"Any objections?"
Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.
"I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her."
Quizzard nodded.
"She's about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds. Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs..."
The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.
"Yellow hair. Black eyes. Heart shaped face. Full mouth and a kind of aquiline nose... She's got a face with character. It jabs out at you. Electric."
"Clothes?"
"She was wearing a silk dressing gown last time I saw her. Frosty white and translucent... like a frozen window. No shoes. No stockings. No hat. No jewelry. She was off her beam... Crazy enough to tear out into the streets and disappear. I want her." Something compelled Reich to add: "I want her undamaged. Understand?"
"With her hauling a freight like that? Have a heart, Reich." Quizzard licked his fat lips. "You don't stand a chance. She don't stand a chance."
"That's what a hundred Ms are for. I stand a good chance if you get her fast enough."
"I may have to slush for her."
"Then slush. Check every bawdy house, bagnio, Blind Tiger, and frab-joint in the city. Pass the word down the grapevine. I'm willing to pay. I don't want any fuss. I just want the girl. Understand?"
Quizzard nodded, still jingling the gold. "I understand."
Suddenly Reich reached across the table and slashed Quizzard's fat hands with the edge of his palm. The sovereigns chimed into the air and clattered into the four corners.
"And I don't want any double-cross," Reich growled in a deadly voice. "I want the girl."
8
SEVEN DAYS OF COMBAT.
One week of action and reaction, attack and defense, all fought on the surface while deep below the agitated waters Powell and Augustus Tate swam and circled like silent sharks awaiting the onset of the real war.
A patrol officer, now in plainclothes, believed in the surprise attack. He waylaid Maria Beaumont during a theater intermission, and before her horrified friends bellowed: "It was a frame. You were in cahoots with the killer. You set up the murder. That's why you was playin' that Sardine game. Go ahead and answer me."
The Gilt Corpse squawked and ran. As the Rough Tail set off in hot pursuit, he was peeped deeply and thoroughly.
Tate to Reich: The cop was telling the truth. His department believes Maria was an accomplice.
Reich to Tate: All right. We'll throw her to the wolves. Let the cops have her.
In consequence, Madame Beaumont was left unprotected. She took refuge, of all places, in the Loan Brokerage that was the source of the Beaumont fortune. The patrol officer located her there three hours later and subjected her to a merciless grilling in the office of the peeple Credit Supervisor. He was unaware that Lincoln Powell was just outside the office, chatting with the Supervisor.
Powell to staff: She got the game out of some ancient book Reich gave her. Probably purchased at Century. They handle that stuff. Pass the word. Did he ask for it specifically? Also, check Graham, the appraiser. How come the only intact game in the book was 'Sardine'? Old Man Mose'll want to know. And where's that girl?
A traffic officer, now in plainclothes, was going to come through on his Big Chance with the suave approach. To the manager and staff of the Century Audio-bookstore, he drawled: "I'm in the market for old game books... The kind my very good friend, Ben Reich, asked for last week."
Tate to Reich: I've been peeping around. They're going to check that book you sent Maria.
Reich to Tate: Let 'em. I'm covered. I've got to concentrate on that girl.
The manager and staff carefully explained matters at great length in response to the Rough Tail's suave questions. Many clients lost patience and left the store. One sat quietly in a corner, too rapt in a crystal recording to realize he was left unattended. Nobody knew that Jackson Beck was completely tone-deaf.
Powell to staff: Reich apparently found the book accidentally. Stumbled over it while he was looking for a present for Maria Beaumont. Pass the word. And where's that girl?
In conference with the agency that handled copy for the Monarch Jumper ("the only Family Air-Rocket on the market"), Reich came up with a new advertising program.
"Here's the slant," Reich said. "People always anthropomorphize the products they use. They attribute human characteristics to them. They give 'em pet names and treat 'em like family pets. A man would rather buy a Jumper if he can feel affectionate toward it. He doesn't give a damn for efficiency. He wants to love that Jumper."
"Check, Mr. Reich. Check!"
"We're going to anthropomorphize our Jumper," Reich said. "Let's find a girl and vote her the Monarch Jumper Girl. When a consumer buys one, he's buying the girl. When he handles one, he's handling her."
"Check!" the account man cried. "Your idea has a sense of solar scope that dwarfs us, Mr. Reich. This is a wrap-up and blast!"
"Start an immediate campaign to locate the Jumper Girl. Get every salesman onto it. Comb the city. I want the girl to be about twenty-five. About five-five tall; weighing a hundred and twenty pounds. I want her built. Lots of appeal."
"Check, Mr. Reich. Check."
"She ought to be a blonde with dark eyes. Full mouth. Good strong nose. Here's a sketch of my idea of the Jumper Girl. Look it over, have it reproduced and passed out to your crew. There's a promotion for the man who locates the girl I have in mind."
Tate to Reich: I've been peeping the police. They're sending a man into Monarch to dig up collusion between you and that appraiser, Graham.
Reich to Tate: Let 'em. There isn't anything, and Graham's left town on a buying spree. Something between me and Graham! Powell couldn't be that dumb, could he? Maybe I've been overrating him.
Expense was no object to a squadman, now in plainclothes, who believed in the disguises of plastic surgery. Freshly equipped with mongoloid features, he took a job in Monarch Utilities' Accounting-city and attempted to unearth Reich's financial relations with Graham, the appraiser. It never occurred to him that his intent had been peeped by Monarch's Esper Personnel Chief, reported upstairs, and that upstairs was quietly chuckling.
Powell to staff: Our stooge was looking for bribery recorded in Monarch's books. This should lower Reich's opinion of us by fifty per cent; which makes him fifty per cent more vulnerable. Pass the word. Where's that girl?
At the board meeting of "The Hour," the only round-the-clock paper on earth, twenty-four editions a day, Reich announced a new Monarch charity.
"We're calling it 'Sanctuary'," he said. "We offer aid and comfort and sanctuary to the city's submerged millions in their time of crisis. If you've been evicted, bankrupted, terrorized, swindled... If you're frightened, for any reason and don't know where to turn... If you're desperate... Take Sanctuary."
"It's a terriffic promotion," the managing editor said, "but it'll cost like crazy. What's it for?"
"Public Relations," Reich snapped. "I want this to hit the next edition. Jet!"
Reich left the board room, went down to the street and located a public phone booth. He called "Recreation" and gave careful instructions to Ellery West. "I want a man placed in every Sanctuary office in the city. I want a full description and photo of every applicant relayed to me at once. At once, Ellery. As they come in."
"I'm not asking any questions, Ben, but I wish I could peep you on that."
"Suspicious?" Reich snarled.
"No. Just curious."
"Don't let it kill you."
As Reich left the booth, a man clothed in an air of inept eagerness accosted him.
"Oh, Mr. Reich. Lucky I bumped into you. I just heard about Sanctuary and I thought a human interest interview with the originator of this wonderful new charity might—"
Lucky he bumped into him! The man was the "Industrial Critic's" famou
s peeper reporter. Probably tailed him down and — Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
"No comment," Reich mumbled. Eight, sir; seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir...
"What childhood episode in your life brought about the realization of this crying need for—"
Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one...
"Was there ever a time when you didn't know where to turn? Were you ever afraid of death or murder? Were—"
Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
Reich dove into a Public Jumper and escaped.
Tate to Reich: The cops are really after Graham. They've got their entire Lab looking for the appraiser. God knows what kind of red-herring Powell's following, but it's away from you. I think the safety margin's increasing.
Reich to Tate: Not until I've found that girl.
Marcus Graham had left no forwarding address and was pursued by half a dozen impractical tracer-robots dug up by the police lab. They were accompanied by their impractical inventors to various parts of the solar system. In the meantime, Marcus Graham had arrived on Ganymede where Powell located him at an auction of rare primitive books conducted at break-neck speed by a peeper auctioneer. The books had been part of the Drake estate, inherited by Ben Reich from his mother. They had been unexpectedly dumped on the market.
Powell interviewed Graham in the foyer of the auction room, before a crystal port overlooking the arctic tundra of Ganymede with the belted red-brown bulk of Jupiter filling the black sky. Then Powell took the Fortnighter back to Earth, and Dishonest Abe was inspired by a pretty stewardess to disgrace him. Powell was not a happy man when he arrived at headquarters, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod did some salacious wynking, blynking and nodding.
Powell to staff: No hope. I don't know why Reich even bothered to decoy Graham to Ganymede with that sale.
Beck to Powell: What about the game book?
Powell to Beck: Reich bought it, had it appraised, and sent it as a gift. It was in bad condition and the only game Maria could select was 'Sardine.' We'll never get Mose to pin anything on Reich with that. I know how that machine's mind works. Damn it! Where's that girl!
Three low-grade operatives in succession were smitten with Miss Duffy Wyg& and retired in disgrace to don their uniforms once more. When Powell finally reached her, she was at the "4,000" Ball. Miss Wyg& was delighted to talk.
Powell to staff: I called Ellery West down at Monarch and he supports Miss Wyg&'s story. West did complain about gambling and Reich bought a psych-song to stop it. It looks like he picked up that mind-block by accident. What about that gimmick Reich used on the guards? And what about that girl?
In response to bitter criticism and loud laughter, Commissioner Crabbe gave an exclusive press interview in which he revealed that Police Laboratories had discovered a new investigation technique which would break the D'Courtney Case within 24 hours. It involved photographic analysis of the Visual Purple in the corpse's eyes which would reveal a picture of the murderer. Rhodopsin researchers were being requisitioned by the police.
Unwilling to run the risk of having Wilson Jordon, the physiologist who had developed the Rhodopsin Ionizer for Monarch picked up and questioned by the police, Reich phoned Keno Quizzard and devised a ruse to get Dr. Jordon off the planet.
"I've got an estate on Callisto," Reich said. "I'll relinquish title and let a court throw it up for grabs. I'll make sure the cards are stacked for Jordon."
"And I tell Jordon?" Quizzard asked in his sour voice.
"We won't be that obvious, Keno. We can't leave a back-trail. Call Jordon. Make him suspicious. Let him find out the rest for himself."
As a result of that conversation, an anonymous person with a sour voice phoned Wilson Jordon and casually attempted to purchase Dr. Jordon's interest in the Drake estate on Callisto for a small sum. The sour voice sounded suspicious to Dr. Jordon, who had never heard of the Drake estate, and he called a lawyer. He was informed that he had just become the probable legatee to half a million credits. The astonished physiologist jetted for Callisto one hour later.
Powell to staff: We've flushed Reich's man into the open. Jordon must be our lead on the Rhodopsin angle. He's the only Visual Physiologist to disappear after Crabbe's announcement. Pass the word to Beck to tail him to Callisto and handle it. What about that girl?
Meanwhile, the slick side of operation Rough & Smooth was quietly in progress. While Maria Beaumont was occupying Reich's attention with her squawking flight, a bright young attorney from Monarch's legal department was deftly decoyed to Mars and held there anonymously on a valid, if antiquated, vice charge. An astonishing duplication of that young attorney went to work for him.
Tate to Reich: Check your legal department. I can't peep what's going on, but something's fishy. This is dangerous.
Reich brought in an Esper 1 Efficiency Expert, ostensibly for a general check-up, and located the substitution. Then he called Keno Quizzard. The blind croupier produced a plaintiff who suddenly appeared and sued the bright young attorney for barratry. That ended the substitute's connection with Monarch painlessly and legitimately.
Powell to staff: Damn it! We're being licked. Reich's slamming every door in our face... Rough & Smooth. Find out who's doing the legwork for him, and find that girl.
While the squadman was cavorting around Monarch Tower with his brand new mongolian face, one of Monarch's scientists who had been badly hurt in a laboratory explosion, apparently left the hospital a week early and reported back for duty. He was heavily bandaged, but eager for work. It was the old Monarch spirit.
Tate to Reich: I've finally figured it. Powell isn't dumb. He's running his investigation on two levels. Don't pay any attention to the one that shows. Watch out for the one underneath. I've peeped something about a hospital. Check it.
Reich checked. It took three days and then he called Keno Quizzard again. Monarch was promptly burgled of Cr. 50,000 in laboratory platinum and the Restricted Room was destroyed in the process. The newly returned scientist was unmasked as an imposter, accused of complicity in the crime, and handed over to the police.
Powell to staff: Which means we'll never prove Reich got that Rhodopsin stuff from his own lab. How in God's name did he un-slick our trick? Can't we do anything on any level? Where's that girl?
While Reich was laughing at the ludicrous robot search for Marcus Graham, his top brass was greeting the Continental Tax Examiner, an Esper 2, who had arrived for a long delayed check on Monarch Utilities & Resources' books. One of the new additions to the Examiner's squad was a peeper ghost-writer who prepared her chiefs reports. She was an expert in official work... mainly police work.
Tate to Reich: I'm suspicious of that Examiner's squad. Don't take any chances.
Reich smiled grimly and turned his public books over to the squad. Then he sent Hassop, his Code Chief, to Spaceland on that promised vacation. Hassop obligingly carried a small spool of exposed film with his regular photographic equipment. That spool contained Monarch's secret books, cased in a thermite seal which would destroy all records unless it was properly opened. The only other copy was in Reich's invulnerable safe at home.
Powell to staff: And that just about ends everything. Have Hassop double-tailed; Rough & Smooth. He's probably got vital evidence on him, so Reich's probably got him beautifully protected. Damn it, we're licked. I say it. Old Man Mose would say it. You know it. For Christ's sake! Where is that goddamn missing girl?
Like an anatomical chart of the blood system, colored red for the arteries and blue for the veins, the underworld and overworld spread their networks. From Guild headquarters the word passed to instructors and students, to their families, to their friends, to their friends' friends, to casual acquaintances, to strangers met in business. From Quizzard's Casino the word was passed from croupier to gamblers, to confidence men, to the heavy racketeers, to the light thieves, to hustlers, s
teerers, and suckers, to the shadowy fringe of the semi-crook and near-honest.
On Friday morning, Fred Deal, Esper 3, awoke, arose, bathed, breakfasted, and departed to his regular job. He was Chief Guard on the floor of the Mars Exchange Bank down on Maiden Lane. Stopping to buy a new commutation ticket at the Pneumatique, he passed the time with an Esper 3, on duty at the Information Desk, who passed Fred the word about Barbara D'Courtney. Fred memorized the TP picture she flashed him. It was a picture framed in credit signs.
On Friday morning, Snim Asj was awakened by his landlady, Chooka Frood, with a loud scream for back rent.
"For chrissakes, Chooka," Snim mumbled. "You already makin' a frabby fortune with 'at loppy yella head girl you pick up. You runnin' a golmine withat spook stuff down-inna basement. Whaddya want from me?"
Chooka Frood pointed out to Snim that: A) The yellow-headed girl was not crazy. She was a genuine medium. B) She (Chooka) did not run rackets. She was a legitimate fortune teller. C) If he (Snim) did not come through with six weeks roof and rolls, she (Chooka) would be able to tell his fortune without any trouble at all. Snim would be out on his asphalt.
Snim arose, and already dressed, descended into the city to pick up a few credits. It was too early to run up to Quizzard's and work the sob on the more prosperous clients. Snim tried to sneak a ride uptown on the Pneumatique. He was thrown out by the peeper change clerk and walked. It was a long haul to Jerry Church's hockshop, but Snim had a gold and pearl pocket-pianino up there and he was hoping to cadge Church into advancing another sovereign on it.
Demolished Man Page 9
