by Jack Vance
Glawen patted her head and ruffled her hair. “In my opinion, Squeaker, you’re uncommonly wise for your age.”
“You are too, for that matter. Also, if you don’t mind -”
“It was a mistake. I’ll be more careful.”
Miranda gave a curt nod. “I’ve looked at all the spools a dozen times. Often they show the same area from different angles, so that you see everyone present. The archivists haven’t completely finished yet, but almost everyone has been identified. For instance -” Miranda worked buttons to bring a tracer-spark down the screen. She stopped it on one of the faces and touched another button. A name appeared at the bottom of the screen: GLAWEN CLATTUC. “Of course, I wasn’t looking for you. I wanted to find someone skulking around to the back of the Orpheum. But whoever did it was careful to keep away from the cameras and I found nothing. After a bit, I started using the zoom, looking here and there, with nothing particular in mind. And I happened, by sheer chance, to notice this.”
* * *
Chapter II, Part 11
Bodwyn Wook and his captains met in the high-ceilinged office on the second floor of the New Agency. After the customary small talk Bodwyn Wook leaned back into the depths of his massive black chair. “I’ll now hear reports. Captain Laverty?”
Ysel Laverty said: “I’ve been working with fibers taken from the floor of the truck. They turn out to be synthetic stuff, produced off-world, probably on Soum. I have secured samples from what I shall call ‘hairy’ costumes, including Latuun’s legs, the Bold Lion pelts, and a number of others. I have had ambiguous results. The fiber exactly matches only the fur from Latuun’s legs, although I discovered a number of close similarities among the Bold Lion costumes. How did these folk account for their time? Two of the Bold Lions, Arles Clattuc and Kirdy Wook, were occupied patrolling the Yip compound; the other six Bold Lions were here and there, but often enough in the purview of reputable witnesses during the critical time as to eliminate them from suspicion. Latuun, or, I should say, Namour, states that for a time he stepped the pavane with Spanchetta Clattuc, then strolled around, but never left the environs of the Quadrangle. Spanchetta corroborates the statement, as do other witnesses; despite the evidence of the fur, we must also dismiss Namour. So then -” Ysel Laverty flung out his hands in a gesture of frustration. “What remains? In connection with the fur, very little, if anything. According to Namour, his costume carne from the Mummers’ wardrobe. Floreste got the material off-world specially for ‘primordial’ costumes; and a swatch or two was left over. I won’t say the mystery is deeper than before, but it certainly hasn’t been clarified.”
“This bears thinking about,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Who’s next? Scharde?” “I learned a great deal at Yipton,” said Scharde. “In fact, considerably more than I wanted to know. But not much seems to bear on our case. I did not see Titus Pompo; he takes obsessive precautions to hide himself; he is a mystery in himself that we should take steps to solve. I talked with him, and after a fashion heard his voice.”
Bodwyn Wook looked at him with eyebrows raised high. “After a fashion? Either you heard him or you did not hear him. Please elucidate.”
“I heard what I think to be a re-creation of his voice. Analogues of his words, if you like. I suspect that when he spoke, his words were piped into a transvocalizing machine, broken into digits, then re-formed into new sounds, with dials set to eliminate lilt, adjust the pacing, then alter timbre, pitch and overtones. In the end the voice had no more character than a video-cell reading a printed page. And still it made a connection in my head. I’m convinced that I’ve heard that voice before.”
“Very well,” said Bodwyn Wook. “So much for the voice. Now, then: tell us what happened.”
Scharde described his experiences. “Somebody made a mistake and Zamian managed to transmit a few words of information. He said, quite clearly: ‘When he came back I saw his fur. But no head.’”
“Ha!” Bodwyn Wook struck the table with his hand. “So we can’t simply disregard Ysel Laverty’s work, after all!”
“True. We can also deduce that the man was not Namour, whom Zamian naturally knew well and had no reason to protect, so far as I know. Zamian was dying and in shock. Nothing he said can be trusted completely. As for the phrase ‘but no head’ – I would guess that the murderer took off the head to his costume, if only to drive the truck more easily. There’s room for speculation here, but personally, I don’t feel it’s worth the effort.”
Bodwyn Wook looked around the table. “Captain Rune Offaw, what is your news? You are suspiciously serene, and I detect in you that rather tiresome suggestion of omniscience which over the years has vitiated the popularity of the Offaws.”
“It is comparison with the Wooks which makes the Offaws seem so effortlessly able. Still, in the case at hand, I believe that I can at least provide an iota of progress, and at best nip up our criminal by the heels.”
“That is cheerful stuff indeed! Well, then: what do the cameras tell us? Did Namour ‘tread measure after measure of dreamy delight’ with Dame Spanchetta as he claims, or did he pursue ‘pleasures more ghastsome and dire’? In short: is he guilty of this one crime? Or, as is more likely, half guilty of twenty others?”
“In this case, at least, Namour seems safely in the clear,” said Rune Offaw. “Without shame he treads the measures and twirls Spanchetta this way and that with reckless aplomb. Not for the whole three hours, of course, but well past the critical time. Strike Namour from the list, fibers or no fibers. The same tiresome pattern applies across the board. Everyone even remotely under suspicion is shown doing what he claims he was doing.
“Except in one case. Yesterday, a mixture of diligence and luck yielded a significant fact.” (The “luck” was Glawen’s insistence that Miranda report her findings to Rune Offaw. “Let him take care of the news! He’ll be a useful friend and you won’t make enemies elsewhere.”) “I found, as might be expected, that the movements of the Bold Lions during the critical time were much less structured and static than those of other folk. Still, I managed well enough, and accounted for all eight: Arles Clattuc and Kirdy Wook marching patrol, and I have here a copy of their sign-in sheet, one signature and a countersignature each half hour, signifying a patrol out and back. The other six Bold Lions were not so easy to account for, but I had no real problem. So: eight Bold Lions; like Namour, off the list. At this point, when I was about ready to put the job aside, my attention was called to a furtive shape in the shadows behind the Arbor, just barely within the camera’s field. I applied both zoom and enhancement and came up with this.” Rune Offaw, working the controls of Bodwyn Wook’s video equipment, brought an image to the wall screen. “It is a Bold Lion and a great mystery, since all are accounted for! As the figure moves, it becomes recognizable as Arles Clattuc, purportedly on patrol at the Yip compound. The time is right; Sessily is still on the pedestal. He could be our man.”
“Ha-ha!,” said Bodwyn Wook. “The good dutiful Arles! Has he been approached, or questioned?”
“No. I thought that we should jointly consider how best to handle the matter. Sergeant Kirdy Wook, also on duty, would seem to have serious questions to answer, such as why he failed to report Arles’ dereliction when the fact would obviously have bearing upon our investigation.”
“Hm,” said Bodwyn Wook. “That question at least is easily asked - if perhaps not so easily answered. First, let me see that patrol record.”
Rune Offaw passed over the sheet. “You will notice that on the three nights previous the sign-ins were occasionally done by Arles: two or three each night, although Kirdy, being the superior officer, signed in most of the patrols. On the night of the murder Kirdy signs them all.”
Bodwyn Wook looked around the table. “Well, gentlemen? Are there any comments?”
Ysel Laverty said: “There are still the fibers to be explained. The murderer wore fur; fibers were found in the truck. But the fibers from Arles’ costume don’t match the fibers in the truck.
Hence, Arles cannot be proved guilty.”
Bodwyn Wook said: “He might have had two costumes, old and new. Well, there’s no help for it; we must ask Arles some questions, before the day is any older. I’ll take care of Kirdy later.”
“Now is as good a time as any,” said Scharde. “It’s still early; Arles will be in his chambers. So will Spanchetta.”
Rune Offaw said thoughtfully: “I have some urgent affairs, and there would seem no need for the four of us.”
Ysel Laverty said quickly: “A mound of paper is swallowing my desk; I must take care of it this morning, or both desk and I may disappear forever.”
“Hmmf,” said Bodwyn Wook. “I’m not afraid of Spanchetta.” He spoke into the mesh. “Who’s in the office? I need an experienced man, large, tough, quick on his feet and lacking all fear. Who is available?”
“Sorry, sir. There’s no one in the office now except Cadet Glawen Clattuc.”
Bodwyn Wook looked sidewise at Scharde. “Glawen, eh? He’ll do admirably. Have him report to my office in uniform, at once.”
* * *
Chapter II, Part 12
Bodwyn Wook, Scharde and Glawen presented themselves at the door to the apartment in Clattuc House occupied by Millis, Spanchetta and Arles. Bodwyn Wook touched the call button, and a footman admitted them to the foyer: an octagonal chamber furnished with a central octagonal settee upholstered in green silk. Four alcoves displayed four fine cinnabar urns in which bouquets of glass flowers had been carefully arranged. At the end of the room, a pedestal carved of black chert supported a silver censer from which smoldering incense sent a wavering ribbon of smoke into the air.
Bodwyn Wook looked critically around the room. “I find this neoclassic romanticism a bit overwhelming. No doubt it is the preference of Millis. I am told that Spanchetta’s tastes are simple and modest.”
“That would be my guess,” said Scharde.
“A pity we won’t have the pleasure of seeing Spanchetta today,” said Bodwyn Wook. “But there may be another occasion soon, should Arles be executed.”
Spanchetta swept into the room, still wearing her morning gown of ruffled and pleated lilac satin, with slippers of pink fluff. Her tumultuous masses of dark curls were constrained in a lace cylinder which let a number of vagrant ringlets overflow the top. She looked from face to face. “What is all this hurly-burly? Bodwyn Wook. Scharde. And who is that? Glawen? In a uniform? An imposing group of dignitaries.”
Bodwyn Wook performed a curt bow. “I fear that there has been a mistake; we asked for Arles.”
“Arles is resting. What is the problem?”
“Principally, it seems to be that when we ask to see Arles, you appear.”
“What of that? I am his mother.”
“Just so. Still, as our uniforms indicate, we are here in an official capacity and in fact are investigating the murder of Sessily Veder.”
Spanchetta threw back her head and half lowered her heavy eyelids. “Murder? Must you use that dreadful word when the case has not yet been proved? I have had it on excellent authority that she simply skipped away with an off-world lover, in a most irresponsible fashion. In any event, the case cannot conceivably concern Arles.”
“This is what we hope to establish. Please bring him here, instantly, or I will ask Sergeant Glawen Clattuc to bring him out by force, if necessary.”
Spanchetta gave Glawen a glacial stare, then said: “That will not be necessary. I will see if he wants to talk to you.” She swung about and departed the room.
Ten minutes passed, during which Spanchetta’s passionate contralto and Arles’ grumbling tones could faintly be heard through the walls.
At last Arles shuffled into the room, wearing a brown day gown and red leather slippers of extravagant cut. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, looking from face to face, then was impelled forward by Spanchetta.
Bodwyn Wook said: “I suggest that we remove into the parlor, where we can ask our questions in greater comfort.”
“Come,” said Spanchetta curtly, and led the way into the adjoining parlor.
“This will do nicely,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Arles, sit yonder if you will. Spanchetta, we will need you no longer: you may go.”
“Just a moment!” snapped Spanchetta. “Of what is Arles accused?”
“At the moment there are no charges. Arles, if you wish, you may have Fratano present, or another adviser, or even your mother; or you may choose to speak to us alone or, finally, simply refuse to talk. In the latter case, you will be taken into custody, charged and prosecuted.”
“On what grounds?” cried Spanchetta. “I demand to know!”
“Oh - no doubt we can scratch up something. Arles, have you any ideas?”
Arles licked his heavy lips and looked sidewise toward his mother. In a peevish voice he said: “I don’t need anyone’s advice. I prefer to talk to you alone.”
Spanchetta finally departed and Scharde closed the door behind her.
“Now, then,” said Bodwyn Wook, “answer our questions simply, directly and without evasion. You are not required to inculpate yourself, but you must report the guilt of any other person. To begin with: do you know who killed Sessily Veder?”
“Of course not!”
“Describe in careful detail your actions the night she was killed.”
Arles cleared his throat. “Whatever I did, it had nothing to do with Sessily.”
“So you say. We know that you abandoned your post at the compound, dressed in Bold Lion costume and were seen returning the winery truck to its place at the loading dock.”
“That’s not possible,” said Arles, “I wasn’t there. Your information is wrong.”
‘“Where were you?”
Arles looked toward the door and spoke in a low voice. “I had an appointment with a young lady. I had made it before I knew about the patrol and I didn’t want to break it.”
“Who was the young lady?”
Arles darted another glance toward the door and spoke in a voice so low as almost to be inaudible. “It’s someone my mother does not like. She would fall into a rage if she knew.”
“Who is the girl?”
“Will my mother find out?”
“Quite possibly. Your misconduct cannot be concealed, and no doubt you will be duly punished.”
“Punished for what? It was sheer foolishness, parading along that fence in the dark. One person on patrol was just as good as two.”
“That may well be. Why did not Kirdy report your absence?”
“He knew where I was going; he knew I had been there and nowhere else. He realized that under the circumstances, such a report would cause a great hullabaloo over nothing. So he agreed to say nothing. We’re both Bold Lions, don’t forget!”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You’ll be able to practice roars while you are being flogged.”
“Flogged?” Arles’ voice rose in pitch.
“I can’t predict the penalty. You probably won’t get what you deserve. Who was the young lady?”
“A girl I knew from the Mummers. Her name is Drusilla co-Laverty.”
“And where did you spend time?”
“In a dark corner of the Arbor, where we could watch the Phantasmagoria. Afterward we just sat there talking.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Of course. Lots of people. I don’t know if anyone took any particular notice.”
There was a pause. Glawen asked a question. “What of your costume? Did you bring that with you on patrol?”
Arles merely shrugged, apparently regarding questions from Glawen as below his dignity. Bodwyn Wook said gently: “Answer the question.”
“I left my costume at Clattuc House. I didn’t want to waste time so I went into the Mummers’ warehouse and used a primordial costume, with a kind of gargoyle head. No one noticed the difference. Not even the Bold Lions.”
“I see. Then what?”
“Before midnight I dropped off the costume and went back o
n duty and discovered all the patrols had been signed off. Nothing had gone wrong and I felt that I had done no great harm.”
Bodwyn Wook shook his head in deep disparagement. “It is not a pretty story,” he said in his reediest, most nasal voice. “You have scamped your duty. You have falsified official documents and trespassed on the trust of your superior officer . . . What are you saying?”
Arles, who had been trying to interject a remark, apparently in his own defense, thought better of it. “Nothing,” he said in surly tones. “Nothing whatever.”
Bodwyn Wook threw the papers down on the desk. “Whatever else you have done we will discover in due course. You may go now.”
* * *
Chapter III
* * *
Chapter III, Part 1
Days went past, then weeks. Autumn settled into winter and the rhythm of the seasons, broken by tinkling spangling many-colored Parilia, resumed. The disappearance of Sessily Veder receded into the past; public outrage lost its edge, even though everyone knew that somewhere among them walked a man with a dreadful secret behind his face.
The urgency of Glawen’s emotions likewise dwindled, although often at night he lay staring into the dark, trying to look into the face of the murderer. At times he felt himself standing on the loading dock with the event occurring before his eyes. There! The truck and there in the cargo space! a silent dark shape. And here came Sessily: running as fast as butterfly wings allowed: out upon the dock, stopping short and innocently approaching the truck at a call from someone she knew, while Glawen strained to drive his vision into the face which Sessily saw as she approached the truck. At times Glawen glimpsed the features of Arles, but often the face remained no more than a pallid blur.
