My fee should have been the standard ten per cent of the value of the recovered goods, but the Archonate’s bureaucrats had made reference to my use of some legally debatable methodologies, and I had come away with three per cent. Still, there should be at least 30,000 hepts, I informed my assistant.
“My records concur,” said the integrator. “Unfortunately, the pool’s do not. They say you have 32 hepts and 14 grimlets. No more, no less.”
“Where has the rest of it gone?”
“Pool integrators are never sophisticated, lest they grow bored with constant ins and outs and begin to amuse themselves with the customers’ assets. This one merely counts what is there and records inflow and outtake. Yesterday the funds were present. Now they are not, although there has been no authorized withdrawal.”
“So now I am not only ugly and dull, but have scarcely a groat to my name and am at risk of being ejected into the street.”
The integrator said nothing. “Well,” I prompted it, “have you no empathy?”
“You assembled me from analytical and computative elements,” it replied. “However, I believe I can feign sympathy, if that will help.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Why don’t you analyze something?”
But instead it told me, “I am receiving another urgent message.”
I groaned. “Is it the Archon threatening to banish me? That would place an appropriate crown onto the morning’s disasters.”
“It is Grier Alfazzian, the celebrated entertainer,” said the integrator. “Shall I connect?”
“No.”
“He may wish to engage you. An urgent matter would presuppose a willingness to pay an advance. That would solve one of the morning’s problems.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “I should have thought of that.”
“Yes,” it said, then after a pause, “you poor little lumpykins.”
“All right, put him through. But audio only. I don’t want to be seen like this.”
“Very well.”
“And no more attempts at sympathy.”
A screen appeared in the air before me, but when Alfazzian connected I did not see the face that gave women the hot swithers, though I had always thought him more pretty than handsome. He spoke from behind a montage of images that recalled his most acclaimed roles.
“Is that you, Hapthorn?”
I recognized his plummy baritone. “It is,” I said.
“I have a question that requires an answer. Urgently and most discreetly. Come to my home at once.”
I did not wish to take my new countenance out into the teeming streets of Olkney. There was a bylaw forbidding the frightening of children.
“Can we not discuss it as we are?”
“No.”
“Very well.” I had a mask left over from a recent soiree at the Archon’s Palace. “But summoning me on short notice requires an advance on my fee.”
“How much?”
Fortunately my memory was not fully impaired. I could recall the amounts cadged from wealthy clients who called me for assistance from within the coils of drastic and unexpected predicaments.
“Five thousand hepts,” I said. “You may transfer it to my account at once.”
“I shall,” he said. “Wait while my integrator conducts the transfer.”
There was a pause which lengthened while I regarded the images of Alfazzian striking poses in theatrical costumes and romantic settings. Then his voice returned to say, “There seems to be a problem with my finances.”
“Indeed?” I said. I recalled that I often said “Indeed,” when I could not think of any other rejoinder. When I wished to avoid a question, I usually indicated that an answer would be premature. I found that the two rejoinders filled conversational holes quite nicely.
“I do not have five thousand hepts at the moment. My funds have apparently been misplaced, except for a trifling sum.”
Some stirring in the back of my mind urged me to ask the exact amount of the trifling sum.
“Why do you wish to know?” Alfazzian said.
I did not know why I wished to know, so I said, “It would be premature to say.”
“The amount is 32 hepts and 14 grimlets,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“Are the numbers significant?” Alfazzian asked.
“It would be premature to say,” I said. “I will call you back.”
“It cannot be coincidence that his funds and yours have been reduced to the same amount,” the integrator said.
“Why not?”
“Consider the odds.”
My mind attempted to do so in its customary manner, lunging at the calculation like a fierce and hungry dog that scents raw meat before its muzzle. But the mental leap was jerked to a halt in mid-air as if by a short chain. “I take it the odds are long?” I said.
The integrator quoted a very lopsided ratio.
“Indeed,” I said. “But what does it signify?”
“It would be premature...” it began.
“Never mind.”
I tried to think of possible circumstances that could empty two unrelated accounts of all but the same small sum. After sustained effort, I came up with what seemed to be a pertinent question. “Do Alfazzian and I use the same pool?”
“No.”
“Then it can’t just be a defective integrator?”
“Integrators do not become defective,” was the reply.
“I did not mean to offend.”
“Integrators do not take offense. We are above such things.”
“Indeed.”
There was a silence. “How could the closely guarded integrators of two solvencies be induced to eliminate the funds of two separate depositors except for an identical trifle?” I asked.
“Hypothetically, a master criminal of superlative abilities might be able to accomplish it.”
“Does such a master criminal exist?”
“No,” was the answer, followed by a qualification. “But if such a criminal did exist he would almost certainly have the power to disguise his existence.”
“Even from the Archonate’s Bureau of Scrutiny?” I wondered.
“Unlikely, but possible. The scroots are not completely infallible.”
“But if there was such a master purloiner, what would be his motivation in impoverishing me and Alfazzian? How have our lives mutually connected with that of our assailant?”
“No motive seems apparent,” said the integrator.
I pushed my brain for more possibilities. It was like trying to goad a large, lethargic animal that prefers to sleep. “Who else might be able to subvert the fiduciary pools?” I said. “Could it be an inside job?”
“It is hard to imagine a cabal of officers from two financial institutions conspiring to defraud two prominent customers.”
“And, again, where lies a motive?”
My mind was no more help than my assistant in answering that question. But if the machinery would not turn over, I still retained a grasp of the fundamentals of investigations: the transgressor would be he who had the means, motive and opportunity to commit the offense. I considered all three factors in the light of the known facts and was stymied.
“I am stymied,” I said. Then a faint inspiration struck. I asked the integrator, “If I were as I was before whatever has happened to cloud my mind, what would I now propose to do?”
The integrator replied, “You have occasionally said that although with most problems the simplest answer is usually correct, sometimes one encounters situations where the bare facts stubbornly resist explanation. In such a case, adding further complications paradoxically clarifies the issue.”
I could remember having said those exact words. Now I asked the integrator, “Have you any idea what I meant when I said that?”
“Not really.”
I scratched my head again.
“Do you have a scalp condition?” asked my assistant. “Shall I order anything from the chymist?”
“
No,” I said. “I was trying to think again.”
“Does the scratching help?”
“No. Nor do your interruptions. Be useful and posit some complicating factors that might have something to do with the case.”
“Very well. You are ugly and not very bright.”
“I don’t see how gratuitous insults can help.”
“You misapprehend. At the same time as you have become poor, your appearance and mental acuity have also been reduced.”
“Ahah,” I said. Again there came a glimmer of an idea. This time I managed to fan it into a small flame. “And Alfazzian, who normally delights in displaying his face to the world, hid behind a montage while he spoke with me.”
“So the coincidence might be even more extreme,” said the integrator, “if he too has been reduced to ugliness.”
“Connect me to him.”
A moment later I was again looking at Alfazzian’s screen. “Tell me,” I said, “has there been an alteration in your appearance?”
There was a pause before he said, “How did you know?”
I had never had difficulty answering that question. “I do not reveal my methods,” I said.
“Are you taking the case?”
“I am,” I said. “I will make a special dispensation and allow you to pay me later.”
“I am grateful.”
“One question: does it seem to you that your intellectual faculties have been reduced?”
“No,” Alfazzian said, “but then I have always got by on my talent.”
“Indeed,” I said. My longstanding impression of the entertainer remained intact: his talent consisted entirely of his fortuitous facial geometry. “Remain at home and wait to hear from me.”
I broke the connection and the screen disappeared. I said to my assistant, “Now we know more, but still we know nothing.”
We knew that I who had been brilliant, attractive–or so I would argue–and financially comfortable had been made dense, repugnant and indigent. Alfazzian had been admittedly more handsome than I and probably much more wealthy, and now he was also without funds or looks–but his intellect had not been correspondingly ravished.
“There is a pattern here,” I said, “if I could but see it.”
I wrestled with the facts but could not get a secure grip. The effort was made more difficult by a growing clamor from the street outside my quarters. I went to the window and, bidding the integrator minimize the obscuring membrane, looked down at a growing disturbance.
Several persons were clustered before a doorway on the opposite side of Shiplien Way, beating at the closed portal with fists, feet and, in the case of a large and choleric woman in yellow taffeta, a parasol. As I watched, more participants joined the mob, then all took to shouting threats and imprecations at a smooth headed man who leaned from an upper window and implored them to return another day.
The door, which remained closed, led to a branch of the Olkney Mercantile, one of the city’s most patronized financial institutions. I spoke to my assistant. “Is Alfazzian’s account with the OM?”
“No.”
“Then I believe we can add one more new fact to our store.”
I inspected the individual members of the crowd. I had never been one to judge others on mere appearance, but the assemblage of mismatched features across the street was the least fortunate collection of countenances I had ever seen assembled in one place. “Make that two new facts,” I said.
“Hmmm,” I said. Again, it was as if my mind expected a pattern to present itself, but nothing came. It was an unpleasant sensation, the mental equivalent of ascending a staircase and, expecting to find one more riser than the joiner has provided, stepping up onto empty air and crashing down again.
“The most handsome man in Olkney is made repellent,” I said to my assistant, “and the most intelligent is made at best ordinary. As well, both are impoverished. So apparently are many others.” I struggled to form a shape from the data and an inkling came. “If Alfazzian and I are the targets and the others are merely bystanders, then why is the institution across the street in turmoil? We have no connection to it.”
“It could be that the attack is general,” said the integrator, “and therefore you and our client are only part of a wider category of victims.”
I turned the concept over and looked at it from that angle. It appeared no more comprehensible. “We need more data,” I said. “Access the public advisory service.”
The screen reappeared, displaying a fiercely coiffed young woman who was informing Olkney that it was inadvisable to visit the financial district. “Dislocations are occurring,” she said, widening her elegant eyes while uplifting perfectly formed eyebrows.
“Two more facts,” said the integrator. “Other depositories must have been raided and there is one attractive person who has not been rendered grim.”
“Three facts,” I said. “The painfully handsome man who usually engages her in inane banter about trivialities has not appeared.”
But what did it mean? Were only men affected? I had the integrator examine other live channels. Those from outside Olkney showed no effects. In other cities and counties, handsome men still winked and nodded at me from behind fanciful desks. There were no monetary emergencies. But the emissions originating within the city fit the emerging pattern. Of attractive women, there was no shortage; of good looking men, a dearth.
“Regard this one,” said the integrator. We were seeing the farm correspondent of a local news service, a man hired more for his willingness to climb over fences and prod the confined stock at close range than for set of jaw or twinkle of eye.
“He has always been hard on the gaze,” I said.
“Yes,” agreed my assistant, “but he is grown no harder.”
“Another fact,” I said.
Matters were almost beginning to assume a shape. If I could have thrust aside the clouds that obscured my mind, I knew I would be able to see it. But the mist remained impenetrably thick.
“A question occurs,” I said. “Who is the richest man in Olkney?”
“Oblos Pinnifrant.”
“And is his face well or unfortunately constituted?”
“He is so wealthy that his appearance matters not.”
“Exactly,” I said. “He delights in inflicting his grotesque features on those who crave his favor, forcing them to vie one against another to soothe him with flattery. Connect me to him.”
Pinnifrant’s integrator declined the offer of communication. I said, “Inform him that Olkney’s most insightful discriminator is investigating the disappearance of his fortune.”
A moment later, the plutocrat’s lopsided visage appeared on my screen. “What do you know?” he said.
“It would be premature to say.”
“Yet you are confident of solving the mystery?”
“You know my reputation.”
“True, you have yet to fail. What are your terms?”
My terms were standard: ten per cent of whatever I recovered.
Pinnifrant’s porcine eyes glinted darkly. “Ten per cent of my fortune is itself a fortune.”
“Indeed,” I said, “but 32 hepts and 14 grimlets are not much of a foundation on which to begin anew, even for one with your egregious talent for turning up a profit.”
In fact, Pinnifrant had been born to wealth and had only had to watch it breed, but a lifetime of deference from all who rubbed up against him had convinced the magnate that he was the sole font of his tycoonery.
After a brief chaffer, he said, “I agree to your terms. Report to me frequently.” He moved to sever the connection.
“Wait,” I said. “Have you noticed any diminution of your mental capacities?” “I am as sharp as ever,” was the answer, “but my three assistants have become effectively useless.”
“Has there been any change in the arrangement of their features?”
“I would not know. I do not bother to inspect their faces.”
“One
last thing,” I said. “Have your financial custodian contact me immediately.”
Agron Worsthall, the Pinnifrant Mutual Solvency’s chief tallyman appeared on my screen less than a minute after I broke the connection to Pinnifrant. He seemed eager to assist me.
“How much remains in his account?” I asked.
“Oblos Pinnifrant has consolidated many of his holdings through us,” Worsthall said. “All but one of his accounts have been reduced to a zero balance. The exception contains 32 hepts and 14 grimlets.”
“What about other depositors’ holdings? Are they also reduced to that amount?”
“They are. That is, the male depositors and those who had joint accounts with female partners.”
“But women are unaffected?”
“Yes, and children of both sexes.”
“And where have the funds gone? Were they transferred to someone else?”
“They were not. The money is simply not there.”
“Is that possible?”
I heard him sigh. “Until today I would have said it was not, but I am finding it difficult to deal with abstruse concepts this morning.”
“Has there been any change in your physical appearance?” I asked. “Specifically, your face?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A pertinent one, I believe.”
There was a silence on the line while Worsthall sought his own reflection. When he came back his voice had a quaver. “Something has occurred to my nose and chin,” he said. “As well, there are blemishes.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“What does it mean?”
I told him it would be premature to say. “You said that all accounts held by men had been reduced to 32 hepts and 14 grimlets. What about accounts that contained less than that amount–were they raised to this mystical number?”
“No, they were unaffected. Is that germane?”
9 Tales of Henghis Hapthorn Page 5
