Elmo stared at him. "Rex, if I can find that spaceship they abandoned, I won't have to write stories," he said. "I can find enough things in it to— Say, I'll make you a proposition."
"Sure," said the Doberman, "if I tell you where it is, you'll get another Doberman pinscher to keep me company, and you'll raise Doberman pups. Well, you don't know it yet, but you're going to do that anyway. The Bem named One planted the idea in your mind; he said I ought to get something out of this, too."
"Okay, but will you tell me where it is?"
"Sure, now that you've finished that sandwich. It was something that would have looked like a dust mote, if you'd seen it, on the top slice of boiled ham. It was almost submicroscopic. You just ate it."
Elmo Scott put his hands to his head. The Doberman's mouth was open; its tongue lolled out for all the world as though it were laughing at him. Elmo pointed a finger at him. He said, "You mean I've got to write for a living all the rest of my life?"
"Why not?" asked the Doberman. "They figured out you'd be really happier that way. And with the psychological block removed, it won't be so hard. You won't have to start out. 'Now is the time for all good men—' And, incidentally, it wasn't any coincidence that you substituted Bems for men; that was One's idea. He was already here inside me, watching you. And getting quite a kick out of it."
Elmo got up and started to pace back and forth. "Looks like they outsmarted me at every turn but one, Rex," he murmured. "I've got 'em there, if you'll co-operate.
"How?"
"We can make a fortune with you. The world's only talking dog. Rex, we'll get you diamond-studded collars and feed you aged steaks and—and get you everything you want. Will you?"
"Will I what?"
"Speak."
"Woof," said the Doberman.
Dorothy Scott looked at Elmo Scott. "Why do that, Elmo?" she asked. "You told me I should never ask him to speak unless we had something to give him, and he's just eaten."
"I dunno," said Elmo. "I forgot. Well, guess I'd better get back to getting a story started." He stepped over the dog and walked to his typewriter in the other room.
He sat down in front of it and then called out. "Hey, Toots," and Dorothy came in and stood beside him. He said, "I think I got an idea. That 'Now is the time for all good Bems to come to the aid of Elmo Scott' has the germ of an idea in it. I can even pick the title out of it. 'All Good Bems.' About a guy trying to write a science-fiction story, and suddenly his—uh—dog—I can make him a Doberman like Rex and—Well, wait till you read it."
He jerked fresh paper into the typewriter and wrote the heading:
ALL GOOD BEMS
DAYMARE
It started out like a simple case of murder. That was bad enough in itself, because it was the first murder during the five years Rod Caquer had been Lieutenant of Police in Sector Three of Callisto.
Sector Three was proud of that record, or had been until the record became a dead duck.
But before the thing was over, nobody would have been happier than Rod Caquer if it had stayed a simple case of murder-without cosmic repercussions.
Events began to happen when Rod Caquer's buzzer made him look up at the visiscreen.
There he saw the image of Barr Maxon, Regent of Sector Three.
"Morning, Regent," Caquer said pleasantly. "Nice speech you made last night on the-"
Maxon cut him short. "Thanks, Caquer," he said. "You know Willem Deem?"
"The book-and-reel shop proprietor? Yes, slightly.""He's dead," announced Maxon. "It seems to be murder. You better go there."
His image clicked off the screen before Caquer could ask any questions. But the questions could wait anyway. He was already on his feet and buckling on his short-sword.
Murder on Callisto? It did not seem possible, but if it had really happened he should get there quickly. Very quickly, if he was to have time for a look at the body before they took it to the incinerator.
On Callisto, bodies are never held for more than an hour after death because of the hylra spores which, in minute quantity, are always present in the thinnish atmosphere. They are harmless, of course, to live tissue, but they tremendously accelerate the rate of putrefaction in dead animal matter of any sort.
Dr. Skidder, the Medico-in-Chief, was coming out the front door of the book-and-reel shop when Lieutenant Caquer arrived there, breathless.
The medico jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Better hurry if you want a look," he said to Caquer. "They're taking it out the back way. But I've examined-"
Caquer ran on past him and caught the white-uniformed utility men at the back door of the shop.
"Hi, boys, let me take a look," Caquer cried as he peeled back the sheet that covered the thing on the stretcher.
It made him feel a bit sickish, but there was not any doubt of the identity of the corpse or the cause of death. He had hoped against hope that it would turn out to have been an accidental death after all. But the skull had been cleaved down to the eyebrows-a blow struck by a strong man with a heavy sword.
"Better let us hurry, Lieutenant. It's almost an hour since they found him."
Caquer's nose confirmed it, and he put the sheet back quickly and let the utility men go on to their gleaming white truck parked just outside the door.
He walked back into the shop, thoughtfully, and looked around. Everything seemed in order. The long shelves of celluwrapped merchandise were neat and orderly. The row of booths along the other side, some equipped with an enlarger for book customers and the others with projectors for those who were interested in the microfilms, were all empty and undisturbed.
A little crowd of curious persons was gathered outside the door, but Brager, one of the policemen, was keeping them out of the shop.
"Hey. Brager," said Caquer, and the patrolman came in and closed the door behind him.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Know anything about this? Who found him, and when, and so on?"
"I did, almost an hour ago. I was walking by on my beat when I heard the shot."
Caquer looked at him blankly.
"The shot?" he repeated.
"Yeah. I ran in and there he was dead and nobody around. I knew nobody had come out the front way, so I ran to the back and there wasn't anybody in sight from the back door. So I came hack and put in the call."
"To whom? Why didn't you call me direct, Brager?"
"Sorry, Lieutenant, but I was excited and I pushed the wrong button and got the Regent. I told him somebody had shot Deem and he said stay on guard and he'd call the Medico and the utility boys and you."
In that order? Caquer wondered. Apparently, because Caquer had been the last one to get there.
But he brushed that aside for the more important question-the matter of Brager having heard a shot. That did not make sense, unless-no, that was absurd, too. If Willem Deem had been shot, the Medico would not have split his skull as part of the autopsy.
"What do you mean by a shot, Brager?" Caquer asked. "An old-fashioned explosive weapon?"
"Yeah," said Brager. "Didn't you see the body? A hole right over the heart. A bullet-hole, I guess. I never saw one before. I didn't know there was a gun on Callisto. They were outlawed even before the blasters were."
Caquer nodded slowly.
"You-you didn't see evidence of any other-uh-wound?"r he persisted.
"Earth, no. Why would there be any other wound? A hole through a man's heart's enough to kill him, isn't it?"
"Where did Dr. Skidder go when he left here?" Caquer inquired. "Did he say?"
'Yeah, he said you would he wanting his report so he'd go back to his office and wait till you came around or called him. What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?"
Caquer thought a moment.
"Go next door and use the visiphone there, Brager-I'll be busy on this one," Caquer at last told the policeman. "Get three more men, and the four of you canvass this block and question everyone."
"You mean whether they saw anybody r
un out the back way, and if they heard the shot, and that sort of thing?" asked Brager.
"Yes. Also anything they may know about Deem, or who might have had a reason to-to shoot him." Brager saluted, and left.
Caquer got Dr. Skidder on the visiphone. "Hello, Doctor," he said. "Let's have it."
"Nothing but what met the eye, Rod. Blaster, of course. Close range."
Lieutenant Rod Caquer steadied himself. "Say that again, Medico."
"What's the matter," jibed Skidder. "Never see a blaster death before? Guess you wouldn't have at that, Rod, you're too young. But fifty years ago when I was a student, we got them once in a while."
"Just how did it kill him?"
Dr. Skidder looked surprised. "Oh, you didn't catch up with the clearance men then. I thought you'd seen it. Left shoulder, burned all the skin and flesh off and charred the bone. Actual death was from shock-the blast didn't hit a vital area. Not that the burn wouldn't have been fatal anyway, in all probability. But the shock made it instantaneous."
Dreams are like this, Caquer told himself.
"In dreams things happen without meaning anything," he thought. "But I'm not dreaming, this is real."
"Any other wounds, or marks on the body?" he asked, slowly.
"None. I'd suggest, Rod, you concentrate on a search for that blaster. Search all of Sector Three, if you have to. You know what a blaster looks like, don't you?"
"I've seen pictures," said Caquer. "Do they make a noise, Medico? I've never seen one fired."
'Dr. Skidder shook his head. "There's a flash and a hissing sound, but no report."
"It couldn't be mistaken for a gunshot?"
The doctor stared at him.
"You mean an explosive gun? Of course not. Just a faint s-s-s-s. One couldn't hear it more than ten feet away."
When Lieutenant Caquer had clicked off the visiphone, he sat down and closed his eyes to concentrate. Somehow he had to make sense out of three conflicting sets of observations. His own, the patrolman's, and the medico's.
Brager had been the first one to see the body, and he said there was a hole over the heart. And that there were no other wounds. He had heard the report of the shot.
Caquer thought, suppose Brager is lying. It still doesn't make sense. Because according to Dr. Skidder, there was no bullet-hole, but a blaster-wound. Skidder had seen the body after Brager had.
Someone could, theoretically at least, have used a blaster in the interim, on a man already dead. But...
But that did not explain the head wound, nor the fact that the medico had not seen the bullet hole.
Someone could, theoretically at least, have struck the skull with a sword between the time Skidder had made the autopsy and the time he, Rod Caquer, had seen the body. But...
But that didn't explain why he hadn't seen the charred shoulder when he'd lifted the sheet from the body on the stretcher. He might have missed seeing a bullet-hole, but he would not, and he could not, have missed seeing a shoulder in the condition Dr. Skidder described it.
Around and around it went, until at last it dawned on him that there was only one explanation possible. The Medico-in-Chief was lying, for whatever mad reason.
Brager's story could be true, in total. That meant, of course, that he, Rod Caquer, had overlooked the bullet hole Brager had seen; but that was possible.
But Skidder's story could not be true. Skidder himself, at the time of the autopsy, could have inflicted the wound in the head. And he could have lied about the shoulder-wound. Why-unless the man was mad-he would have done either of those things, Caquer could not imagine. But it was the only way he could reconcile all the factors.
But by now the body had been disposed of. It would be his word against Dr. Skidder's
But wait!-the utility men, two of them, would have seen the corpse when they put it on the stretcher.
Quickly Caquer stood up in front of the visiphone and obtained a connection with utility headquarters.
"The two clearance men who took a body from Shop 9364 less than an hour ago-have they reported back yet?" he asked.
"Just a minute, Lieutenant ... Yes, one of them was through for the day and went on home. The other one is here."
"Put him on."
Rod Caquer recognized the man who stepped into the screen. It was the one of the two utility men who had asked him to hurry.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" said the man.
"You helped put the body on the stretcher?" "Of course."
"What would you say was the cause of death?"
The man in white looked out of the screen incredulously.
"Are you kidding me, Lieutenant?" he grinned. "Even a moron could see what was wrong with that stiff." Caquer frowned.
"Nevertheless, there are conflicting statements. I want your opinion."
"Opinion? When a man has his head cut off, what two opinions can there be, Lieutenant?"
Caquer forced himself to speak calmly. "Will the man who went with you confirm that?"
"Of course. Earth's Oceans! We had to put it on the stretcher in two pieces. Both of us for the body, and then Walter picked up the head and put it on next to the trunk. The killing was done with a disintegrator beam, wasn't it?"
"You talked it over with the other man?" said Caquer. "There was no difference of opinion between you about the-uh-details?"
"Matter of fact there was. That was why I asked you if it was a disintegrator. After we'd cremated it, he tried to tell me the cut was a ragged one like somebody'd taken several blows with an axe or something. But it was clean."
"Did you notice evidence of a blow struck at the top of the skull?"
"No. Say, lieutenant, you aren't looking so well. Is anything the matter with you?"
* * *
That was the setup that confronted Rod Caquer, and one cannot blame him for beginning to wish it had been a simple case of murder.
A few hours ago, it had seemed had enough to have Callisto's no-murder record broken. But from there, it got worse. He did not know it then, but it was going to get still worse and that would be only the start.
It was eight in the evening, now, and Caquer was still at his office with a copy of Form 812 in front of him or the duraplast surface of his desk. There were questions on that form, apparently simple questions.
Name of Deceased: Willem Deem
Occupation: Prop. of book-and-reel shop
Residence Apt. 8250, Sector Three, Clsto.
Place of Bus.: Shop 9364, S. T., Clsto.
Time of Death: Approx. 3 P.m. Clsto. Std. Time
Cause of Death:
Yes, the first five questions had been a breeze. But the six? He had been staring at that question an hour now. A Callisto hour, not so long as an Earth one, but long enough when you're staring at a question like that.
But confound it, he would have to put something down.
Instead, he reached for the visiphone button, and a moment later Jane Gordon was looking at him out of the screen. And Rod Caquer looked back, because she was something to look at.
"Hello, Icicle," he said. "Afraid I'm not going to be able to get there this evening. Forgive me?"
"Of course, Rod. What's wrong? The Deem business?" He nodded gloomily. "Desk work. Lot of forms and reports I got to get out for the Sector Coordinator."
"Oh. How was he killed, Rod?"
"Rule Sixty-five," he said with a smile, "forbids giving details of any unsolved crime to a civilian."
"Bother Rule Sixty-five. Dad knew Willem Deem well, and he's been a guest here often. Mr. Deem was practically a friend of ours."
"Practically?" Caqucr asked. "Then I take it you didn't like him, Icicle?"
"Well-I guess I didn't. He was interesting to listen to, but he was a sarcastic little beast, Rod. I think he had a perverted sense of humor. How was he killed?"
"If I tell you, will you promise not to ask any more questions?" Caquer said with a sigh.
Her eyes lighted eagerly. "Of course."
"He was sh
ot," said Caquer, "with an explosive-type gun and a blaster. Someone split his skull with a sword, chopped off his head with an axe and with a disintegrator beam. Then after he was on the utility stretcher, some-one stuck his head back on because it wasn't off when I saw him. And plugged up the bullet-hole, and-"
"Rod, stop driveling," cut in the girl. "If you don't want to tell me, all right."
Rod grinned. "Don't get mad. Say, how's your father?"
"Lots better. He's asleep now, and definitely on the upgrade. I think he'll be back at the university by next week. Rod, you look tired. When do those forms have to be in?"
"Twenty-four hours after the crime. But-"
"But nothing. Come on over here, right now. You can make out those old forms in the morning."
She smiled at him, and Caquer weakened. He was not getting anywhere anyway, was he?
"All right, Jane," he said. "But I'm going by patrol quarters on the way. Had some men canvassing the block the crime was committed in, and I want their report."
But the report, which he found waiting for him, was not illuminating. The canvass had been thorough, but it had failed to elicit any information of value. No one had been seen to leave or enter the Deem shop prior to Brager's arrival, and none of Deem's neighbors knew of any enemies he might have. No one had heard a shot.
* * *
Rod Caquer grunted and stuffed the reports into his pocket, and wondered, as he walked to the Gordon home, where the investigation went from there. How did a detective go about solving such a crime?
True, when he was a college kid back on Earth a few years ago, he had read detective usually trapped someone by discovering a discrepancy in his statements. Generally in a rather dramatic manner, too.
There was Wilder Williams, the greatest of all the fictional detectives, who could look at a man and deduce his whole life history from the cut of his clothes and the shape of his hands. But Wilder Williams had never run across a victim who had been killed in as many ways a: there were witnesses.
The Collection Page 38
