Reynardine looked at her stepfather. “This man is a savage and perhaps a criminal, but he speaks the truth,” she said. “It had better not be known that you and I came here tonight.”
Phogor shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of that. To Stover he said: “This means that I won’t injure or detain you unless you do something to force action. But you have struck and injured my daughter. That won’t pass without some retaliation on my part later. Now I give you leave to go.”
“I don’t need leave from you to go,” retorted Stover, and strode away toward the balcony.
Feet hurried after him. It was Reynardine.
“Mr. Stover,” she breathed, “I’ve been catching back my wind and collecting my wits all these past few moments. And, though it was I who got the slamming and choking, I feel less upset about it than my stepfather. For one thing,” and she was able to smile quite graciously, “I shouldn’t have suggested that you were a criminal^ I don’t really think you’re guilty.”
“I know I’m not guilty,” he returned, “but with everything so complicated and mysterious, how can anyone else be sure about me—except the actual murderer of your fiance?”
PHOGOR approached, furious again. “You dare to insinuate that my daughter is guilty?”
“Mr. Stover is insinuating nothing,” Reynardine calmed the Venusian. “He came here to search for evidence, just as we did. And he is more unselfish. We want the will; he only wants a clue to the murder.”
“I’m being selfish, too,” Stover assured her, for something bade him be loath at accepting favors from her. “I jammed myself into a situation where I must solve this case or be the next victim, or maybe the victim after the next. Well, Miss Reynardine, you’re being very kind. But what does this all mean? Why this sudden new attitude on your part?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think I trust you because you’re the best-built tall man I ever saw, and with the bluest eyes. Yes,” she continued, touching her throat, “and with the strongest hands. I’m able to testify that you fight both hard and fair.” Phogor snorted like a horse in a rainstorm. “This, daughter, is ridiculous. You know nothing about this man Stover.”
“Only the things I have just said,” she replied to her father, but with her brilliant eyes still on Stover. “I intend to learn more about him.”
Stover’s reaction to this almost aggressive demonstration of approval was one of baffled suspicion. He doubted if he was of such character and attraction as to sweep this proud and artificial beauty so completely off her feet. Looking at her, he knew that she could be a dangerous person if she cared to use her charm. Like a saving vision came the thought of Bee MacGowan, still in prison that he might have a chance to clear himself and her, too.
“You leave me embarrassed, Miss Reynardine,” he said. “So much so that I’ll have to say good-night and depart.”
“Wait,” she said. “Why don’t we come with you to your place and talk this thing out?”
“Talk it out?” he repeated. “Well, come on. I’ll signal for a taxi.”
Buckalew was waiting in the parlor as Stover let his self-invited guests in. One of Buckalew’s hands held a fluttering gray cloth, the mantle that had cloaked the figure Stover had met on the girders. With an exclamation, Stover snatched it and looked at it.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded.
“I found it hidden in a corner of the balcony,” replied Buckalew. “Probably the one who wore it dropped it there and hopped aboard one of the fleet planes that came around to investigate. I also found the wiring that was used to magnetize the walls. But who are these people?”
“You know them. Miss Reynardine Phogor and her stepfather. They seem to feel that a round-robin discussion will clarify some points of the Malbrook case.”
“Perhaps they’re right,” said Buckalew. “Will you all sit down?”
REYNARDINE drew herself up in queenly fashion. “I won’t sit down,” she said. “Mr. Stover, I persuaded you to bring me here because I think you got something tonight that I mean to have—the transcription that embodies the will of Mace Malbrook.”
He looked into her searching eyes. “What makes you think that?”
“Because, just before our little struggle, my torch showed me a wall- cupboard that had been rayed open. Nothing in it. Well,” she held out her hand, “give it to me. Father, if we have to be violent here it will be easier explained than at poor Mace’s old lodgings.”
“That is quite right, daughter,” agreed Phogor as he drew his pistol. “I think you were clever to switch the scene of action here. Now, if you please, Mr. Stover.”
“Hold on!” cried Stover hotly, his
temper rising. “I’m handing nothing over to you.”
“That,” said Reyardine Phogor, “is an admission that you have something.” She turned to her stepfather. “If he won’t hand it over, take it from him.”
Buckalew turned swiftly to a side- table and snatched open a drawer. But before he could dart his hand into that drawer, Phogor fired a pellet that knocked the side-table flying across the room. Out of the drawer fell a small handsome electro-automatic.
“No weapons, Mr. Buckalew,” cautioned the Venusian deeply. “You had better stay out of this altogether.” To Stover he said: “I give you one more chance, Mr. Stover, to give me whatever you found at Malbrook’s.”
“Stover will do nothing of the kind,” spoke the stern voice of Congreve.
The police head had come in, all uninvited and unnoticed, and had heard most of what had led up to the tense situation. He, too, held a drawn pistol. He extended his free hand.
“I take it you’ve finally got evidence,” he told Stover. “Well, hand it over. This isn’t an amateur with a society gun, young fellow. It’s a police officer. Quick!”
Stover sighed in resignation and drew forth the papers he had found. Congreve accepted them with a nod, moved back and looked through them quickly.
“Better than I thought,” he commented. “Here’s the definite proof.”
Stover took a step toward him. Congreve tried to put away the slip of paper, but Stover spied some words on it.
Mr. Malbrook:
I did what you said to do about Dr. Stover. Now I want pay, or you’ll be ju6t as dead. ...
“Who wrote that?” demanded Stover, walking right up to the muzzle of Congreve’s weapon.
“As if you didn’t know,” Congreve grinned harshly. “It’s signed. And the man who signed it is dead tonight.”
“I didn’t have time to look at everything in that sheaf of notes,” Stover assured him. “If it was written by—”
“You know whom it was written by. They just fished him out of the water.” The grin vanished. “What was left of him and Brome Fielding's flying car.”
SHARP! It had been Captain Sharp, then, who had brought his grandfather to death—and at the orders of Mace Malbrook. Congreve saw knowledge dawn in Stover’s face, and chuckled. The police head plainly enjoyed a dramatic situation.
“You want to make a statement and save everybody trouble?” he said. ‘‘Let me help you. Sharp was hired to kill your grandfather. You met him at the Zaarr. You quarreled. Later—” “You’re crazy!” exploded Stover. “I'd have gladly killed both Malbrook and Sharp if I’d known they were guilty of murdering my grandfather. He was an asset to the universe, while they were liabilities. But I didn’t know, and someone else killed them.” Reynardine Phogor spoke up hurriedly.
“I can vouch for Mr. Stover. He has been with me almost all evening since leaving the Zaarr.”
Phogor and Buckalew stared at the girl. Stover laughed.
“Well tried, Miss Reyardine,” he jibed. “You want Congreve to leave me here with you, so that you can find out what else I know about this case, at pistol-point, eh?” He addressed the officer again. “If you please, Congreve.”
He was about to offer Congreve all the bits of evidence he had collected— surmises, secrets, brief glimpses, the bit of
elascoid fabric, everything. But Congreve was so intent on something he had to say that he took no notice.
“Since Stover won’t make an admission, it remains to convict him. He is right in making a last-ditch stand of this. Someone may bob up yet as the guilty one. But I want all concerned to come along with me.”
“Come where?” asked Buckalew. “To Brome Fielding's quarters.” “Brome Fielding’s!” cried Stover, his voice shaking in spite of himself. “Is he—”
He had almost asked if Brome Fielding had survived that plunge out of the wrecked car. He broke off in time, and Congreve unwittingly answered the question for him.
“Fielding has found the will of Mace Malbrook in a safe at the office they both shared. Since everybody here is mixed up in the murder somehow, I want you to sit in on the hearing of it. We’ll pick up Amyas Crofts and go right now.”
CHAPTER XVIII The Testament of Mace Malbrook
THE room was dim as they entered it, dim and quiet, with chairs for all and a blank televiso screen against the rearmost wall. Two figures sat in a corner behind some radio apparatus with a projector attached. One of these stood up and spoke. It was Brome Fielding.
“Phogor and Reynardine,” said Fielding, “take these two chairs in the center. Buckalew, sit just behind Miss Reynardine. Congreve, you’re here to investigate and protect. Maybe you’d like to sit next to the door, where you can keep an eye on everybody? Mr. Crofts, you may take the chair on the other side of the door. Mr. Stover,” and Fielding’s voice became an unpleasant growl, “I suppose you’re to be congratulated from escaping from that wreck.”
“You didn't expect me to live through it?”
“As a matter of fact, I rather did, It was myself that surprised me by surviving. Thank all the gods of all the planets for that automatic parachute.”
“You two are talking in riddles,” said Congreve coldly. “Better tell me the answers.”
“I’ll explain fully when we’ve had the will,” promised Fielding. “Probably you'll be glad to hear the whole truth about that accident which you tell me finished poor Sharp. Sit next to me, Stover.”
“Why next to you?” asked Stover. “Because I don’t trust you. I want to keep watch over you.”
“Isn’t Congreve here to do the watching?” mocked Stover.
Amyas Crofts said: “Put Stover next to me, and turn off the lights. Once he threatened me.”
Stover looked at Fielding, then at the silent, hulking figure that sat half- hidden behind the radio machinery.
“My bodyguard,” volunteered Fielding, as he saw the direction of Stover’s glance. “I hired him at once when I heard that you were still alive.”
“Not very complimentary to the police,” rejoined Stover. “Well, if he’s an honest bruiser, let him sit between us. I don’t think I trust you, either.”
Fielding was silent for a moment. Then: “Not a bad idea. Lubbock, will you trade chairs with me and keep watch over Mr. Stover? If he acts strangely at all, you will know what to do.”
The bodyguard made no reply, nor did he move until Fielding put a hand on his shoulder. Then his great hulk shifted smoothly to the chair nearest Stover. Fielding switched off the last dim light, and they heard him fumbling with the controls of his machinery.
“This is a televiso representation, with transcribed sound track,” he announced in the gloom. “It depicts the verbal making of the last will and testament of my partner, the late Mace Malbrook.”
A click, and the screen lighted up.
They all saw the image of Mace Malbrook, in full color. He sat beside a table on which was placed a microphone to pick up his voice. In one hand he held a glass that seemed to be full of guil. A powerful drink, thought Stover, to be sipped while he recorded an important legal document.
Malbrook’s pictured face looked pale and sardonic, and his mouth was set in the tightest of smiles.
“My name,” came his formal voice, “is Mace Malbrook. The date, Earth time, is May eighteenth, twenty-nine hundred and thirty-six.”
“May eighteenth!” breathed Stover. It was the day on which he had come to Mars, the day before the night in which Mace Malbrook had died. Malbrook’s voice went on:
“The extent of my property holdings and controls can be ascertained by consulting the public records of the community of Pulambar. I make this statement at this time, recognizing that I may possibly come to my death at the hands of one Dillon Stover.” Stover heard a sigh from someone, perhaps Reynardine Phogor. He divined, rather than saw or heard, a leaning forward of Congreve. In the mind of the police head, Stover’s guilt was again confirmed, though probably Malbrook had said what he had said simply in looking forward to a duel. Again the voice of the dead man:
“In the event of my death, I request that this recording be properly observed by my two heirs-at-law, Brome Fielding and Reynardine Phogor; and they be accompanied by reputable and responsible witnesses.”
That was the usual introduction to a will so recorded. The image of Malbrook sipped from the glass, and the voice added:
“I hearby make definite statement that, although each of these two heirs expects to receive at my death the overwhelming bulk of my holdings and interests, I am obliged to neglect one of them in order to treat the other as I consider deserved. I now make my formal bequests and decrees. First: That all my debts be paid, and a funeral service be conducted for me in a manner befitting one of my standing and reputation. Second—”
A break in the speech. The figure of Malbrook rose from its seat, as if to lend emphasis to what would follow.
“Second,” came words in a louder and sterner voice, “I direct that my former partner, Brome Fielding, be arrested, and charged with my wilful murder for his own selfish profit!” Loud, raucous confusion. With a loud buzz and snap, the radio mechanism shut off and the screen darkened. But the voice of Dillon Stover rang on the air that still vibrated with the accusation.
“Let nobody move!”
Stover was on his feet, near the door where sat Congreve and Amyas Crofts. He flashed on his radium torch, which he had never put aside since his adventure at Malbrook’s, and it filled the room with brightness.
It showed all the others risen, all but the mantled bodyguard Fielding had called Lubbock. Fielding himself had moved back from the radio controls, toward a blank-seeming wall.
“Don’t try to duck through any hidden panel, Fielding,” warned Stover, and his free hand whipped out his ray thrower. “Someone turn on the room lights . . . Thanks, Congreve. Now, while Fielding is still pulling himself together, let me say that I pulled a trick to get this case out in the open, and it’s succeeded. I added my voice to that of Malbrook. Fielding murdered his partner and the others, for the reason you have just heard. He wanted all of Malbrook’s holdings for himself. And he tried to lay the blame on me.”
“Mr. Stover—” began Congreve angrily.
“Don’t interfere now,” spoke up Buckalew suddenly and clearly. “I respect the law, but not all the decisions of all its representatives. Stover must be allowed to finish.”
HE MADE a grab at the front of Phogor’s tunic, and possessed himself of the Venusian’s electro-automatic. Congreve subsided.
Fielding had jumped forward again, standing close to Stover. He seemed to dare an assault from the ray-thrower.
“You’re convicting yourself, Stover,” he charged. “I wanted this will—which has been tampered with —to be heard, and properly witnessed, before the final bands tightened around you. But now—Congreve! This man is armed and desperate, but I know he’ll never defeat the law. Before you all, I want to tell what happened earlier tonight.”
He pointed a finger at Stover. “He and Captain Sharp accosted me. I took them into my flying machine, intending to turn them over to the police. When we were in the air, and I announced my intention, Stover set off some kind of a bomb. I only escaped because I was strapped in the pilot’s seat and had an automatic parachute.”
“Certainly
you had, since it was you who did the bombing;” Stover
shouted him down. “That pilot’s seat was the best possible protection, Fielding. It had a high metal back to fend off a blast. The blast itself kicked you loose, seat and all, and the parachute let you down. I escaped by chance and desperation and the luck that wouldn’t let a swine like you get away with this dirty string of murders! And there was another figure in the car with us.”
“You mean Sharp?” put in Congreve who has been trying to edge in a word for some time.
“No, not Sharp. Someone—something else.”
“Preposterous!” snorted Fielding.
Stover turned back to him. “Get back a little, Fielding. I want to look at this bodyguard of yours, the fellow you said you’d hired to protect you from me? Why is he so silent? Why doesn’t he get out of the chair?”
When Fielding refused to move, Stover pushed him violently aside. “Look!” he cried to the others.
They looked.
“That’s no bodyguard,” said Congreve at once. “It isn’t a man at all.”
“It’s nothing alive,” put in Amyas Crofts, stepping forward.
“No,” said Stover. “Certainly not. Just what is the thing?”
CHAPTER XIX The Murder Weapon
THEY were all staring now.
The draped hulk was not a man. It was a dummy. Its head, rising above the folds of the mantle, was flesh-colored and lifelike, but the full light that now flooded the room showed it up for a painted sham. Its eyes and lips were flat stencil-like blotches, its skin looked taut and puffy.
“It seems to be some sort of hollow shell,” commented Stover. “You moved it very easily from chair to chair, Fielding. I wonder if it isn’t an inflated shape of thin elascoid— like a toy bolloon at a carnival?” He lifted his ray thrower, as though to send a beam at the thing.
“Don’t!” Fielding almost screamed.
“Why not?” demanded Stover, and his weapon drew a bead on the lumpy, inflated head. “Why so compassionate over a big air-blown doll? I think I’ll just deflate your friend the bodyguard.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 Page 11
