Gods and Pawns (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Lewis said miserably.

  “True. But I think our buddy Jerome has faithful retainer written all over him,” I said, finishing the cake in about three bites.

  “Then who else could have done it?” Lewis wondered, starting on a dish of pudding.

  “Well, you’re the Literary Specialist. Haven’t you ever accessed any Agatha Christie novels?” I tossed the cake plate aside and pounced on a Hershey bar. “You know what we do next. Process of elimination. Who was where and when? I’ll tell you this much, it wasn’t me and it wasn’t Big Daddy Hearst. I was with him from the moment we left the rest of you in the theater until Marion came up and I had to scram.” I closed my eyes and sighed in bliss, as the Theobromos high finally kicked in.

  “Well—” Lewis looked around distractedly, trying to think. “Then—it has to have been one of us who were in the theater watching Going Hollywood.”

  “Yeah. And Marion said about half the audience walked out before it was over,” I said. “Did you walk out, Lewis?”

  “No! I stayed until the end. I can’t imagine why anybody left. I thought it was delightful,” Lewis told me earnestly. “It had Bing Crosby in it, you know.”

  “You’ve got pudding on your chin. O.K.; so you stayed through the movie,” I said, realizing my wits weren’t at their sharpest right now but determined to thrash this through. “And so did Marion. Who else was there when the house lights came up, Lewis?”

  Lewis sucked in his lower lip, thinking hard through the Theobromine fog. “I’m replaying my visual transcript,” he informed me. “Clark Gable is there. The younger Mr. Hearst and his friend are there. The unpleasant-looking fellows in the business suits are there. Connie’s there.”

  “Garbo?”

  “Mm—nope.”

  “The two silents guys? Charlie and Laurence?”

  “No.”

  “What’s his name, Jack from Paramount, is he there?”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “What about the crazy lady with the dogs?”

  “She’s not there either.” Lewis raised horrified eyes to me. “My gosh, it could have been any one of them.” He remembered the pudding and dabbed at it with his handkerchief.

  “Or the thief might have sneaked out, robbed your room, and sneaked back in before the end of the picture,” I told him.

  “Oh, why complicate things?” he moaned. “What are we going to do?”

  “Damned if I know tonight,” I replied, struggling to my feet. “Tomorrow you’re going to find out who took the Valentino script and get it back. I have other problems, O.K.?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Hearst is upping the ante on the game. He’s given me an ultimatum for Dr. Zeus,” I explained.

  “Wowie.” Lewis looked appalled. “He thinks he can dictate terms to the Company?”

  “He’s doing it, isn’t he?” I said, trudging off to my bedroom. “And guess who gets to deliver the messages both ways? Now you see why I was nervous? I knew this was going to happen.”

  “Well, cheer up,” Lewis called after me. “Things can’t go more wrong than this.”

  I switched on the light in my room, and found out just how much more wrong they could go.

  Something exploded up from the bed at my face, a confusion of needle teeth and blaring sound. I was stoned, I was tired, I was confused, and so I just slapped it away as hard as I could, which with me being a cyborg and all was pretty hard. The thing flew across the room and hit the wall with a crunch. Then it dropped to the floor and didn’t move, except for its legs kicking, but not much or for long.

  Lewis was beside me immediately, staring. He put his handkerchief to his mouth and turned away, ashen-faced.

  “Ye gods!” he said. “You’ve killed Tcho-Tcho!”

  “Maybe I just stunned her?” I staggered over to see. Lewis staggered with me. We stood looking down at Tcho-Tcho.

  “Nope,” Lewis told me sadly, shaking his head.

  “The Devil, and the Devil’s dam, and the Devil’s…insurance agent,” I swore, groping backward until I found a chair to collapse in. “Now what do we do?” I averted my eyes from the nasty little corpse and my gaze fell on the several shreddy parts that were all that remained of my left tennis shoe. “Hey! Look what the damn thing did to my sneaker!”

  “How did she get in here, anyway?” Lewis wrung his hands.

  “So much for my playing tennis with anybody tomorrow,” I snarled.

  “But—but if she was in here long enough to chew up your shoe…” Lewis paused, eyes glazing over in difficult thought. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t done that Theobromos. Isn’t that the way it always is? Just when you think it’s safe to relax and unwind a little—”

  “Hey! This means Cartimandua Bryce took your Valentino script,” I said, leaping to my feet and grabbing hold of the chair to steady myself. “See? The damn dog must have followed her in unbeknownst!”

  “You’re right.” Lewis’s eyes widened. “Except—well, no, not necessarily. She didn’t have the dogs with her, don’t you remember? They wouldn’t behave at table. They had to be taken back to her room.”

  “So they did.” I subsided into the chair once more. “Hell. If somebody was sneaking through the rooms, the dog might have got out and wandered around until it got in here, chewed up my shoe, and went to sleep on my bed.”

  “And that means—that means—” Lewis shook his head. “I’m too tired to think what that means. What are we going to do about the poor dog? I suppose we’ll have to go tell Mrs. Bryce.”

  “Nothing doing,” I snapped. “When I’m in the middle of a deal with Hearst? Hearst, who’s fanatic about kindness to animals? Sorry about that, W.R., but I just brutally murdered a dear little chihuahua in La Casa del Sol. Thank God there aren’t any surveillance cameras in here!”

  “But we have to do something,” Lewis protested. “We can’t leave it here on the rug! Should we take it out and bury it?”

  “No. There’s bound to be a search when Mrs. Bryce notices it’s gone,” I said. “If they find the grave and dig it up, they’ll know the mutt didn’t die naturally, or why would somebody take the trouble to hide the body?”

  “Unless we hid it somewhere it’d never be found?” Lewis suggested. “We could pitch it over the perimeter fence. Then, maybe the wild animals would remove the evidence!”

  “I don’t think zebras are carrion eaters, Lewis.” I rubbed my temples wearily. “And I don’t know about you, but in the condition I’m in, I don’t think I’d get it over the fence on the first throw. All I’d need then would be for one of Hearst’s surveillance cameras to pick me up in a spotlight, trying to stuff a dead chihuahua through a fence. Hey!” I brightened. “Hearst has a zoo up here. What if we shotput Tcho-Tcho into the lion’s den?”

  Lewis shuddered. “What if we missed?”

  “To hell with this.” I got up. “Dogs die all the time of natural causes.”

  So we wound up flitting through the starry night in hyperfunction, leaving no more than a blur on any cameras that might be recording our passage, and a pitiful little corpse materialized in what we hoped was a natural attitude of canine demise on the front steps of La Casa Grande. With any luck it would be stiff as a board by morning, which would make foul play harder to detect.

  Showered and somewhat sobered up, I opened the field credenza in my suitcase and crouched before it to tap out my report on its tiny keys.

  WRH WILLING, HAD PT3 SAMPLE, BUT HOLDING OUT FOR MORE. TERMS: STOCK SHARES PLUS IMMORTALITY PROCESS. HAVE EXPLAINED IMPOSSIBILITY. REFUSES TO ACCEPT.

  SUGGEST: LIE. DELIVER 18 YEARS PER HISTORICAL RECORD WITH PROMISE OF MORE, THEN RENEGOTIATE TERMS WITH HEIRS.

  PLEASE ADVISE.

  It didn’t seem useful to tell anybody that the Valentino script was missing. Why worry the Company? After all, we must be going to find it and complete at least that part of the mission successfully, because history records that an an
tiques restorer will, on Christmas 20, 2326, at the height of the Old Hollywood Revival, find the script in a hidden compartment in a Spanish cabinet, once owned by W. R. Hearst but recently purchased by Dr. Zeus Incorporated. Provenance indisputably proven, it will then be auctioned off for an unbelievably huge sum, even allowing for twenty-fourth-century inflation. And history cannot be changed, can it?

  Of course it can’t.

  I yawned pleasurably, preparing to shut the credenza down for the night, but it beeped to let me know a message was coming in. I scowled at it and leaned close to see what it said.

  TERMS ACCEPTABLE. INFORM HEARST AND AT FIRST OPPORTUNITY PERFORM REPAIRS AND UPGRADE. QUINTILIUS WILL CONTACT WITH STOCK OPTIONS.

  I read it through twice. Oh, O.K; the Company must mean they intended to follow my suggestion. I’d promise him the moon but give him the eighteen years decreed by history, and he wouldn’t even be getting those if I didn’t do that repair work on his heart. What did they mean by upgrade, though? Eh! Details.

  And I had no reason to feel lousy about lying to the old man. How many mortals even get to make it to eighty-eight, anyway? And when my stopgap measures finally failed, he’d close his eyes and die—like a lot of mortals—in happy expectation of eternal life after death. Of course, he’d get it in Heaven (if there is such a place) and not down here like he’d been promised, but he’d be in no position to sue me for breach of contract anyway.

  I acknowledged the transmission and shut down at last. Yawning again, I crawled into my fabulous priceless antique Renaissance-era hand-carved gilded bed. The chihuahua hadn’t peed on it. That was something, at least.

  I slept in the next morning, though I knew Hearst preferred his guests to rise with the sun and do something healthy like ride five miles before breakfast. I figured he’d make an exception in my case. Besides, if the PT3 cocktail had delivered its usual kick he’d probably be staying in bed late himself, and so would Marion. I squinted up at the left-hand tower of La Casa Grande, making my way through the brilliant sunlight.

  No dead dog in sight anywhere, as I hauled open the big front doors;

  Tcho-Tcho’s passing must have been discovered without much commotion. Good. I walked through the cool and the gloom of the big house to the morning room at the other end, where sunlight poured in through French doors. There a buffet was set out with breakfast.

  Lewis was there ahead of me, loading up on flapjacks. I heaped hash browns on my plate and, for the benefit of the mortals in various corners of the room, said brightly: “So, Lewis! Some swell room, huh? How’d you sleep?”

  “Fine, thanks,” he replied. Other than a slight Theobromos hangover. “But, you know, the saddest thing happened! One of Mrs. Bryce’s little dogs got out in the night and died of exposure. The servants found it this morning.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad.” Anybody suspect anything?

  No. “Yes, Mrs. Bryce is dreadfully upset.” I feel just awful.

  Hey, did you lure the damn mutt into my room? We’ve got worse things to worry about this morning. I helped myself to coffee and carried my plate out into the dining hall, sitting down at the long table. Lewis followed me.

  Right, the Valentino script. Have you had any new ideas about who might have taken it?

  No. I dug into my hash browns. Has anybody else complained about anything missing from their rooms?

  No, nobody’s said a word.

  The thing is—nobody knew you had it with you, right? You didn’t happen to mention that you were carrying around an autographed script for The Son of the Sheik?

  No, of course not! Lewis sipped his coffee, looking slightly affronted. I’ve only been in this business for nearly two millennia.

  Maybe one of the guests was after Garbo or Gable, and got into your room by mistake? I turned nonchalantly to glance into the morning room at Gable. He was deeply immersed in the sports section of one of Mr. Hearst’s papers.

  Well, if it was an obsessive Garbo fan he’d have seen pretty quickly that he wasn’t in a woman’s room. Lewis put both elbows on the table in a manly sort of way. So if it was one of the ladies after Gable—? Though it still doesn’t explain why she’d steal the script.

  I glanced over at Connie, who was sitting in an easy chair balancing a plate of scrambled eggs on her knees as she ate. Connie wouldn’t have done it, and neither would Marion. I doubt it was the Hearst kid’s popsy. That leaves Garbo and Mrs. Bryce, who left the movie early.

  But why would Garbo steal the script? Lewis drew his eyebrows together.

  Why does Garbo do anything? I shrugged. Lewis looked around uneasily.

  I can’t see her rifling through my belongings, however. And that leaves Mrs. Bryce.

  Yeah. Mrs. Bryce. Whose little dog appeared mysteriously in my bedroom.

  I got up and crossed back into the morning room on the pretext of going for a coffee refill. Mrs. Bryce, clad in black pajamas, was sitting alone in a prominent chair, with Conqueror Worm greedily wolfing down Eggs Benedict from a plate on the floor. Mrs. Bryce was not eating. Her eyes were closed and her face turned up to the ceiling. I guess she was meditating, since she was doing the whole lotus position bit.

  As I passed, Conqueror Worm left off eating long enough to raise his tiny head and snarl at me.

  “I hope you will excuse him, Mr. Denham,” said Mrs. Bryce without opening her eyes. “He’s very protective of me just now.”

  “That’s O.K., Mrs. Bryce,” I said affably, but I kept well away from the dog. “Sorry to hear about your sad loss.”

  “Oh, Tcho-Tcho remains with us still,” she said serenely. “She has merely ascended to the next astral plane. I just received a communication from her, in fact. She discarded her earthly body in order to accomplish her more important work.”

  “Gee, that’s just great,” I replied, and Gable looked up from his paper at me and rolled his eyes. I shrugged and poured myself more coffee. I still thought Mrs. Bryce was a phony on the make, but if she wanted to pretend Tcho-Tcho had passed on voluntarily instead of being swatted like a tennis ball, that was all right with me.

  You think she might have done it, after all? Lewis wondered as I came back to the table. She had sort of fixated on me, before Marion turned her on Garbo.

  Could be. I think she’s too far off on another planet to be organized enough for cat burglary, though. And why would she steal the script and nothing else?

  I can’t imagine. What are we going to do? Lewis twisted the end of his paper napkin. Should we report the theft to Mr. Hearst?

  Hell no. That’d queer my pitch. Some representatives of an all-powerful Company we’d look, wouldn’t we, letting mortals steal stuff out of our rooms? No. Here’s what you do: see if you can talk to the people who left the theater early, one by one. Just sort of engage them in casual conversation. Find out where each one of the suspects went, and see if you can cross-check their stories with others.

  Lewis looked panicked. But—I’m only a Literature Preservation Specialist. Isn’t this interrogation sort of thing more in your line of work, as a Facilitator?

  Maybe, but right now I’ve got my hands full, I responded, just as the lord of the manor came striding into the room.

  Mr. Hearst was wearing jodhpurs and boots, and was flushed with exertion. He hadn’t gotten up late after all, but had been out on horseback surveying his domain, like one of the old Californio dons. He hit me with a triumphant look as he marched past, but didn’t stop. Instead he went straight up to Mrs. Bryce’s chair and took off his hat to address her. Conqueror Worm looked up and him and cowered, then ran to hide behind the chair.

  “Ma’am, I was so sorry to hear about your little dog! I hope you’ll do me the honor of picking out another from my kennels? I don’t think we have any chihuahuas at present, but in my experience a puppy consoles you a good deal when you lose an old canine friend,” he told her, with a lot more power and breath in his voice than he’d had last night. The PT3 was working, that much was certain.
r />   Mrs. Bryce looked up from her meditation, startled. Smiling radiantly she rose to her feet.

  “Why, Mr. Hearst, you are too kind,” she replied. No malarkey about ascendance to astral planes with him, I noticed. He offered her his arm and they swept out through the French doors, with Conqueror Worm running after them desperately.

  What happens when we’ve narrowed down the list of suspects? Lewis tugged at my attention.

  Then we steal the script back, I told him.

  But how? Lewis tore his paper napkin clean in half. Even if we move fast enough to confuse the surveillance cameras in the halls—

  We’ll figure something out, I replied, and then shushed him, because Marion came floating in.

  Floating isn’t much of an exaggeration, and there was no booze doing the levitation for her this morning. Marion Davies was one happy mortal. She spotted Connie and made straight for her. Connie looked up and offered a glass.

  “I saved ya some arranch use, Marion,” she said meaningfully. The orange juice was probably laced with gin. She and Marion were drinking buddies.

  “Never mind that! C’mere,” Marion told her, and they went over to whisper and giggle in a corner. Connie was looking incredulous.

  And are you sure we can rule the servants out? Lewis persisted.

  Maybe, I replied, and shushed him again, because Marion had noticed me and broken off her chat with Connie, her smile fading. She got up and approached me hesitantly.

  “J-Joe? I need to ask you about something.”

  “Please, take my seat, Miss Davies.” Lewis rose and pulled the chair out for her. “I was just going for a stroll.”

  “Gee, he’s a gentleman, too,” Marion said, giggling, but there was a little edge under her laughter. She sank down across from me, and waited until Lewis had taken his empty plate and departed before she said: “Did you—um—come up here to ask Pops for m-money?”