plumbing. Well... Jo ¼maine wouldn't let me if I could. And frankly, if I could, I wouldn't be standing here. I'd be standing on the throne of the universe practically indistinguishable from God. I notice that none of you have commented on that resemblance so far..."

  There was a ripple of laughter. Powell smiled disarmingly and continued: "No, mass mind-reading is a trick no peeper can perform. It's difficult enough to probe a single individual. It's impossible when dozens of TP patterns are confusing the picture. And when a group of unique, highly individual people like yourselves is gathered, we find ourselves completely at your mercy."

  "And he said I had charm," Reich muttered.

  "Tonight," Powell went on, "you were playing a game called 'Sardine.' I wish I had been invited, Madame. You must remember me next time..."

  "I will," Maria called. "I will, dear prefect..."

  "In the course of that game, old D'Courtney was killed. We're almost positive it was premeditated murder. We'll be certain after Lab has finished its work. But let's assume that it is a Triple-A Felony. That will enable us to play another game... a game called 'Murder.' "

  There was an uncertain response from the guests. Powell continued on the same casual course, carefully turning the most shocking crime in seventy years into a morsel of unreality.

  "In the game of 'Murder,' " he said, "A make-believe victim is killed. A make-believe detective must discover who killed the victim. He asks questions of the make-believe suspects. Everyone must tell the truth, except the killer who is permitted to lie. The detective compares stories, deduces who is lying, and uncovers the killer. I thought you might enjoy playing this game."

  A voice asked: "How?"

  Another called: "I'm just one of the tourists."

  More laughter.

  "A murder investigation," Powell smiled, "explores three facets of a crime. First, the motive. Second, the method. Third, the opportunity. Our Lab people are taking care of the second two. The first we can discover in our game. And if we do, we'll be able to crack the second two problems that have Lab stumped now. Did you know that they can't figure out what killed D'Courtney? Did you know that D'Courtney's daughter has disappeared? She left the house while you were playing 'Sardine.' Did you know that D'Courtney's guards were mysteriously short-circuited? Yes, indeed. Somebody robbed them of a full hour in time. We'd all like to know just how."

  They were hanging at the very edge of the trap, breathless, fascinated. It had to be sprung with infinite caution.

  "Death, disappearance, and time-theft... we can find out all about them through motive. I'll be the make-believe detective. You'll be the make-believe suspects. You'll tell me the truth... all except the killer, of course. We'll expect him to lie. But we'll trap him and bring this party to a triumphant finish if you'll give me permission to make a telepathic examination of each of you."

  "Oh!" cried Maria in alarm.

  "Wait, Madame. Understand me. All I want is your permission. I won't have to peep. Because, you see, if all the innocent suspects grant permission, then the one who refuses must be the guilty. He alone will be forced to protect himself from peeping."

  "Can he pull that?" Reich whispered to ¼maine.

  ¼maine nodded.

  "Just picture the scene for a moment." Powell was building the drama for them, turning the room into a stage. "I ask formally: 'Will you permit me to make a TP examination?' Then I go around this room..." He began a slow circuit, bowing to each of the guests in turn. "And the
answers come... 'Yes... Yes... Of course... Why not?... Certainly... Yes... Yes...' And then suddenly a dramatic pause." Powell stopped before Reich, erect, terrifying." 'You, sir,' I repeat. 'Will you give me your permission to peep?' "

  They all watched, hypnotized. Even Reich was aghast, transfixed by the pointing finger and the fierce scowl.

  "Hesitation. His face flushes red, then ghastly white as the blood drains out. You hear the tortured refusal: 'No!'..." The Prefect turned and enveloped them all with an electrifying gesture: "And in that thrilling moment, we know we have captured the killer!"

  He almost had them. Almost. It was daring, novel, exciting; a sudden display of ultra violet windows through clothes and flesh into the soul... But Maria's guests had bastardy in their souls... perjury... adultery — the Devil. And the shame within all of them rose up in terror.

  "No!" Maria cried. They all shot to their feet and shouted "No! No! No!"

  "It was a beautiful try, Linc, but there's your answer. You'll never get motive out of these hyenas."

  Powell was still charming in defeat. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I really can't blame you. Only a fool would trust a cop." He sighed. "One of my assistants will tape the oral statements from those of you who care to make statements. Mr. ¼maine will be on hand to advise and protect you."

  He glanced dolefully at ¼maine: "And louse me."

  "Don't pull at my heart-strings like that, Linc. This is the first Triple-A Felony in over seventy years. I've got my career to watch. This can make me."

  "I've got my own career to watch, Jo. If my department doesn't crack this, it can break me."

  "Then it's every peeper for himself. Here's thinking at you, Linc."

  "Hell," Powell said. He winked at Reich and sauntered out of the room.

  Lab was finished in the orchid Wedding Suite. De Santis, abrupt, testy, harassed, handed Powell the reports and said in an overwrought voice: "This is a bitch!"

  Powell looked down at D'Courtney's body. "Suicide?" he snapped. He was always peppery with De Santis who was comfortable in no other relationship.

  "Tcha! Not a chance. No weapon."

  "What killed him?"

  "We don't know."

  "You still don't know? You've had three hours!"

  "We don't know," De Santis raged. "That's why it's a bitch."

  "Why, he's got a hole in his head you could jet through."

  "Yes, yes, yes, of course. Entry above the uvula. Exit below the fontanelle. Death instantaneous. But what produced the wound? What drilled the hole through his skull? Go ahead, ask me."

  "Hard Ray?"

  "No burn."

  "Crystallization?"

  "No freeze."

  "Nitro vapor charge?"

  "No ammonia residue."

  "Acid?"

  "Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but it couldn't burst the back of his skull."

  "Thrusting weapon?"

  "You mean a dirk or a knife?"

  "Something like that."

  "Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to penetrate like this? Couldn't be done."

  "Well... I've just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What about a projectile?"

  "How's that?"

  "Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and smelly."

  "Not a chance here."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" De Santis spat. "Because there's no projectile. None in the wound. None in the room. Nothing nowhere."

  "Damnation!"

  "I agree."

  "Have you got anything for me? Anything at all?"

  "Yes. He was eating candy before his death. Found a fragment of gel in his mouth... bit of standard candy wrapping."

  "And?"

  "No candy in the suite."

  "He might have eaten it all."

  "No candy in his stomach. Anyway, he wouldn't be eating candy with his throat."

  "Why not?"

  "Psychogenic cancer. Bad. He couldn't talk, let alone eat gook."

  "Hell and damnation. We need that weapon... whatever it is."

  Powell fingered the sheaf of field reports, staring at the waxen body, whistling a crooked tune. He remembered hearing an audio-book once about an Esper who could read a corpse... like that old myth about photographing the retina of a dead eye. He wished it could be done.

  "Well," he sighed at last. "They licked us on motive, and they've licked us on method. Let's hope we can get something on opportunity, or we'll never bring Reich down."

  "What Reich? Ben Reich? What about him?"

  "It's Gus Tate I'm worried about most," Powell murmured. "If he's mixed up in this... What? Oh, Reich? He's the killer, De Santis. I slicked Jo ¼maine down in Maria Beaumont's study. Reich made a slip. I staged an act and misdirected Jo while I peeped to make sure. This is off the record, of course, but I got enough to convince me Reich's our man."

  "Holy Christ!" De Santis exclaimed.

  "But that's a long way from convincing a court. We're a long way from Demolition, brother. A long, long way."

  Moodily, Powell took leave of the Lab Chief, loafed through the anteroom and descended to field headquarters in the picture gallery.

  "And I like the guy," he muttered.

  In the picture gallery outside the Orchid Suite where temporary headquarters had been set up. Powell and Beck met for a conference. Their mental exchange took exactly thirty seconds in the lightning tempo typical of telepathic talk:

  Well, it's Reich for Demolition, Jax. We tripped him up in that talk,and sneaked a peep in Maria's study just to make sure. Ben's our boy.

  You'll never prove it, Linc.

  Can the guards help?

  Not a chance. They've lost one solid hour. De Santis says their retinal rhodopsin was destroyed. That's the visual purple... what you see

  Uh-huh. with in your eye. As far as the guards are concerned, they were on duty and alert. Nothing happened

  Nothing much! until the mob suddenly blew in, and Maria was screeching at them

  And how The Gilt Corpse can screech. for falling asleep on the job... which they emphatically swear they did not.

  But we know it was Reich.

  You know it was Reich. Nobody else does.

  He went up there while the guests were playing the Sardine game. He destroyed the guards' visual purple some

  way and robbed them of an hour of time. He went into the Orchid Suite and killed How?

  D'Courtney. The girl got mixed up in it, somehow, which is why she ran. How did he kill D'Courtney?

  And last of all: why did he kill D'Courtney?

  I don't know. I don't know any of the answers... yet.

  You'll never get a Demolition that way.

  That I do know.

  You've got to show motive, method, and opportunity,

  Uh-huh. objectively. All you've got is a peeper's knowledge that Reich killed D'Courtney.

  Uh-huh.

  Did you peep how or why?

  Couldn't get in deep enough... not with Jo ¼maine watching me.

  And you'll probably never get in. Jo's too careful.

  Hell & Damnation! Jackson, we need the girl.

  Barbara D'Courtney?

  Yes. She's the key. If she can tell us what she saw and why she ran, we'll satisfy a court. I agree.

  Collate everything we've got so far and file it. It won't do us any good without the

  girl. Let everyone go. They won't do us any good without Right.

  the girl. We'll have to back-track on Reich... see what collateral evidence we can dig up, but— I'm beginning to hate her.

  But it won't help without that goddam girl.

  Times like this, Mr. Beck, I hate women too. For Christ's sake, why are they all trying to get me married?

  Image of a horse laughing.

  Sar(censored)castic retort.

  Sar(censored)donic reply.

  (censored)

  * * *


  Having had the last word, Powell got to his feet and left the picture gallery. He crossed the overpass, descended to the music room and entered the main hall. He saw Reich, ¼maine, and Tate standing alongside the fountain, deep in conversation. Once again he fretted over the frightening problem of Tate. If the little peeper really was mixed up with Reich, as Powell had suspected at his party the week before, he might be mixed up in this killing.

  The idea of a 1st class Esper, a pillar of the Guild, participating in murder was unthinkable; yet, if actually the fact, a son of a bitch to prove. Nobody ever got anything from a 1st without full consent. And if Tate was (incredible... impossible... 100-1 against) working with Reich, Reich himself might prove impregnable. Resolving on one last propaganda attack before he was forced to resort to police work, Powell turned toward the group.

  He caught their eyes and directed a quick command to the peepers: "Jo. Gus. Jet off. I want to say something to Reich. I don't want you to hear. I won't peep him or record his words. That's a pledge."

  ¼maine and Tate nodded, muttered to Reich and quietly departed. Reich watched them go with curious eyes and then looked at Powell. "Scare 'em off?" he inquired.

  "Warned them off. Sit down, Reich."

  They sat on the edge of the basin, looking at each other in a friendly silence.

  "No," Powell said after a pause, "I'm not peeping you."

  "Didn't think you were. But you did in Maria's study, eh?"

  "Felt that?"

  "No. Guessed. It's what I would have done."

  "Neither of us is very trustworthy, eh?"

  "Pfutz!" Reich said emphatically. "We don't play girl's rules. We play for keeps, both of us. It's the cowards and weaklings and sore-losers who hide behind rules and fair play."

  "What about honor and ethics?"

  "We've got honor in us, but it's our own code... not the make-believe rules some frightened little man wrote for the rest of the frightened little men. Every man's got his own honor and ethics, and so long as he sticks to 'em, who's anybody else to point the finger? You may not like his ethics, but you've no right to call him unethical."

  Powell shook his head sadly. "You're two men, Reich. One of them's fine; and the other's rotten. If you were all killer, it wouldn't be so bad. But there's half louse and half saint in you, and that makes it worse."