“Oh, did he give you a copy? You hadn’t mentioned it in your reports, Knight.”
“I would have in the one I did up tonight. Anyway, it’s been stolen from my office desk. I never had a chance to read it.”
“Amazing,” he said; then, hesitantly, “Well, I merely called you to inform you that Ross received Shulman’s fanzine and that he reserved accommodations there at the hotel; if you are unable to find him elsewhere, I suggest that you try his room.”
I told him I’d get right to it, and hung up.
I went back to the bar, but Julie Sharp’s stool was empty. I got back on mine and ordered another beer. She didn’t return, so I finished off my drink and gave it up.
I went back into the lobby and up to the desk clerk to ask what room Ross Maddigan was in. The clerk was an impeccably dressed young man with a thin mustache and with thin eyebrows. He reminded me of Mr. Whipple in the Tilly the Toiler cartoon strip. He checked and told me Ross Maddigan was in 1104 and that since his key wasn’t in the box he must be up there.
As I turned to look for the elevators, a fan, dressed in the God-awfulest costume of the convention, sauntered up the desk behind me and tossed a key to the blotter before the clerk. His costume and mask were purple and he had an extra pair of limbs jutting from his sides beneath his regular arms. He carried a small suitcase in one hand, undoubtedly full of magazines and books for trading up in the auditorium.
I shook my head and muttered, “They aren’t necessarily green.” I went over to the elevators and waited for a car. Three or four of the fen crowded in with me when it came, their arms full of suspiciously tinkling packages. I told myself I was glad I wasn’t the house dick in charge here tonight.
The fans clambered out at the tenth floor, and the elevator girl closed the door behind them and leaned against the wall momentarily. “Whooo,” she sighed. “And yesterday I thought I’d carried every kind of person in the country up and down this shaft.”
“Live and learn,” I told her. “Floor eleven, please.”
She asked, “Did you see that one in the purple costume?”
“Yeah,” I said. “A honey.”
“I just brought him down,” she said. “He told me he was a Martian.” We reached the eleventh and she slid the door open expertly.
I said, “Maybe he was.”
She looked at me suspiciously as I left.
Tiny golden arrows on the cream-colored walls indicated the directions of the room numbers. 1104 was to my right. As I searched it out, I ran into small groups of fans standing in the corridors squabbling in their science fiction patois. Sometimes an open door would reveal a half-dozen sitting around, glasses in hand, earnestly arguing about step-rockets, time machines, the H-bomb.
I went down one corridor, up another. The numbers were getting nearer to the one I was seeking: 1112, 1110, 1108, 1106. I turned a corner and stopped short to avoid stepping on the body sprawled there flat on its face.
Along the back of my neck the short hair stiffened. For a brief second, I thought it was Ross Maddigan. I bent down quickly and tried to turn it over; the body was limp and warm. On the chest the suit’s cloth still smoldered. There was an ugly burn on the breast and a smell of ozone, burning flesh and cloth in the air.
I could hear voices approaching from behind me. One said, “Bradbury’s deserted us; he’s gone over to the slicks. The trouble is that — ”
A trio of gasps and grunts followed that, and I looked up over my shoulder at them. I snapped, “Call the house detective, real quick. And after that tell the desk there’s been a serious accident up here.”
One of them, staring down at the body with wide-eyed fascination, blurted, “It’s Bob Carr. He’s been hurt.”
Something suddenly occurred to me. I snapped, “Listen, does one of you have the correct time?” It was to turn out to be the smartest thing I’d done all week.
In seconds, the three of them had disappeared. While I waited for the house dick, I tried the door of 1104; it was locked. I knocked without result. Maybe Ross Maddigan had his key, but he wasn’t in his room.
I dug my pipe out of my side pocket, automatically loaded and lighted it, staring down at the body of young Carr.
He was another kid, possibly even a bit younger than either Shulman or Zimmer; probably not out of his teens. According to what they’d all said, he was the outstanding science fiction fan authority on extra-terrestrial life, and the possibility that it had already discovered how to journey to earth.
Carr didn’t look as though he’d ever been an authority about anything. His body was that of a rag doll’s; his eyes were still expressing horror and shock, and the scar on his chest was ugly blue, green and red. It wasn’t a bullet hole. I didn’t know what it was.
The house dick rumbled up excitedly, a thick, semi-bald, big-bellied customer who could easily have weighed two hundred and forty pounds. He shot a quick glance from me down to the corpse and up again. “What’s the matter with him?” he rapped.
“He’s dead,” I said. “I found him. A couple of these science fiction fans were here a minute ago; one of them said his name was Bob Carr. That’s all I can tell you.”
He bent down over the body and inspected the ugly chest wound. His head came up and he stared up and down the corridor. “This is crazy,” he said. “This guy looks like he’s been electrocuted.”
I told him, “You’d better get in touch with Lieutenant Davis at Homicide. He’s on the case.”
He scowled at me. “What d’ya mean, ‘he’s on the case’?”
I made an impatient gesture. “This is the third one. At least the second. Only one of the other two attempts was successful.”
“You mean there’s been more of these?” he asked unbelievingly. “Who’s been doing it?”
Here we went again. “The best we can do so far is to say, probably some men from Mars,” I told him sourly.
He closed his eyes, then opened them. He said, “Who in hell are you, Jack?” There was a wary inflection.
“Private investigator,” I said. “I’ve been working on it too.”
He said, “You better stay right here. I already phoned the cops.”
I didn’t answer him. What did he think I was going to do, try and make a desperate getaway?
His eyes went up and down the corridor. “How could a guy get electrocuted here?” he complained. “It just ain’t possible. Brother, the management is going to love this. A guest gets electrocuted in the Bigelow just walking down the hall.”
I went tut-tut-tut with my tongue as though I sympathized deeply with him, and he shot me another suspicious glance.
Arthur Roget rounded the corner suddenly, as though he’d been half running. He skidded to a stop and stared down at the crumpled body. “It’s Bob Carr,” he blurted.
I said interestedly, “I thought you didn’t know Carr.”
His eyes came up to mine. “How was he killed? Down below, the rumor is going all around that his chest looks almost completely burned out.”
The house dick rapped, “Who are you?”
Roget’s eyes went from him to me and back, then did a repeat.
I said, “He’s one of the science fiction crowd. Part of the convention.”
Ross Maddigan rounded the corner in much the same manner Roget had. “What’s going on — ” he began; then his eyes widened and went down to the body. “Good Lord, what’s happened?” He was breathing excitedly.
“He’s dead,” I told him, “probably electrocuted. There’s a burn on his chest that seems to be the point where he was — ”
Art Roget said, awe in his voice, “It must have been some kind of ray gun.”
The house dick looked from one to the other of us. “You all sound like you’re nuts,” he said bitterly. “What d’ya know about this?” he demanded of Ross Maddigan.
Ross shook his head silently, staring down at the body as though fascinated.
“It’s right in front of your room,” I told him
softly.
He stared up at the numbered door. “That’s true,” he said, as though just realizing it. His eyes went up and down the hallway. “There isn’t any way he could have been electrocuted in this corridor,” he said unbelievingly.
Art Roget blabbered, “It was some kind of ray gun, I tell you. Maybe the same thing they fired at Les Zimmer.”
“Who’s they?” the house dick rapped at him.
“The extra-terrestrials,” Roget said, his eyes reflecting fear, almost terror. “Maybe from Mars or Venus; maybe — ”
The detective snorted disgustedly. “You all three screwy?”
I said to Ross, “Did you see Julie?”
He nodded his head, his eyes still on Carr in shocked fascination. “A few minutes ago. She said you were looking for me.”
“If you don’t mind saying, where’ve you been the last half-hour?”
He shook his head, still dazedly. “Just wandering around; watching how things are going. I’m on the committee.”
My pipe had gone out. I lit it again and scowled worriedly at him. “You’d better work out a more complete story than that, Ross. Davis’ll be here in a matter of minutes, and here Carr’s body is, right in front of your door. Don’t forget that Harry Shulman’s body was discovered in your garden. Davis is getting desperate enough to — ”
A voice behind me said, “Davis is getting desperate enough to do what, eh?” The voice was soft but not pleasant.
I turned and said, under my breath, “Oh, no.” Then out loud, “Hello, Lieutenant. I was just telling Maddigan here that you’d probably want an accounting of his time.”
Davis’s eyes didn’t leave my face. “And yours, friend — and yours.” He stared at me unblinkingly. Behind him, Sergeant Mike Quinn winked. “Martians again, Buster?” he asked.
Davis growled, without turning, “Shut up, Mike.” He looked down at Bob Carr’s body. “Who’s this, eh?”
The house dick, Ross Maddigan and Art Roget started talking at once.
Davis said, “Hold it.” He looked at Ross. “You’re Ross Maddigan; that other killing took place over at your house?” Ross nodded and Davis’s eyes went to Art Roget. “And you’re one of the three that hired this half-baked private detective to investigate little green men?”
Art Roget began to say something protestingly, and Davis snapped, “I know; maybe they’re purple.” Roget looked as though he was going to protest that that wasn’t what he was about to say, but Davis’s flat eyes went to the house dick. “You’re connected with the hotel?”
At the other’s nod, he growled, “Any of these rooms available for us to work in?”
Ross Maddigan said hurriedly, “This is my room here, Lieutenant. You can work in there.”
Mike Quinn said humorously, “You ain’t kidding, we’ll work in there.”
Davis shot him an impatient look, then indicated the body with a thumb. “Anybody know what’s happened to this man?”
The house dick said, “Looks like electrocution to me, Lieutenant. Listen, the management — ”
Davis stared him down. “The devil with the management,” he growled softly. His eyes went to Maddigan. “Open the door, eh?”
Ross Maddigan’s hand went to his pocket. He said, “Sorry, I haven’t got my key. It’s at the desk. I could go down — ”
The house dick said, “I’ve got a master key.” He went to the door and opened it. Mike Quinn made his way to the phone, which stood on a small table next to the bed, picked it up carefully, fingerprint conscious, and phoned headquarters. The police machine was beginning to roll.
I shot a quick look into the bathroom, particularly up at the light socket above the lavatory. Nothing seemed unusually out of the way.
Davis said to me disgustedly, “We’ll investigate all the possibilities of his being killed in this room with the house current, Knight. You can just stop worrying about it. Sit down. — Mike, get out at the end of that corridor and keep any of those blasted crackpots from getting in here, eh?”
Mike Quinn left the room, and Davis sank down on the edge of the bed and ran his eyes over us wearily.
“Okay, you three, let’s have it. What happened?” He sneered nastily, then, “Or at least what do you say happened?”
I said, “I found Carr, Lieutenant.”
“How did you know his name — ” he began to snap.
“Some fans who knew him came along a minute after me,” I said. Then: “I came up here looking for Ross Maddigan.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to find out whether or not he had a copy of the last issue of Off-Trail Fantasy, Harry Shulman’s fan magazine.”
Ross Maddigan said, “It isn’t out yet.”
Lieutenant Davis showed no signs of having heard him; his eyes were on me, gray, washed out. He said, very slowly and very softly, “Why did you want a copy of Shulman’s magazine, Knight?”
I took a deep breath. “I’d heard they’d all disappeared and I thought maybe there was something in — ”
“Okay, Knight,” he interrupted, still softly, “so you came looking for Maddigan. Then what?” He looked searchingly at his left thumb.
I let my shoulder rise and fall. “I found him, Bob Carr, lying there in the hall. His coat was still smoking and I could smell, well, kind of an ozone smell in the air.”
“So you found the body, eh?” He nodded, almost as though in satisfaction. “Okay, and then?”
“Like I said, some fans rounded the corner and saw him and one said it was Bob Carr. I sent them to call the house detective.”
“Why not a doctor, eh?”
“I could see he was already dead. I turned him over first.”
“Dammit, Knight, don’t you even know you shouldn’t touch a body until the medical examiner arrives?”
“I didn’t know it was a body until after I touched it,” I told him.
Mike Quinn stuck his head in the doorway. “The boys are beginning to arrive, Phil.”
Davis didn’t look away from me. He growled from the side of his mouth, “Let me know as soon as possible what that stiff died from, eh?” Mike Quinn said okay and his head disappeared again.
Quinn came to his feet and headed for the bathroom, reaching his right thumb and forefinger into his vest pocket to emerge with a small bottle. The rest of us sat quietly while water ran; then he returned to the door, glass in hand. He tossed two pills into his mouth and washed them down.
Another head made itself evident at the door, a patrolman’s. He said, “Lieutenant, you got a guy named Roget here, Arthur Roget?”
Art Roget cleared his throat and said nervously, “That’s my name, Officer.”
The patrolman looked him over, then turned back to Davis. “Lieutenant, we gotta fella down there says this Arthur Roget has been looking for this guy Carr for the past hour or so.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Davis said. His eyes went to Art Roget. “What’d you want Carr for, eh?”
Roget’s face was pale now. His tongue came out and licked over his lips. He said, fear in his voice, “Jeb Knight and I were both looking for him.”
“My pal,” I muttered, under my breath.
Lieutenant Davis’s pale eyes went over me again. He went back to Roget and said smoothly, “Why? Why were you and Knight looking for Carr, eh?”
Roget’s eyes went pleadingly to me. Mike Quinn re-entered the room, evidently with more news on the progress of the boys working out in the corridor.
I said, “This Bob Carr was an authority on alien life forms. We wanted to ask him what he thought about the possibility of there being extra-terrestrials on earth.”
“Oh, brother,” Mike Quinn laughed. “Buster’s at it again.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was another three hours or more before I got out of there.
Davis began by concentrating on me. We had the bartender up and Julie Sharp; we had the bellhop, the phone operator, the desk clerk and the elevator girl. We had the three fans who had
come up right behind me as I discovered Carr’s body; and in particular, the one that I’d remembered to ask the time.
They all recalled me well enough, but only the desk clerk was able to be of any real use as an alibi. He’d known the approximate time I’d asked him Ross’s room number; he’d just got back to the desk after a late lunch. It was less than ten minutes after I’d talked to him that the fan in the corridor had looked at his watch.
Davis finally gave up on that angle. He growled at me, “It wouldn’t have been impossible for you to have got up here and chilled this Bob Carr in the time you had — but I’ll admit it wouldn’t have been very probable.”
He sat in thought for a long moment. Ross Maddigan and Art Roget were still in the room with us; the house dick had gone to report to the management. I didn’t envy him. Maddigan, Roget and I waited quietly — quakingly might be the better term.
Davis said finally, “This guy James Maddigan, where does he come in?”
I told him once more. “He and Arthur Roget, here, are my clients. This was to be the last day I worked on the case. They wanted me to take in the convention, on the theory that if there were any extra-terrestrials in this city they’d come to a science fiction convention just to check on whether or not we humans were getting wise to them.”
Mike Quinn snickered.
I went on. “I didn’t say it made sense; I’m just telling you what Maddigan and Roget wanted me to do. All right, I’d told James Maddigan about Harry Shulman’s magazines disappearing. I thought perhaps he was a subscriber and might have received one before Shulman’s death. He wasn’t a subscriber; not that it would have made any difference, because evidently Shulman hadn’t got any copies out into the mail. But while I was in the bar talking to Miss Sharp, Maddigan remembered that his nephew, Ross, was a subscriber. He phoned the hotel, had me paged, and told me about it, suggesting that I look Ross up.”
“Where’d he call from?” Davis asked thoughtfully.
“From his office. He had some last minute work to clear up, then he was going to come down here.”
“How do you know he was in his office when he called?”
The Case of the Little Green Men Page 13
