Trullion: Alastor 2262

by Jack Vance

  Akadie addressed Glinnes in his most pedantic voice. “These two gentlemen, both able and dispassionate public servants, tell me that I have connived with the starmenter Sagmondo Bandolio. They have explained that the ransom money paid to me remains in my custody. I find myself doubting my own innocence. Can you reassure me?”

  “In my opinion,” said Glinnes, “you’d do anything to gain an ozol except take a chance.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant. Did you not direct a messenger to my house? Did you not arrive to find me in conference with a certain Ryl Shermatz and my telephone switched off?”

  “Precisely true,” said Glinnes.

  Chief Constable Filidice spoke in a mild voice. “I assure you, Janno Akadie, that we come to you principally because there is nowhere else to go. The money reached you, then disappeared. It was not received by Bandolio. We have explored his mind, and he is not deceiving us; in fact, he has been most frank and cordial.”

  Glinnes asked. “What were the arrangements, according to Bandolio?”

  “The situation is most curious. Bandolio worked with a person fanatically cautious, a person who—to quote you—‘would do anything to earn an ozol except take a chance.’ This person initiated the project. He sent Bandolio a message through channels known only to starmenters, which suggests that this person—let us call him X—was either a starmenter himself or had such an accomplice.”

  “It is well known that I am no starmenter,” declared Akadie.

  Filidice nodded ponderously. “Still—speaking hypothetically you have many acquaintances among whom might be a starmenter or an ex-starmenter.”

  Akadie looked somewhat blank. “I suppose that this is possible.”

  Filidice went on. “Upon receipt of the message Bandolio made arrangements to meet X. These arrangements were complicated; both men were wary. They met at a place near Welgen, in the dark. X wore a hussade mask. His plan was most simple. At a hussade game he would arrange that the wealthiest folk of the prefecture all sat in a single section; he would ensure this by sending out free tickets. X would receive two million ozols. Bandolio would take the rest…

  “The scheme seemed sound; Bandolio agreed to the plan and events proceeded as we know. Bandolio sent a trusted lieutenant, a certain Lempel, here to receive the money from the collecting agency—which is to say, yourself.”

  Akadie frowned dubiously. “The messenger was Lempel?”

  “No. Lempel arrived at the Port Maheul spaceport a week after the raid. He never departed; in fact he was poisoned, presumably by X. He died in his sleep at the Travelers Inn in Welgen the day before the news of Bandolio’s capture arrived.”

  “That would be the day before I gave up the money.”

  Chief Constable Filidice merely smiled. “The ransom money was certainly not among his effects. So: I lay the facts before you. You had the money. Lempel did not have it. Where did it go?”

  “He probably made arrangements with the messenger before he was poisoned. The messenger must have the money.”

  “But who is this mysterious messenger? Certain of the lords regard him as sheer fabrication.”

  Akadie said in a clear careful voice, “I now make this formal statement. I delivered the money to a messenger in accordance with instructions. A certain Ryl Shermatz was present at the time, and so much as witnessed the transfer.”

  Daul spoke for the first time. “He actually saw the money change hands?”

  “He very probably saw me give the messenger a black case.”

  Daul fluttered one of his long-fingered hands. “A suspicious man might wonder if the case contained the money.”

  Akadie responded coldly. “A sensible man would realize that I would dare steal not so much as an ozol from Sagmondo Bandolio, let alone thirty million.”

  “But by this time Bandolio was captured.”

  “I knew nothing of this. You can verify the fact through Ryl Shermatz.”

  “Ah, the mysterious Ryl Shermatz. Who is he?”

  “An itinerant journalist.”

  “Indeed! And where is he now?”

  “I saw him two days ago. He said that he was soon to be leaving Trullion. Perhaps he is gone—where I don’t know.”

  “But he is your single corroboratory witness.”

  “By no means. The messenger took a wrong turning and asked Glinnes Hulden for directions. True?”

  “True,” said Glinnes.

  “Janno Akadie’s description of this ‘messenger’”—Daul gave the word a dry emphasis—“is unfortunately too general to assist us.”

  “What can I say?” demanded Akadie. “He was a young man of average size and ordinary appearance. He had no distinguishing features.”

  Filidice turned to Glinnes. “You agree to this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And he provided no identification when he spoke to you?”

  Glinnes cast his mind back across the weeks. “As I recall, he asked directions to Akadie’s manse, no more.” Glinnes broke off somewhat abruptly. Daul, instantly suspicious, thrust his face forward. “And nothing else?”

  Glinnes shook his head and spoke decisively. “Nothing else.”

  Daul drew back. There was a moment of silence. Then Filidice said ponderously, “A pity that none of these persons you mention are available to confirm your remarks.”

  Akadie at last made a show of indignation. “I see no need for corroboration! I refuse to acknowledge that I need do more than enunciate the facts!”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, yes,” said Filidice. “With thirty million ozols missing, no.”

  “You now know as much as I,” declared Akadie. “Hopefully you will pursue a fruitful investigation.”

  Chief Constable Filidice gave a disconsolate grunt. “We are grasping at straws. The money exists—somewhere.”

  “Not here, I assure you,” said Akadie.

  Glinnes could no longer restrain himself. He went to the door. “Fair weather for all. I must see to my affairs.”

  The constables gave him courteous farewell; Akadie spared only a peevish glance.

  Glinnes almost ran to his boat. He drove east along Vernice Water, then instead of swinging south he turned north along Sarpent Channel, then out upon Junctuary Broad, where the Scurge River mingled its waters with the Saur. Glinnes turned up the Scurge. He proceeded back and forth up the meanders, every hundred yards cursing himself for his own stupidity. At the confluence of the Scurge with the Karbashe was Erch, a sleepy village almost hidden in the shade of enormous candlenut trees, where long ago the Tanchinaros had defeated the Elements.

  Glinnes tied his boat to the dock and spoke to a man sitting outside the ramshackle wine-shop.

  “Where can I find a certain Jarcony? Or perhaps it’s Jarcom?”

  “Jarcony? Which one do you seek? Father? Son? Or the cavout dealer?”

  “I want the young man who works in a blue uniform.”

  “That should be Remo. He’s a steward on the Port Maheul ferry. You’ll find him at home. Yonder, up the lane and under the thrackleberries.”

  Glinnes went up the path to where a great shrub almost engulfed a cabin of poles and fronds. He pulled a cord which swung the clapper of a little bell. A drowsy face peered from the window. “Who is it? And what for?”

  “Resting after your labor, I see,” said Glinnes. “Do you remember me?”

  “Why, yes indeed. It’s Glinnes Hulden. Well, well, think of that! Just a moment then.”

  Jarcony wrapped himself in his paray and swung back the creaking door. He pointed to a bower cut back into the thrackleberry thicket. “Sit down, if you will. Perhaps you’ll take a cup of cool wine?”

  “A good idea,” said Glinnes.

  Remo Jarcony brought forth a stoneware crock and a pair of mugs. “What conceivably brings you here to visit me?”

  “A rather curious matter,” said Glinnes. “As you recall, I met you while you were seeking the manse of Janno Akadie.”

  “
Quite true. I’d contracted a small errand for a gentleman of Port Maheul. Surely there’s been no difficulty?”

  “I believe you were to deliver a parcel, or something similar?”

  “Quite true. Will you take another cup of wine?”

  “With great pleasure. And you delivered the parcel?”

  “I did as I was instructed. The gentleman evidently was satisfied, as I haven’t seen him since.”

  “May I ask the nature of those instructions?”

  “Certainly. The gentleman required that I convey the parcel to the space depot at Port Maheul and place it in Locker 42, the key to which he gave me. I did as he required, thereby earning twenty ozols—money for nothing.”

  “Do you recall the gentleman who hired you?” Jarcony squinted up into the foliage. “Not well. An off-worlder, or so I believe a man short and stocky, with quick movements. He has a bald head as I recall, and a fine emerald in his ear, which I admired. Now, perhaps you’ll enlighten me. Why do you ask such questions?”

  “It’s very simple,” said Glinnes. “The gentleman is a publisher from Gethryn; Akadie wants to add an appendix to the treatise which he put into the gentleman’s custody.”

  “Ah! I understand.”

  “There’s nothing much to it. I’ll notify Akadie that his work must already be in Gethryn.” Glinnes rose to his feet. “Thank you for the wine, and I must now return to Saurkash… Out of sheer curiosity, what did you do with the key to the locker?”

  “I did as I was instructed and left it at the accommodation desk.”

  Glinnes pushed westward at top speed, his wake bubbling the width of the narrow Jade Canal. He swept into Barabas River, hurling a white wave into the banked jerdine trees along the shore, and slid hissing westward, slowing only when he approached Port Maheul. He tied up at the main dock with a few deft twists of the mooring line, then half walked, half trotted the mile to the transport terminal, a tall structure of black iron and glass crusted pale green and violet with age. The field beyond was empty both of spaceships and local air transport.

  Glinnes entered the depot and looked across the submarine gloom. Travelers sat on benches awaiting one or another of the scheduled air-buses. A bank of lockers stood along the wall beside the baggage office, where a clerk sat behind a low counter.

  Glinnes crossed the room and inspected the lockers. Those available for use stood open, with magnetic keys in the lock holes. The door to Locker 42 was closed. Glinnes glanced toward the baggage clerk, then tested the door to find it immovable. The locker was constructed of sound sheet-metal; the doors fit snugly. Glinnes seated himself on a nearby bench.

  Various possibilities suggested themselves. Few of the lockers were in use. Among the fifty lockers, Glinnes counted only four closed doors. Was it too much to hope that Locker 42 still contained the black case? Not at all, thought Glinnes. It would seem that Lempel and the bald stocky off-worlder who had hired Jarcony were the same. Lempel had died before he had been able to claim the case in Locker 42… So it would seem.

  And now: how to get into Locker 42?

  Glinnes examined the baggage clerk, a small man with wispy gray-russet hair, a long tremulous nose, and an expression of foolish obstinacy. Hopeless to seek either direct or indirect cooperation here; the man seemed a living definition of pettifoggery.

  Glinnes cogitated for five minutes. Then he rose to his feet and walked to the bank of lockers.Into the coin slot on the face of Locker 30 he deposited a coin. Closing the door, he withdrew the key.

  He approached the baggage desk and placed the key upon the counter. The clerk came forward. “Yes, sir?”

  “Be good enough to hold this key for me,” said Glinnes. “I don’t care to carry it around.”

  The clerk took the key with a twitch of mouth. “How long will you be gone, sir? Some folk leave their keys a remorseless time.”

  “I’ll be no more than a day or so.” Glinnes placed a coin upon the counter. “For your trouble.”

  “Thank you.” The clerk opened a drawer and dropped the key into a compartment.

  Glinnes walked away and seated himself on a bench where he could watch the clerk.

  An hour passed. An airbus from Cape Flory dropped down upon the field, discharging passengers, engulfing others. At the baggage desk there was a flurry of activity; the clerk scrambled here and there among his racks and shelves. Glinnes watched him carefully. It would seem that after his exertions he might feel the need for a rest or a visit to the lavatory, but instead, when the last patron had departed the clerk poured himself a mug of cold tea, which he drank in a gulp, and then a second mug, over which he ruminated a few minutes. Then he returned to his duties, and Glinnes resigned himself to patience.

  Glinnes began to feel torpid. He watched folk come and go and amused himself for a while speculating upon their occupations and secret lives, but presently he became bored. What did he care for these commercial travelers, these grandfathers and grandmothers fresh home from visits, these functionaries and underlings? What of the clerk? And his bladder? Even as Glinnes watched the clerk sipped more tea. In what organ of his meager body was all this liquid stored? The idea provoked Glinnes himself to discomfort. He glanced across the depot to the lavatory. If he stepped within even for a moment the clerk might choose the same instant and his vigil would go for naught… Glinnes shifted his position. No doubt he could wait as long as the clerk. Fortitude had stood him in good stead on the hussade field; in a competition with the baggage clerk, fortitude once again would be the decisive factor.

  People came and went—a man wearing a hat with a ridiculous yellow cockade, an old woman trailing an overpowering waft of musk, a pair of young men flaunting Fanscher costume and glancing from side to side to see who noticed their proud defiance… Glinnes crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. The baggage clerk went to a stool and began to make entries in a daybook. In order to slake his thirst he poured another mug of tea from the jug. Glinnes rose to his feet and walked back and forth. The baggage clerk now stood at the counter, looking out across the depot. He seemed to be gnawing his lower lip. He turned and reached—no! thought Glinnes, not for the jug of tea! The man could not be human! But the clerk merely tapped in the stopper to the jug. He rubbed his chin and seemed to consider, while Glinnes stood by the wall, swaying back and forth.

  The clerk came to a decision. He stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the men’s lavatory.

  Groaning in mingled relief and anxiety, Glinnes edged forward. No one seemed to heed him. He ducked behind the counter, opened the drawer and looked into the compartment. Two keys. He took them both, closed the drawer and returned to the waiting area. No one, so far as he could perceive, had noticed his conduct.

  Glinnes went directly to Locker 42. The first key in his hand carried a brown tag stamped with the black numerals 30. The tag of the second key displayed the number 42. Glinnes opened the locker. He drew out the black case and closed the door once more. Was there time to replace the keys? Glinnes thought not. He walked from the depot into the smoky light of avness and headed back toward the dock. Along the way he stepped behind an old wall to relieve himself.

  He found his boat as he bad left it, and casting off the line, set forth to the east.

  Steering with his knee, he attempted to open the case. The lock resisted the grip of his fingers; he applied a metal bar and snapped back the latch. The cover slid aside. Glinnes touched the money within: neat bundles of Alastor certificates. Thirty million ozols.

  Chapter 21

  Glinnes coasted into the Rabendary dock half an hour before midnight. The house was dark; Glay was not home. Glinnes put the case on the table and considered it a few minutes. He opened the lid and took forth certificates to a value of thirty thousand ozols, which he tucked into a jar and buried in the soil beside the verandah. Returning into the house, he telephoned Akadie, but elicited only expanding red circles, indicating that the telephone had been placed in a “non-receptive” condition. Gl
innes sat on the couch, feeling fatigue but no lassitude. Once more he telephoned Akadie’s manse without response; then he took the black case to his boat and set forth to the north.

  From the water, Akadie’s manse seemed dark. Yet it was not likely that Akadie, a man who enjoyed nocturnal activity, would be asleep…

  On the dock Glinnes spied a man standing still and quiet. He sheered away and stood offshore. The dark figure made no move. Glinnes called out, “Who’s that on the dock?”

  After a pause a voice, throaty and muffled, came quietly across the water.

  “Constable of the Prefecture, on guard duty.”

  “Is Janno Akadie at home?”

  Again the pause, and the low voice. “No.”

  “Where is he?”

  The pause, the muffled disinterested voice. “He is in Welgen.”

  Glinnes jerked his boat around and sent it foaming back across Clinkhammer Broad, down the Saur, back down Farwan Water. When he arrived at Rabendary the house was still dark; Glay was elsewhere. Glinnes moored his boat and carried the black case inside. He telephoned the Gilweg house; the screen brightened to show the face of Varella, one of the younger girls. Only children were home; everyone else had gone visiting, to watch stars or drink wine, or perhaps to Welgen for the executions—he was not quite sure.

  Glinnes darkened the telephone. He tucked the black case out of sight in the thatch, then, flinging himself on his couch, almost instantly fell asleep.

  The morning was gay and crystalline. A warm breeze blew flurries of cat’s paws across Ambal Broad; the sky showed a lilac clarity not often observed.

  Glinnes ate a few bites of breakfast, then tried to call Akadie. A few minutes later a boat pulled up to the dock and Glay jumped ashore. Glinnes came out to meet him. Glay stopped short and looked Glinnes carefully up and down.