Stephens folded the letter, and put it in his breast pocket. He was keyed up, he realized, but not depressed.
The group was unloading him. There would be other pressures. Even the reference to “compensations in due course” was a tactical move. Perhaps, if he agreed to leave Almirante his severance pay might be large indeed.
He phoned Riggs’ hotel, and this time got through almost immediately. Riggs said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stephens. Reason I didn’t call you was that I received a letter from Mr. Tannahill saying you were no longer connected with the case and to have nothing to do with you.”
“You received a letter only? No personal contact?”
“No.”
“Not even a phone call?”
“What are you getting at?” Riggs sounded vaguely alarmed.
“Look, Bill—” Seriously— “I have every reason to believe that Mr. Tannahill is a prisoner. Have you received your walking papers?”
“Well—the letter said I wouldn’t be needed any more, and that I was to put in my bill— Hell, you mean we’re being had? I was packing.’’
“Better unpack—unless you want to get out of the deal.”
“I’m staying right here. Where’ll we meet?”
“No place. I’m going to force a showdown with some pretty dangerous people, and I need your help in a big way . . .”
He phoned the newspapers. Neither Carewell nor Grant were in—at least, so he was told. In such case he talked instead to the managing editor. He told both editors: “Impress upon your publisher that a big story is going to break tonight. He knows where it will be. He’s the only press representative who will be invited, and he’s got to come personally. Tell him everyone in the group must be there.”
Next, he called Judges Porter and Adams and, unable to get through to the men, talked to their secretaries. Those were the only calls he made to members of the group. The rest would have to learn by grapevine and turn up without invitation.
Stephens was pretty sure they would be there. The group and the murderer. The egomaniac and his next victims. The man who aspired to dominate an entire planet and those who stood in his way.
That had to be the answer. The man was taking too many risks. At any moment the other members of the group might discover that somebody among them was doing something secretively. And surely, surely, that must be the one unforgivable crime.
He had to kill them to save himself.
Thought of killing reminded Stephens of the dead man in the Tannahill burial plot. He phoned the police, and learned that the fingerprint identification had not yet come through. He groaned, as he hung up. He was forcing a showdown for this very night, and he still didn’t have that vital piece of information.
Restlessly, he took out a notepad, and wrote: The dead man is either not connected with this affair, or he is. I’ve got to assume that he is.
He hesitated, then scrawled: He’s not somebody I know. He is somebody I know.
Stephens stared gloomily at the sheet. It was straining logic to assume the latter possibility. And yet, his analysis ended immediately if he didn’t assume it. He wrote: Assume I know him. Who is he?
After a moment’s thought, he wrote down a heading:
Physical characteristics of dead body: About my build. Who do I know in this affair that’s my size? . . . Walter Peeley.
He paused there. For the improbable identification was flashing signals in his mind. Swiftly, he picked out the logical highlights of the chain of reasoning: Peeley had been missing for a week; Jenkins had seen him on the night of Mistra’s whipping, but despite many attempts to locate him, he had not been seen after that date.
The robot brain had indicated that Peeley had long opposed his companion’s more violent schemes. It seemed plausible that now that the crisis was here, the man had finally murdered his careful colleague—this despite the precautions that Peeley (according to the robot) had secretly taken against the other.
More strongly than ever, it emphasized that this was the decisive hour. Equally convincing was the fact that the murderer did not seem to be worried that Allison Stephens would tell the group about the ship. And yet he had held that information back for more than a thousand years.
Either he didn’t care any more or—what was far more likely—he was utterly confident of success.
Stephens was still thinking about it a moment later when his door opened. Miss Chainer came in, swallowed, and then gulped: “There’s a Miss Lanett to see you.”
As the vision that was Miss Lanett entered, Miss Chainer seemed to fade away like a wisp of autumn-brown hay. The door closed, and Stephens stared at Mistra with bright eyes.
His excitement ended almost immediately. For she returned his gaze coolly, then walked over to a chair. “May I sit?” she asked.
Stephens studied her somberly. He guessed that he was about to receive another rebuff. He said finally, “I see you won your point in your attack on Lorillia.”
She nodded. “Did it shock you?”
He shook his head. “I still could not have participated in it, but since you believed that you were right—” He broke off. “Did you marry Tannahill?”
For a long time, she studied him. “Where did you get that notion?” she asked at length.
Stephens had no intention of betraying Riggs, now that the detective was to play so prominent a role in the showdown later in the evening. He said, “It was the logical solution. Marry Tannahill. And automatically own half his property under California law.”
There was a brief silence, then Mistra said, “I’d like my purse. The one I left behind that first night.”
The fact that she made no attempt to confirm or deny the marriage chilled him. Stephens opened the bottom drawer of his desk; and, without a word, handed her the bag. She emptied the contents onto the desk, and replaced them one by one. She looked up. “Where are the keys?”
“Oh!” He reached into his pocket, and held them out to her. As she took them, he said, “I’m coming up to see all of you tonight. You’ve probably heard.”
She looked at him rather oddly. “You’ll be interested to know that Tannahill has recovered his memory. Accordingly, you haven’t a friend left in the group.”
Stephens gazed at her steadily for a moment. “None?” he asked.
Her voice was even. “None.”
Stephens smiled grimly. He was being unloaded all right, all along the line. They didn’t realize that it couldn’t be done, not while he had breath in his body. He said, “You can tell Mr. Tannahill that he can’t fire me. I’m an employee of Walter Peeley. When Mr. Peeley relieves me of my job, I’ll consider myself separated.”
The irony of that held him briefly. If it was Peeley there in the grave, then it might take a little while to dismiss Allison Stephens.
Mistra was speaking. “Very well, we shall have Mr. Peeley notify you formally.”
“What about us? When you said you loved me—was that just part of your strategy?”
“No,” she said, but her face did not soften. “But I’ll get over it—I’ve got hundreds of years to recover. And some day—maybe there’ll be someone else.”
The coldness of her voice stiffened him. He realized that he had to make a stronger impression than this. He said, “Is the mind reader still with you?”
She nodded, questioningly.
“Fire her,” said Stephens. “She’s no good.”
“Are you still harping on the Peeley theme?”
Stephens hesitated. “Where is Peeley? Has he turned up yet?”
Her reply was slow. “Not yet,” she said at last. “But don’t worry. We’re ready for him. If he’s plotting against us—”
“He isn’t.” Stephens spoke slowly. “I missed the boat there—I think.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Mistra, you’re all in danger of being murdered.”
Mistra shook her head, and smiled ironically. “Allison, you’re being very melodram
atic, and also very obvious. You’re trying to frighten the group into accepting you. It won’t work. I assure you we’re not in danger of being exterminated. We’ve never been more alert.”
She started to pick up her gloves. Stephens said, “Mistra —wait!”
She settled slowly back in her chair. Her green eyes were questioning. Stephens said, “Can’t you see that I’m trying to help you? I have information.”
Stephens had no intention of sharing with this coldly hostile young woman what the robot-brain of the ship had told him. Besides, his plan of attack now included putting the ultimate pressure on them, if necessary; and for that he needed information. He said, “Mistra, is there any way in which the Grand House could be destroyed?”
She laughed. “You don’t think I’d tell anybody that, do you?”
Stephens leaned forward. “For your very life, reconsider that answer.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, that’s ridiculous. Do you suggest that a member of the group could be so stupid? The house is all we’ve got, actually.”
Stephens said grimly, “I’m suggesting, on the basis of what I know, that must be the purpose of the traitor. Therefore—have you any quick way of destroying it so that it could never be useful to you again? A new explosive, perhaps. I don’t mean anything as large as an atomic bomb, but something a person might carry in his pocket. I admit that’s a large order.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I can’t see any harm in telling you, since you couldn’t possibly use the knowledge against us. Element 167 is a physical freak. Released in a fine powder, it would cause atomic instability in the marble of the house that would disintegrate it, so that we could never hope to recover the material in its original form.”
“Element 167? There’s nothing else that could do it?”
“That’s all, as far as we know.”
“Thanks.” He was silent; finally: “I’m sorry I can’t say, ‘This is the man!’ Maybe you could tell me a little about some of your people. How many are in town right now?”
“Forty-one.”
“Out of fifty-three.” Stephens spoke musingly. “It would be quite a catch if he got them all.” He went on firmly. “They’ve all got to be there. He’s got to think that this is his one opportunity. It’s the only way to force him into the open. You can see that, can’t you?”
Mistra was standing up. She began to put on her gloves. She said, “I think I can guarantee you a hearing tonight.” She hesitated. “But if you can’t produce, you’re a dead man.” Her voice was low and earnest. “Having brought back Tannahill’s memory, and surrendered him, I just have one vote. There’s nothing I can do for you, nor will I even try to do it. You’re on your own.”
She stood up, and went to the door. Almost without thinking, Stephens said: “Mistra.”
There must have been emotion in his voice that she recognized, for she turned, and said, “Don’t make things difficult.”
“Is this all you have to say to the only man you ever really loved?”
She said accusingly, “You turned me down, remember? I had to find a different solution. You rejected a future with me—remember?”
He merely stood there, looking at her. She came back into the room, and her glance turned toward the office couch, where he sometimes lay down when he worked late. She looked at him significantly, and then her gaze strayed to the door. “Can we lock it?” she asked.
“For heaven’s sake, Mistra, are you mad?”
“Of course I am. Aren’t you?”
It was a long, long step, indeed, from the cold greeting she had given him on her arrival. As they made love on that narrow couch, and she began to utter the little involuntary cries that were part of her response during the sex act, she suddenly stopped, laughed softly, and then whispered fiercely, “I wonder what Miss Chainer is thinking. She’s in love with you, you know.”
“Chainer?” Stephens said incredulously.
He rejected the idea. But, as they were dressing later, he said: “Do you think she heard us?”
“Of course she did. That mating cry I give is unmistakable to a woman.”
For the first time in their relationship Stephens was embarrassed. “Mistra, you’ve shocked me.”
She was putting on her lipstick. She paused briefly to consider his words, then: “Perhaps, that’s a good emotion for us to separate on. She added earnestly, “This is the last time, Allison.”
“Is it?” said Stephens noncommittally.
He felt surprisingly cheerful, in spite of the unknown dangers ahead. The love affair they had just had was actually unique. She had paid no debts with it. She had no reason to build up any credit with him. She had simply given herself to him, and it made him feel good to realize that.
The woman said nothing more, but finished making herself up. Stephens unlocked the door, and they went out to the anteroom. Miss Chainer was at her desk, but she did not look up from a document she was studying. What Stephens could see of her neck and face was scarlet.
Stephens opened the outer door for Mistra. She went out without a backward glance. Stephens closed the door slowly, and then said to Miss Chainer without looking around, “If anyone comes before you leave, tell them I’ll be back about six.”
He went downstairs, waited for an opportune moment, and then made his way down to the sub-basement without being seen. Once in the cave, he felt safe and headed as swiftly as possible for the robot ship. His tension mounted, nevertheless, as he drew near it. Would the robot brain admit him?
His relief as he saw that the door was open almost choked him. But the reality braced him also. He was still considered trustworthy. His plan must be at least partly acceptable.
As he approached the greenish globe, a picture formed on it He was shown exactly on what trays in the stock rooms he would find element 167, and also what elements would combine with it to nullify its destructive power. The robot seemed to believe that element 221, a gas, would best serve the purpose Stephens had in mind.
Stephens secured a tube each of the two elements, and returned to the globe. But there were no more pictures. The robot-brain evidently could give him no further help. If it were Peeley’s body in the Tannahill grave, that was something the machine could not verify for him.
Gloomily, Stephens returned to the Palms Building. Miss Chainer was already gone, but as he entered his private office, he saw that he had a visitor.
Walter Peeley sat in the big chair behind his desk.
XIX
As they exchanged greetings, Stephens watched the other, baffled. The appearance of Peeley—after logic had consigned him to the role of dead man—did not affect his plan for the showdown that night. But it did place a serious strain on his imagination.
If it wasn’t Peeley in the grave . . . then who was it?
Peeley had never, it seemed to Stephens, looked in better health. His face had that vaguely Indian look—so hard to identify in some members of the race—but it was a healthy appearance; there was plenty of color in his cheeks.
Peeley said, “I’ve just come from having a talk with Frank Howland. He tells me you and he have a plan for arresting most of the members of the group that’s been leeching off the Tannahill estate all these years.”
The shock of the remark held Stephens dumb for several seconds. He was astounded that the district attorney could have been so indiscreet. He said lamely, “How much did Howland tell you?”
It struck him instantly that the remark might sound critical of Howland having told anything. Stephens went on quickly, “What I mean is, if I can get an idea of what you already know? I can fill in the gaps.”
Listening, then, he slowly realized that Howland had told everything. By the time Peeley had finished, Stephens’ mind was adjusted to the betrayal. It didn’t matter. The notion of having the group arrested for carrying weapons without a license, and then stripping off their masks, had never promised to be more than a minor irritation. It might take the pressure off Tannahill. For a
time they might be involved with the law. Perhaps, after innumerable delays, prison sentences might actually be dealt out.
But it wouldn’t break up the group. It wouldn’t identify Peeley’s murderous and ambitious colleague. And it wouldn’t affect in any way the other aspects of his plan, one of which involved a very unpleasant surprise for Peeley himself.
There was of course the fact that Peeley was one of the two conspirators among the group. Perhaps, under the circumstances, he might not warn the others.
At Peeley’s suggestion, the two of them had dinner in town. It was during the meal that it suddenly seemed incredible to Stephens that Howland would have told the plan to Peeley. The district attorney had too much at stake. In ordering Tannahill’s arrest, he had made an error dangerous to his career. But then where had Peeley got his information?
Sitting there at the table, a new suspicion came to Stephens.
The man in the grave was Frank Howland. Killing him was part of the precaution that Peeley had taken against his treacherous companion. The robot brain had not been able to show just how Peeley was protecting himself, but now it seemed obvious.
The decisive factor was that Peeley had originally hired Howland, a man of his own build and general physical appearance. While agent of the estate, Howland had become district attorney. Once established in that position, he had been given the opportunity to notice a similarity between an eighteenth century and twentieth century signature—whereupon the group had probably been impressed by the swiftness with which Peeley fired him from all connection with the estate.
And so, Peeley had appointed to the agency Allison Stephens, a man of his own build and general appearance.
At the critical moment, the two would be murdered—and Peeley, with headquarters conveniently off in Los Angeles, would don the mask of one or the other, and play either or both roles.
The notion seemed so convincing that Stephens abruptly excused himself, entered a phone booth, and called Howland’s office. He was informed that “Mr. Howland has left.”
He dialed the district attorney’s home. The woman who answered said, “Mr. Howland is not expected home this evening until late.”
The House that Stood Still Page 15
