Vertigo

by Bob Shaw

  “Do you think they know we’re here?” he said.

  “No doubt about it — Buck’s a great man for surveillance systems.” Werry went up the stone steps to the house, tugging, smoothing and adjusting his uniform in a manner which reminded Hasson of a peacock dressing its plumage. Hasson went with him, but hung back a little, suddenly aware that his own casual sweater and slacks could only detract from Werry’s ritual show of authority. Werry touched a bell push and waited for the door to open. Hasson smiled encouragingly, but Werry regarded him with the cool blank eyes of a stranger and remained that way until they heard the sound of a lock being operated. The door opened a short distance to reveal the wisp-bearded face of Starr Pridgeon. He looked at Werry and Hasson for a moment without speaking, maliciously amused.

  “I want to talk to Buck,” Werry said.

  “Buck doesn’t want to talk to you. Bye, Al.” Pridgeon closed the door, but Werry slid a gleaming boot forward and prevented it from nesting fully into the frame. The door opened again, and this time Pridgeon’s face was slack-jawed with resentment.

  “Al, why don’t you do us all a big favour and stop trying to act like a real live cop?” he said with mock reasonableness. “You don’t fool nobody — so why don’t you just hop into your kiddycar and go back to where you came from?”

  Werry moved forward a little. “I told you I want to talk to Buck.”

  Something flickered in Pridgeon’s eyes. “I guess I can’t stop you coming in — but just remember you weren’t invited.” He moved back and swung the door fully open, leaving the entrance clear.

  Hasson, his instincts aroused, got the impression that Pridgeon had been uttering a rehearsed statement — like a junior barrister going over a point of law — and at the same time he noticed the odd waltz-like movement with which Pridgeon retreated, a right-angled three-step which kept his feet off the area just inside the threshold. He started forward, grasping for Werry’s arm, but was a fraction of a second too late.

  Werry stepped across the door sill, there was a sharp splat of released energy, and Werry sank to his knees. He remained kneeling for perhaps a second, shaking his head, then collapsed on to the parquet floor. His cap rolled a short distance on the polished wooden bricks.

  “Deary me I” Pridgeon said, grinning. “Deary me! How unfortunate! Somebody must have left the intruder screen switched on.” He moved back, doing nothing to assist the fallen man. A door opened further along the hail and three men came through it, one of them carrying a beer glass. They exchanged nudges and advanced to stand behind Pridgeon, looking expectant and slightly self-conscious.

  “What happened to old Al?” one of them said. “Has he had one of his turns?”

  “It must be his time of the month,” Pridgeon replied, triggering yelps of laughter, before he fixed his bleak gaze on Hasson. “You! Al’s cousin from England! Get him out of here — he’s making the place untidy.”

  Hasson moved forward and paused on the threshold. “Are you inviting me in, and is the intruder screen switched off?”

  “This one doesn’t ever take any chances,” Pridgeon said over his shoulder, and turned back to Hasson. “The screen’s off now. It was a pure accident, Al barging into it like that. Just tell him that when he wakes up.”

  Hasson knelt beside Werry and looked down into his face. The policeman was conscious, but his eyes were dulled and bubbles of saliva winked at the corners of his mouth. Hasson knew he had been subjected to a paralysing neuro-shock which had rendered him helpless by temporarily widening most of the synaptic gaps in his body, and that it would be a minute or two before he would he able to walk unaided. He slid his hands under Werry’s arms, dragged him to a high-backed chair at the side of the hail and wrested him on to it.

  “Outside,” Pridgeon commanded. “I told you to get him out of here.”

  “He isn’t fit to go anywhere just yet.” Kneeling beside the chair, Hasson patted Werry’s cheeks with his left hand, while with his right he covertly unbuttoned the safety strap which held Werry’s pistol in its holster. “The least you can do is give him a glass of water.”

  Pridgeon’s lips tightened. “I’m giving you both ten seconds to get out of here.”

  “What’ll you do then — send for the police?” Hasson renewed his efforts to give Werry control of his own body and was rewarded by a preliminary stirring of his limbs. Werry rolled his head from side to side, then brought his eyes to focus on Hasson’s face.

  “I’m sorry, Rob,” he said thickly. “I … You’d better get me out to the car.”

  Hasson leaned forward and brought his mouth close to Werry’s ear. “Al,” he whispered urgently, “I know how sick you must feel. I know how little you want to hear all this right now, but if you leave this house without talking to Morlacher you’re finished as a police officer. Too many people have seen what happened. They’ll talk it up all over town, and you’ll be finished.”

  Werry almost smiled. “Supposing I don’t even care.”

  “You do care! Listen, Al, you don’t even have to do anything. You don’t even have to stand up — just talk to Morlacher the way you set out to do. Then we can leave. Okay?”

  “Okay, but who’s going to…?”

  “That’s it! I’ve had enough of you two pricks.” Pridgeon’s feet sounded on the floor behind Hasson. “Nobody can say I didn’t give you a fair warning.”

  Hasson stood up and turned to face him. “Reeve Werry has deputised me to act for him — and we want to talk to Mr Morlacher.”

  “He’s deputised you!” Pridgeon gaped at Hasson, then he smiled and closed his eyes for a moment like a man experiencing a long-sought ecstasy. “Here’s what I think of you, cripple.”

  Slowly and gently, as though about to pick up a priceless vase, he raised his hands towards Hasson’s ears. Hasson placed one hand on the centre of Pridgeon’s chest and gave him a stiff armed shove which took him completely unawares, carrying him backwards too fast for his feet to catch up. He fell, sliding on his back on the polished floor with his legs in the air. One of the watching men gave a derisive whoop.

  Pridgeon scrambled to his feet, mouthing venomously, and went for Hasson, this time coming in with all his speed, slit-eyed and crouching, determined to wreak swift and bloody vengeance for the humiliation he had just received. He feinted with his left and right, then threw a looping right-handed punch which was aimed at Hasson’s throat.

  Hasson, shifting into adrenaline overdrive, had time to analyse the three movements and knew at once that here was an instinctive and overconfident opponent, the sort of man who blundered casually into physical duels perhaps once a year — winning by dint of strength and ferocity — and who on that basis had deluded himself into believing he was a superior and gifted fighter. Lifting the punch harmlessly over his shoulder with his left forearm, Hasson saw the whole of Pridgeon’s body hung up before him like an anatomical wallchart with all the nerve centres marked in red, and made the discovery that he had no desire to bring the contest to a clean and scientific conclusion. Pridgeon had insulted him and degraded him and made him feel ashamed. Pridgeon liked tormenting blind youngsters who were in no position to do anything about it. Pridgeon liked using muscle on men he thought were cripples. For all that, and for a thousand other things of which Pridgeon had no knowledge, Pridgeon would have to pay a heavy price, and the time had come…

  Hasson changed his point of aim and drove his right fist into Pridgeon’s mouth, exulting in the dull snap of teeth. He threw Pridgeon against the panelled wall, to deny him the respite he might get through being knocked down, and hit him three more times, each time aiming for the face, each time connecting solidly and drawing blood. The madness boiled away as quickly as it had come when from the comer of his eye he detected a movement among the three men on his left. He allowed Pridgeon to slide down on to the floor and turned to face the men. They were advancing and fanning Out to surround him, and on their faces was an expression Hasson had seen many times before — t
he righteous anger that a bully always feels when the victim has the temerity to strike back. The man with the beer glass — a stocky redneck in a plaid shin — had drained the glass and was holding it with the base nestled into the palm of his hand.

  Hasson moved in close to Werry and raised his hands like a traffic cop, giving them a signal to halt. “Before you men get yourselves involved,” he said, forcing his voice to sound light and unconcerned, “I think you ought to know that Reeve Werry is here to make enquiries about a murder. Somebody planted a high explosive bomb in the Chinook Hotel, and it went off a little while ago in the middle of a crowd of youngsters. More than one of them might be dead — we’re not sure yet, but I can tell you that some people around here are going to go to jail for a long, long time. Now, it’s up to you whether you want to dirty your hands with that sort of thing or not.”

  Hasson paused, breathing quietly and regularly to ease the pounding in his chest. The three men glanced at each other, obviously distrustful of Hasson and undecided about what to do next. His warning had been less effective than he had hoped it would be, and he had an uneasy feeling he was facing a group of individuals who had the classical criminal inability to weigh up future consequences.

  “It’s time somebody did somethin” about those punks up in the hotel,” the man with the glass said. “They’re nothin” but a pain in the ass.”

  “Yes, but is that any reason for you to become an accessory after the fact of murder?”

  The man looked unconvinced. “That sounds like a load of hull to me. I don’t know nothin” about no murder, but I know I don’t like to see cops beatin” up on my friends.”

  “That’s right,” another man agreed, moving forward slightly.

  “Look at it this way,” Hasson said. “You came up here tonight to have a quiet drink and maybe a game of cards. Right? You didn’t come out to get yourselves mixed up in a murder enquiry. It’s a nasty business, and it could get even worse if this sort of thing was brought into it.”

  Hasson leaned sideways and drew Werry’s pistol from its holster, holding the weapon between finger and thumb as if it was an object for which he had a deep distaste. He let the three look at it for several seconds, then lowered it back into the holster.

  “I don’t want to start waving a gun in your faces and perhaps have it go off by accident,” he said. “I would hate that, and probably you would hate it even more, so why don’t you go home and let Reeve Werry get on with what he came here to do?”

  “What the man’s saying is — take off while you’re still able,” Werry put in, rising to his feet. “It’s good advice.”

  “We’ll go if you say so, Al,” one of the men growled. They lifted CG harnesses and suits which had been heaped untidily on a carved oak chest and filed out into the night. The last one out slammed the heavy door.

  Hasson nodded to Werry, who was tentatively moving his shoulders. “Thanks, Al. I don’t think I was getting through.”

  “Don’t start thanking me, Rob — I’m not stupid.” Werry brushed his uniform with his hands, picked up his cap and put it on. “I may be gutless, but I’m not stupid. Okay?”

  “I don’t think you know what gutless means. Remind me to tell you some time.”

  “Let’s drop the subject,” Werry said curtly, glancing at his communicator. “I wish I’d told Henry to keep in touch. I’d like to know if you’re right about this being a murder gig.”

  “That was a dirty lie,” Pridgeon came in unexpectedly, raising himself on to one elbow. His voice was indistinct, slurred through swollen lips, and his face had the blackened, dehumanised appearance Hasson had often noted on the features of accident victims. He was gazing at Hasson through bruised eyes which registered a mixture of hate, bafflement and accusation. Hasson stared him down, concealing a growing sense of guilt over having yielded to a dark and prehistoric instinct. Werry picked Pridgeon up by the lapels and swung him on to the chair he had just vacated.

  “He told a dirty lie,” Pridgeon mumbled. “You guys have some nerve coming in here and trying to make out that…

  “He told the truth,” Werry cut in. “Somebody put a booby trap in the Chinook, and there’s one kid hurt bad and maybe others dead, and there’s only one man who would have had any reason to do a thing like that. Where’s Buck? Is he in the house?”

  “Buck’s upstairs.” Pridgeon gripped Werry’s wrist and a plaintive note came into his voice. “Al, you wouldn’t kid me, would you?”

  “I’m not kidding you,” Werry said impassively. “This is serious.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just some little old blank shells or bird frighteners or something like that?”

  “It was a high explosive. Do you know something about this, Starr? Because if you do . .

  “I made up the fuses,” Pridgeon said, wiping blood from his chin. “But Buck told me it was only…”

  “Buck told you to keep your mouth shut.” Morlacher, looking anachronistic in a traditional-style silk dressing gown, stepped off the bottom of a staircase at the end of the hall and walked towards the group. “Haven’t you enough brains to know when you’re being conned?”

  Werry turned to him. “There’s nobody being conned, Buck. Did you plant the bomb?”

  “Of course not.” Morlacher stooped to peer into Pridgeon’s face, then gave Werry an incredulous smile. “Did you do that? You’ve just put yourself out of a job.”

  “It wasn’t Al.” Pridgeon pointed at Hasson. “He took a swing at me when I wasn’t ready.”

  Hasson nodded. “Four times he wasn’t ready.”

  “What’s going on around here?” Morlacher said, frowning, switching his gaze between Werry and Hasson. “What do you two characters think you’re playing at?”

  “I asked you a question, Buck.” Werry’s voice was firm. “Did you plant that bomb?”

  “I told you — I don’t know anything about any bomb.”

  “You don’t?” A light appeared in Werry’s eyes. “Well, I’ll tell you something about it. It has just set your frigging hotel on fire.”

  Morlacher’s mouth contorted. “You’re a liar.”

  “If you’ve got a pair of binoculars,” Werry replied casually, “you can look out the window and see the inn on a pin turning into the fire on a spire.”

  “I’ve got to go there,” Morlacher said, a pink triangle standing out on each cheek against the sudden pallor of his face. He turned and strode to the wooden chest which served as a hall table and picked up a CG harness.

  Werry crossed to the entrance door and stood with his back to it, looking hard and confident behind the immaculate uniform and the badges of office, transformed into the man Hasson had once imagined him to be.

  “I’ll decide where you’re going,” he said. “After you’ve answered my questions.”

  “You, Al?” Morlacher continued struggling into the harness. “You’re just a joke, and I’m in no mood for laughing right now.” He tightened the harness’s belt connection, took one pace towards the door and halted when he saw that Werry had drawn his pistol.

  “What about the bomb?” Werry said.

  “Now you’re turning into a bad joke. You’re not fooling anybody with that thing.” Morlacher started to walk again.

  Werry squeezed the trigger. There was no sound — the pistol was of a type which used electromagnetic energy to expel its slugs — but a block leapt out of the parquet floor close to Morlacher’s foot and skittered to the far end of the hail.

  “The next one will go right up your nose,” Werry promised. “Now — about this bomb…”

  Morlacher took a deep breath, swelling hugely, as though sucking in elemental power for some Herculean feat of strength, then something seemed to break inside him. A driving force was neutralised, a puissance was withdrawn. He withered and shrank.

  “For God’s sake, Al,” he pleaded, “what are you trying to do to me? Let me out of here. I’ve got to go to the hotel.”

  “About this bomb…”r />
  “It wasn’t meant to be a bomb.” Morlacher spoke quickly, making fluttering movements with his hands. “You don’t think I wanted to damage the hotel, do you?”

  “What was it meant to be?”

  “I just wanted to shake those punks up a bit. Scare them out of the place. Let me go now, Al.”

  Werry signalled his refusal with a movement of the pistol. “What did you use as an explosive?”

  “It was just an old piece of hidyne I got from George York out at the Bettsville quarry.”

  “Hidyne! You used hidyne to scare kids?”

  “Yes, but I cut it up into little squares.”

  “How little?”

  “Little ones. Little ones! What more do you want me to say?”

  “What weight were they?” Pridgeon shouted, lurching forward from his chair. “You didn’t mention no hidyne to me. What weight were they?”

  “How would I know?” Morlacher said impatiently. “Fifteen grams. Twenty grams. Something like that.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Pridgeon quavered, turning towards Werry. “Al, I swear to you I didn’t know about this. If there’s anybody in the Chinook you better get them Out of there. He got me to make up about twenty fuses.”

  “What sort of fuses are you talking about?” Werry said “Do you mean timers?”

  “Proximity fuses, Al. They’ll fire off when anybody goes near them.”

  To Hasson’s surprise, Werry seemed bemused by the incidental technicalities of what he had just heard. “But how could anybody work with a gadget like that? What’s to stop it going off in your hand?”

  “I used timers as well. The circuits are only activated at night.” Pridgeon advanced on Werry, pressing both hands to his battered face as though holding it together. “Al, I had no idea.”

  “Stay back,” Werry told him, his eyes intent on Morlacher. “Buck, how many of those things did you actually put into the hotel?”

  “All of them,” Morlacher said in a dull voice.