The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "Why? We went into the whole matter thoroughly, with expert psychologists and criminologists, before we incorporated. Experience proved our theories to be correct. What are the motives for murder?"

  Carmody ticked them off on his fingers. "Well, greed—jealousy—revenge—"

  "Passion or profit—two classifications, generally. We get few of the former. Such crimes are generally committed during a temporary emotional storm. Give the storm time to die down, put it on a practical level of hard cash, and the passion-murderer usually changes his mind. Moreover, very often he wants the pleasure of committing the crime himself. There have been cases, of course. But profit is the main motive. And most of our clients are drawn from the higher income brackets. It's a convenient service we offer, after all. The lower brackets are pretty conservative; they have indoctrinated morals, and think it's worse to pay for murder than to commit it personally."

  "While the upper brackets are amoral, eh?"

  "It's a case of relative values and proportions. Especially in this day and age. Power grows in direct ratio to money; if you have enough power, you approach godhead in your ability to juggle with lives. The gods were notorious for inundations and lightning-bolts. They could destroy mere humans without compunction. But the money barons don't need our help to handle lower-bracket enemies—they've got their own financial weapons for that. It's only when the gods were fighting among themselves that they called in aid. I could tell you cases that would surprise you—but, naturally, I shan't. Now—shall we discuss business?"

  "All right," Carmody said. "The guy's name is Dale, Edward Dale."

  "Address?"

  Carmody gave it.

  "Your name?"

  "Albert Carmody. Don't you want to know my ... uh ... motive?"

  "That will be investigated. Most of our running expenses are aimed at covering the initial investigation. As soon as we assure ourselves that you have a sound motive for wanting Dale killed, we'll take action. That's to protect ourselves against spies, framed evidence, and so on. We'll find out about you, Mr. Carmody, don't worry about that."

  -

  Dale was executive president of the Brazil-U.S-Combine that had fired Carmody. The motive was O.K.; it would, Carmody knew, check with his own rather violent personality-pattern.

  "How much?"

  "We set no price. That's up to you."

  "Ten thousand dollars."

  "I see," French said, making a note. "Now let me explain Clause A. In a business like this, we must set a high standard of honesty and professional ethics. We're bonded with Dow-Smith—the regular honesty bond, by which we forfeit ninety-five percent of our assets if it can be proved that we reneg on a contract. We have a standard of moral ethics, too."

  "Moral?" Carmody said, lifting an eyebrow.

  "Certainly. We've reduced life-value to a basis of pure cash. Here's how it works. Our investigators will give us an estimate of your total assets. Let's say arbitrarily you're worth a hundred thousand dollars. You'll pay ten thousand to have Edward Dale killed. His life, then, is worth ten percent of your assets. You follow me?"

  "So far."

  "If Dale's life is worth, to him, ten percent of his assets, we'll refund your check."

  "I don't get that."

  "Dale will be notified that a client has asked for his death. Your name, of course, won't figure in it. Nor will the amount you offered. The percentage will be mentioned. If Dale will pay ten percent of his total assets, we'll drop the case and refund your money."

  "But how do you know he's got any money?"

  "The chances are he's got more than you have, or you wouldn't need our services to exterminate him. It depends on your motive, of course. It's a risk we run. But we average. We average."

  "It sounds like blackmail to me," Carmody said. "If I pay you to kill Dale, and you take protection money from him—"

  "Two things are sure, death and taxes. The moment we accept your patronage, Dale is in articulo mortis. We are in the position of a physician who can save his patient's life—and charges for that medical service."

  "After he's first administered poison."

  "We have our ethics," French said, spreading his hands, and glancing interestedly at the well-manicured nails. "We put a cash value on a man's life, that's all. And a life isn't as intangible as ... say ... a lease."

  "That's a question. Anyhow—let me think this out. You'll take my check for ten grand to kill Dale. But if he pays you—ten percent—of his assets, then he survives."

  "And your money is refunded, under Clause A."

  "What's to prevent me from coming back a week later and offering twenty thousand to get Dale killed? I could ruin the man that way. He'd have to keep on paying and paying till—"

  "Ethics. We never accept the same client aiming at the same objective twice. That's a rule. You might come back and hire us to kill somebody else—that'd be acceptable—or anybody else might come in and pay us to kill Edward Dale, but we'd never accept another commission from you to murder Dale."

  "But there's nothing to stop me from giving dough to some friend and having him hire you to kill Dale."

  "Not a thing. Except our corps of investigators. They'd find out where that money came from. And if the client had a real motive for wanting Dale killed. It would look fishy. And we wouldn't take the case."

  "I see," Carmody said, and a faint grin crossed his face. He was thinking of Dale's reaction. Dale would pay; the man was familiar with the way WE KILL PEOPLE worked, Carmody knew, and would certainly pony up ten percent of his sufficiently large fortune to save his own life. Carmody had surreptitiously assured himself of that already. He himself had killed in the past, but never quite in cold blood. He didn't want Dale dead, no. But the man had been guilty of double-dealing. He had taken Reuben Blake's orders, and fired Carmody from a job he liked and wanted. So Dale would have to pay for that. Not with his life, but with ten percent of his total assets—which would total a lot more than ten thousand dollars!

  No. Ten percent had been the arbitrary figure set by French. The figure would be closer to five than ten—still large enough to hurt, though. And Carmody's bankroll was no windfall. He had earned it, and no investigation could shake that fact. That financial asset had been one of the reasons Blake had chosen Carmody.

  -

  "—to help me," Blake had said, back in his palace penthouse, two weeks ago, while he stared at the chessboard before him. "You've got to, Carmody. Or I'll be ruined."

  "A firm like that—" Carmody said thoughtfully. "WE KILL PEOPLE. Why isn't it stopped?"

  "I told you why. I've explained. But now—well, all I can do is find out how they kill people. I can't move economically against them; their weapon is murder, and it's absolutely sure-fire. They've built up a reputation in four years."

  "Without proof?"

  "Without legal proof. Listen. Kalman, the oil man, told me he'd been approached. Fifteen percent of his assets—they knew exactly how much that'd be, too—or he'd be killed. He told them to go to hell. He got legal aid and police protection. Fortnight later, polio killed him."

  "Polio?"

  "Yes. Seth Berger—septicemia. Miller—atypical pneumonia. Bronson—rheumatic fever; Jaeckle—cerebrospinal meningitis."

  "Lately?"

  "Of course not," Blake said, pouring himself a drink. "Most of those were three years ago, at least. Jaeckle died last year, but he had delusions of grandeur. He was guarded day and night. Thought he could escape. Result, meningitis."

  "How?"

  "Nobody knows. WE KILL PEOPLE didn't send out a man to stick a hypodermic needle into the guy, if that's what you mean. They have some absolutely sure method of committing murder so it looks like death from natural causes."

  "Had Jaeckle been exposed to meningitis?"

  "How can you answer a thing like that? Maybe, maybe not. And listen, Carmody—people get over meningitis, and pneumonia, and rheumatic fever. But not Jaeckle or Bronson or Miller. With WE KILL PEOPLE, the
mortality rate is one hundred percent. Forget about precautions. They won't work. If WE KILL PEOPLE puts the bee on a man, he's dead! No, what I want to find out is how it works. What their trade secret is. Once I know that, I can move. Not necessarily legally, but effectively. I have a good organization, as you've found out."

  "I've found out, all right," Carmody said, and Blake swallowed his drink hastily, spilling some of it down his chin. He dabbed ineffectually at his foulard.

  "O.K., I've apologized! I told you I'd give you anything you wanted!"

  "And you can do it. That's why I'm saying yes. But I need more information. Are you afraid to die?"

  Blake sighed, put down his glass, and stared at nothing. "Sure. And I'm afraid of waste. I'm a white rat going crazy in a maze. My plans aren't finished by a long shot. I know my average life expectancy, and I've enough doctors in my pay to keep me healthy—unless I'm murdered. But I don't want to be poor. I'd rather be dead."

  "What do WE KILL PEOPLE want? A hundred percent of your dough?"

  "It was a frame-up," Blake said. "A very neat, logical frame. I told you how WE KILL PEOPLE works. They're ethical, in their way. But these twenty men—more or less, I don't know how many there are, and that's what's helping to drive me nuts!"

  "What about them?"

  "Enemies of mine. I've enemies, of course. I suppose they hate me, and I suppose they've got justification. I've probably ruined a lot of 'em in various ways. I don't apologize for that. I can't hunt up everybody who's suffered by my policies and apologize personally—or pay them off. There are too many. And I don't know who all of them are. I open a plastic factory, and an employee of copper somewhere in Burma gets fired, goes hungry, his family starve—he hates me. Do I know anything about it? No."

  "So you've got a lot of enemies. What are they doing?"

  "Ruining me," Blake said. "They aren't rich, I'm sure. I'm one of the wealthiest men in the world, and there aren't many in my class. No, these are middle-income figures. Call 'em A, B, C, and so on. A is worth practically nothing. No assets to speak of. B has a little more but not much. C has a little more than that. I've figured it out, Carmody, and it makes sense."

  "Well?"

  "These—enemies—got together and figured out an idea. A cumulative method of ruining me. A went in to WE KILL PEOPLE and offered 'em one percent of his assets if they'd kill me. Fine. WE KILL PEOPLE got in touch with me and told me about it. I paid—one percent of my total holdings. Leaving me ninety-nine percent."

  "Oh-oh," Carmody said. "You mean—"

  "Then B called on WE KILL PEOPLE and paid 'em two percent of his assets. He could afford that; he had a little more dough than A. WE KILL PEOPLE asked me for two percent of my assets at that date—that is, after one percent had been deducted from the total. I paid. A week later, I was called on to pay three percent. After that, four percent of what I had left. D'you see?"

  "But ... uh ... huh. That means the percentage will keep going up as your assets go down."

  Blake seized a stylus and figured rapidly on a pad. "I know this by heart. Let's say my total assets, originally, were represented by the arbitrary sum of one hundred dollars. Here's the breakdown, so far."

  The figures looked like this:

  1% of $100.00 $99.00

  2% of 99.00 97.02

  3% of 97.02 94.11

  4% of 94.11 90.35

  5% of 90.35 85.83

  6% of 85.83 80.68

  7% of 80.68 75.03

  8% of 75.03 69.03

  "Multiply that by billions and you've got it," Blake said. "A lot of my assets are tied up or frozen. I can't keep jerking out cash without upsetting the apple cart. Can you think of a better way to drive a guy nuts? I don't know how long this will keep up, you see. When I'll get a call for nine percent—and after that, ten and eleven and hell!"

  "At the rate of pay you offer," Carmody said, "I'd be a fool if I didn't take the job. However! I'm just one man—"

  "All the data we've gathered will be placed at your service. I've a staff of military and strategic experts, you know. And technicians. We've a few gadgets that'll help you. You'll be well equipped for offense and defense. But in the end it'll depend on you personally. I want to know how these—murders!—are committed. After that—"

  -

  "After that, you'll be notified," French said. "You understand that our investigations come first. Then we accept or reject your case. Finally, we'll give Dale a chance to meet your figure. If he does, of course—he lives."

  Carmody took out his checkbook, but French lifted a restraining hand. "That's not necessary yet."

  "All right. There's one more thing, though."

  "What?"

  "I'm looking for employment."

  French seemed surprised. "A job?"

  "A job. I was fired from a good one by some sort of wire-pulling. I've enough dough to settle down, and I could get another job easily. But ordinary work won't suit me. I want something interesting. Now that I know a little about your set-up, I'm intrigued. Plenty."

  "Well," French said, "I don't know. It isn't often we get a client and an applicant for work at the same time."

  "I'm an unusual guy. And my qualifications are good—I think. At least, for your line of business. My record will show that."

  "You'll have to see Mr. Higgins," French said. "He's the president of the firm. Naturally, personal interviews are pretty important—and so are references."

  "You'll save money," Carmody suggested. "You'll be investigating me anyway in connection with Dale, so—"

  "Mr. Higgins handles all that," French repeated. "He sees all applicants. It has nothing to do with me, you know. The board of directors is in charge of organizational work; WE KILL PEOPLE is a group of separate units—financial, investigatory, operative, and so on—each one fairly independent. But if you want to see Mr. Higgins, I'll arrange an appointment."

  "Will you do that?"

  "Of course. You understand, some precautions must be taken—eh?"

  "I can see that."

  "Very well," French said, smiling for the first time. "You'll be notified, then. Any questions? Well, if not—thank you for giving us your custom, and good afternoon, Mr. Carmody."

  He politely stayed on the screen till Carmody went out of the office.

  -

  Carmody didn't report to Reuben Blake. It wouldn't have been safe. The strategic campaign had been settled a week ago, and the supply line was open whenever Carmody needed material. From now on, the spies of WE KILL PEOPLE might be watching him any time, so his life must be above suspicion. Blake could hold out for a while; the important move now was to gain entrance to the sanctorum of the homicide corporation. Certain of the gadgets Carmody had available would be useful; there was a microscopic wireless microphone-scanner to be planted in the right place, and there were other interesting devices. Meanwhile, he put the whole matter out of his mind and began living the life of a repatriate from South America—which mostly involved entertainment.

  After two days French called him on his hotel telaudio. It was a playback, for Carmody had been out when French put through the call, so it was a monologue rather than a conversation, though, as usual, the automatic questioner, originally dictated by Carmody, had been left audible for convenience.

  "Mr. Carmody, please."

  "He'll be back at noon. Automatic speaking. Who is calling?"

  "Samuel French."

  "Any message?"

  "Yes. The request for an interview has been granted. At two p.m. a blue-and-white copter will sit at Empire Roofport. That's the one."

  "Thank you. Good-by."

  -

  Empire Roofport towered above all the other buildings in the city. It was enormous; it had to be, to accommodate the downblasts of the copters. Slightly before two, a cold, drizzling rain was falling, and Carmody stepped out of the automatic elevator to find the roof field deserted, except for an overcoated figure hunched uncomfortably under the transparent awning, staring over
the guard rail at the street, a good half-mile down. No copters were visible. The man at the rail turned a familiar face.

  "Lousy weather," he said, and then, "Oh! It's you, eh?"

  "It's me. What are you doing here?"

  Edward Dale looked uncomfortable. "Waiting for my copter. That chauffeur'll tell me the storm held him up over Long Island."

  Carmody wondered if it would be a blue-and-white copter. Dale, of all people! It was impossible. Dale couldn't be president of WE KILL PEOPLE!

  "How are you doing?" Dale asked, after a time.

  "O.K. I still don't know exactly why you're here."

  "I work here," Dale said, pointing down, and Carmody remembered one of the Brazil-U.S.-Combine's offices was at Empire.

  "You didn't ... ah ... expect to meet me?"

  Dale frankly stared. "Why, no, Carmody. Why should I? Did ... you expect to see me?"

  "No," Carmody said, and Dale, after a puzzled moment, turned to glance over the rail.

  "I told him two, distinctly. Well, I'm going to wait five more minutes and then get a cab."

  Carmody watched Dale, while a puzzled frown grew between his eyes. The drizzle grew to a downpour. Finally Dale hunched his shoulders, scowled, and turned back to the elevators. "I won't wait," he said. "I'll put in a call for an air cab at the booth. See you, Carmody."

  "Yeah," Carmody said, still scowling. He glanced at his watch, 2:08.

  At 2:11 a blue-and-white copter dropped from the low ceiling, and its door opened. Carmody ran through the rain and sprang aboard, pulling the door shut behind him. Instantly sight and sound of the outer world were cut off.

  "Rotten weather," a hoarse voice said. "Let's get to a warmer place, what do you say?"

  "You're Mr. Higgins?"

  The fattish man at the controls spun his chair to face Carmody. "That's right. Come up here and sit beside me, will you?" He indicated a seat at his right. "Wait'll I lift this windmill. Then we can talk."

  Seated, Carmody surreptitiously examined Higgins. He couldn't make out much; the man was bundled up in overcoat and scarf, and his shapeless hands, moving deftly over the controls, were cased in heavy thermal gloves. He wore no hat, though, and his bald head gleamed in the light. He had a round, undistinguished face, a button of a nose, and a mouth that was far too small between those bulging cheeks.