The pool cleaners arrived with the first of the guests, who were highly entertained by the proceeding and stood around sipping champagne and offering helpful suggestions. The people hired to pitch the tent never came at all, but since it wasn’t raining, Raoul didn’t miss them. The orchestra began as a soloist, grew to a trio, expanded to a quartet, and by the end of the night had almost enough members to play the Mozart symphonies that had been commanded, if you weren’t picky about lack of violins.
Darlene sat outdoors at a table near the swimming pool, drinking champagne, enjoying the pageantry, the beauty, the splendor. And that was just the pool cleaners.
Raoul was the perfect host, relaxed, charming, unperturbed, unruffled, no matter what the emergency (such as when a group of guests set the deck on fire). He was wherever he should be and wasn’t where he was not wanted. He mingled and chatted and kissed and hugged, he welcomed Raj Vu as one long-lost brother might have welcomed the twin he hadn’t seen in twenty years. And if Raoul made a disparaging remark about Raj Vu appearing at an evening affair in blue jeans—though they were decorated with rhinestones—this was only after Raj Vu had been heard to make cutting remarks about the food.
Breathless and panting, the Little One planted himself in front of his friend and made wild gestures with his hands.
Raoul, preoccupied with his insult, could think of nothing else. “Did you hear what Raj Vu said? That my truffles were ... were ... were mushrooms!” Raoul was faint from the shock, forced to fortify himself with champagne. “That man may be a swine, but he wouldn’t know a genuine truffle if it bit him in the snout!”
The Little One flung himself on Raoul, began to pummel him on his shapely legs. “Forget the truffles!” The frantic command made its appearance in Raoul’s head, seeming to flash on and off in bright colors, like a neon sign.
This, at least partially, captured Raoul’s attention.
“Forget the truffles?” he repeated, dismayed. “But Raj Vu said—”
“Boil Raj Vu’s liver in vinegar!” was the next remark, pertaining perhaps to some quaint Tongan custom of which Raoul was not, thankfully, familiar. He was about to remark that, although the man undoubtedly deserved it, this operation might be somewhat messy, when the Little One interrupted.
“What do you know about the bartenders?” The question jabbed Raoul’s brain.
“Well”—Raoul was thoughtful—”they’re both quite good looking and very charming, especially the blond. He’s invited me to his gym to work on my triceps. I don’t know what they are, but he says they need developing. I said that I was looking forward to whatever developed and he—”
The Little One took off the fedora, flung it to the floor, and stomped his foot emphatically. Raoul was struck dumb, stared at his friend in astonishment. The Adonians are noted for their beauty and so, since every action requires an opposite and equal reaction, it is not surprising that there existed a race known for its ugliness. The Little One belonged to such a race.
It is difficult to describe his physiognomy, except to say that once Xris had come across the Little One after he’d been attacked by members of the now defunct Knights of the Black Earth. It was the first Xris had seen of the face beneath the fedora. He had thought, in horror, that the Little One’s face and head had been smashed into a bloody, misshapen mass of bone, blood, and brains, only to find out that his injuries were relatively minor. The Little One’s face normally looked like that.
Raoul averted his head, shaded his eyes. He had gone quite pale. “Please, dear friend, you know how this affects—”
The Little One lunged, grabbed hold of Raoul’s wrists, forced his friend to look at him. “The bartenders are assassins! They’re here to murder Darlene!” The thoughts, materializing in Raoul’s head, were tinged with blood.
Raoul stared, aghast. “Here? Now? During my party?”
“Yes! Any moment!” This flashed red with alarm.
“But ... someone dropping dead at my party! That would ruin it!” Raoul clung to the kitchen counter for support. “Absolutely ruin it.”
The Little One’s thoughts became very black and savage. “It won’t do Darlene a whole hell of a lot of good, either!”
“Oh, yes. Quite,” Raoul murmured, and after some consideration, he added, “I see your point. Where is she? Is she all right? We should warn her—”
He started to leave, was accosted by his small friend, who grabbed hold of a handful of unitard and jerked Raoul back. The Little One pointed out the kitchen door.
Raoul looked.
Darlene was seated on a wicker settee in the atrium, near a group of Adonians—Raj Vu among them—who had gathered together to exchange the latest gossip. She was listening to their conversation and, judging by her wide-eyed and slightly shell-shocked expression, she was eavesdropping on a lifestyle that she had probably only previously witnessed under the rating of Triple X. She appeared amazed and bemused but, otherwise, quite healthy.
Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps his party could be salvaged, after all. “How do they intend to perpetrate the crime?”
The image of a vial appeared in Raoul’s mind, a vial filled with a clear substance and marked with a label. Raoul was familiar with the chemical composition.
Recovering his composure, he sniffed, disapproving. “How gauche. How unimaginative. Putting the poison in her champagne. Not to mention risky. What if she decides to quit drinking? Or takes it into her head to leave? Now, if they had only consulted with me, I could have told them fifty far more reliable ways to poison her. Ah, yes. Pardon me. I am forgetting myself. It’s the professional in me. I do so hate to see a job bungled.”
He continued to keep watch over Darlene, who did not, Raoul noted, have a glass in her hand. One bartender had set up his bar in a picturesque area near the smaller of the two waterfalls. He was pouring champagne into a number of fluted glasses on a silver tray.
Every so often, a guest would come to the bar, take a glass, walk off with it. The bartender was smiling at Darlene, who so far had not noticed him. He was obviously trying to catch her eye.
“Cheap little tart,” Raoul remarked, favoring the bartender with a scathing gaze. “After going on about my triceps. He can’t be certain she will actually ingest the poison. What is his backup plan?”
An image of a nasty-looking weapon blew apart the other assorted bits of irrelevancies that had drifted into Raoul’s mind. He shuddered. “What is that thing?”
“A scrambler,” was the Little One’s reply, which filled Raoul’s head with hideous reds and oranges.
“Ah, yes. I remember our former employer, the late Snaga Ohme, had a number of those weapons in his keeping. Rather nasty devices. As I recall, they used some sort of random alpha wave transmitter to foul up everyone’s brain processes. However,” Raoul added, looking puzzled, “I seem to recall from our time spent with our former employer and from certain facts I have since picked up during our sojourn with our present employer—referring to, of course, Xris Cyborg—that these ‘scramblers’ were designed for crowd control and that they are not lethal. Also that they affect everyone in the vicinity. Their range is quite extensive.
“I do say, dear friend,” Raoul added plaintively, “would you mind putting on your hat?”
The Little One picked up the fedora, thrust it on his head, pulled it down low over his face. He made a fist, smashed himself on the forehead several times.
“Ah, I see,” Raoul said quietly. “The weapon can be altered so as to be lethal, which is what they have done. I begin to understand their plan. If they do not manage to kill Darlene this night, or if their plot is discovered, they will activate the weapon and scramble the brains of everyone at my party! How ghastly!”
The Little One made a comment.
“Well, certainly I think they’d notice!” Raoul dabbed at two tears with the corner of a cocktail napkin, taking care not to smudge his makeup. “And I could do without the sarcasm. I am having trouble enough as it is.
Instead of being heralded in the society pages as the host who gave the best party of the season, I shall be mentioned as the one with the highest death toll!”
Raoul gave a sob, hid his face in the napkin. The Little One gave him a punch in the thigh.
“I know,” said Raoul, gulping down his tears. “This is no time to fall apart. I’m calm now. Very calm. Let’s see. What can we do to stop this?”
The Little One patted the inside breast pocket of his raincoat, where he kept his favored weapon—a blowgun filled with poisoned darts.
“Yes, we could kill the two bartenders—you say they’re both assassins?”
The Little One nodded.
“But,” Raoul continued reflectively, “we would have a difficult time explaining their deaths to the police without revealing the truth about Darlene, destroying her cover, and thereby exposing her to even greater danger. Not to mention the fact that it would be most difficult for me, in the future, to hire a bartender. No, there must be a better way.”
Raoul was thinking this over when the Little One suddenly began jumping up and down.
“Now what?” Raoul demanded in despair.
The Little One pointed frantically into the atrium. Darlene was on her feet, approaching the bar. Either the bartender’s smile had won her over or she was thirsty.
Raoul and the Little One exchanged glances. A plan flashed between them. The Little One didn’t appear to like it. He shook his head vigorously.
“My friend,” said Raoul gently, “we have no choice. If Darlene does not die this night, everyone will die this night. You know what I need. You know what you must do.”
The Little One shook his head morosely, but then gave the fedora a nod and, after grabbing Raoul’s hand and squeezing it tight, the Little One dashed off. He ran from the kitchen into the atrium, pushing and shoving his way through a jungle of plants and legs. He hurtled past Darlene, wringing his small hands, and headed for the living room.
Raoul turned to an ornate wooden rack that occupied one corner of the kitchen counter and was marked SPICES. He selected a vial from among the extensive collection and, after taking a brief moment to ensure this was the vial he wanted, he slid it up the sleeve of his black unitard.
Moving swiftly but unobtrusively, Raoul left the kitchen, walked through the crowd, dodging those who wanted to engage him in conversation—or any other acts—with a charming smile, a kiss for the air, a wave of his hand. On his face, the vacuous, vague, and euphoric look of the Loti. His eyes, hidden beneath blue-shadowed lids, glittered clear, keen, focused. Their gaze was fixed on the bartender’s hands, never left them.
Darlene started to reach for one of the glasses of champagne on the silver tray. The bartender intercepted her. Raoul couldn’t hear their conversation over the music of the orchestra, but he could guess what the bartender was saying. “The wine’s been sitting there too long, ma’am. It’s far too warm. I’ll pour you a chilled glass.”
Raoul watched closely the man’s every move.
Darlene was not watching the bartender. She had no fear. She was completely unsuspecting. Swaying slightly on her feet in time to the music, she leaned her hands on the bar, looked back at Raj Vu and his friends. The bartender said something to her, reached one hand under the bar. Darlene glanced at him over her shoulder, laughed appreciatively, looked away.
For an instant, both the bartender’s hands disappeared beneath the bar. He brought forth a fluted crystal glass seconds later.
“The clean glasses are on the table behind him,” Raoul murmured. “That’s it, of course. He put the poison into that glass while he had it under the bar.”
The bartender was pouring champagne into the glass. Raoul observed the glass closely, but could not see any other substance in the glass itself. Not unusual, he reflected. The poison, according to the Little One, was a derivative of a lilylike plant which grew on Adonia and, though it had a formal, scientific name, was more commonly known as the Good-bye Kiss. The poison was said to have a faint and not unpleasant taste, as of camellias, and produced death by causing every cell in the body to view all other cells as the enemy and immediately launch an attack. The body, essentially, rejected itself.
The poison came in many forms, including clear liquid, and a single small drop was enough to start the cellular chain reaction, enough to kill.
Lifting a glass of champagne from the hand of Raj Vu—ignoring that gentleman’s indignant protest—Raoul glided forward. He deftly fingered the vial that he had positioned up his sleeve. Removing the cork, he passed his hand over the champagne glass, shook out a fine white powder into the glass. He deposited the vial in a nearby orchid plant, continued on.
The champagne poured, bubbled, and sparkled. The bartender handed the glass to Darlene, with some comment that made her laugh again. She took the glass, turned away, was bringing the glass to her lips.
“My dear!” Raoul called out. “A toast!”
Darlene was right-handed. She was holding the glass in her right hand and, at Raoul’s call, she lowered the glass from her lips.
Raoul’s mincing footsteps carried him to her side. He observed, as he approached, the bartender frown. The bartender put down the champagne bottle. He was keeping both hands free. The weapon, the scrambler, was probably located underneath the bar.
Dancing up on Darlene’s left side, Raoul raised his arm, slid it around Darlene’s shoulders, turned her so that her back was to the bar. Raoul’s white feather cape blocked the bartender’s view. As he turned Darlene, incorporating the move into an elegant waltz step, Raoul slipped his right hand over her right hand, lifted the glass from her fingers. He shoved his glass, which he was holding in his left hand, into her right hand. Giving her a dazzling smile, he lowered his arm, stepped back away from her, providing the bartender with an unobstructed view.
Raoul touched the glass to his lips, but did not drink He noted the lipstick—his own special Rogue Red color—on the rim. He then plucked the first glass from Darlene’s hand, gave her the original glass back, and then—before she could take a sip—he cried, “Switch glasses. Whatever your neighbor’s drinking, you drink!”
Darlene’s neighbor was Raj Vu, who was ingesting some sort of syrupy red concoction adorned with a bunch of fruit on a stick. Noticing this, Darlene grimaced. “I’ll stick to champagne,” she said and, once again, raised her glass.
Raoul leaned over and, under cover of the music, said, “An Adonian party game, my dear. Don’t be a stick-in-the-quagmire.”
Before she could protest, Raoul removed the champagne glass from Darlene’s hand and gave it to Raj Vu, who—most obligingly—handed the fruit drink to Darlene.
Just as Raj Vu was starting to drink, Raoul snatched the glass from the hand of his rival. Handing Darlene the champagne glass that he’d been holding, Raoul took the fruit drink away from her, handed it to back Raj Vu, and, lifting the glass of champagne to his own lips, Raoul drank it down.
“Can I drink this now?” Darlene asked, amused. “You’re not going to take it away from me again, are you?”
“Drink up, my dear,” said Raoul complacently. He raised his empty glass. “To your health.”
Darlene raised her champagne glass in return, toasted Raoul and the highly annoyed Raj Vu, who pronounced it a “stupid game” and tossed his red concoction into a fish pond. Darlene took two swallows of her champagne.
Raoul stole a glance at the bartender. Obviously confused by all the shifting of glasses, the man was watching them closely. He might have been extremely suspicious and figured his plot had been discovered, had not Darlene ended up with a champagne glass. As it was, he would wait to see the consequences.
Those should not be long in coming.
Darlene was about to take another swallow when the expression on her face altered. Her features contorted, her eyes widened. Sweat broke out on her forehead and lips.
“I ...” she began faintly. “I don’t ...”
The glass fell fr
om her nerveless hand, smashed at her feet. She made a choking, retching sound and suddenly slumped to the floor. She lay there, unconscious, amid the spilled wine and broken glass.’
Raoul promptly screamed. Raj Vu turned. He and the rest of the guests in the atrium looked over to see what had happened. The bartender poured someone a whiskey.
Raoul, hands fluttering, bent over Darlene. “She looks ghastly!” he cried.
“It’s the dress,” said one woman, standing nearby. “She should never wear that color.”
“I don’t mean that!” Raoul returned indignantly. “I mean that she appears to be very ill. Someone call a doctor!”
“I’m a doctor,” Raj Vu announced.
“You would be,” Raoul muttered.
Taking care to keep his designer jeans out of the spilled wine, Raj Vu crouched down beside Darlene. He lifted her wrist in his hand, held it a moment. A crowd had gathered. They awaited the verdict in breathless anticipation.
“This woman’s dead,” Raj Vu pronounced.
She did look extremely dead.
Raoul had a moment’s misgiving. Perhaps he’d truly gotten the glasses mixed up. Then he felt a sudden tingling in all his nerve ends, a jabbing pain in his head. He relaxed.
Despite the pain, he had the sublime satisfaction of hearing a guest remark, “I say, Raj Vu, no one ever died at one of your parties!”
And though the pain was now intense and he was having difficulty breathing, Raoul smiled.
Chapter 16
What is food to one, is to others bitter poison.
Lucretius, De Rerum Natura
Raoul held a vial under Darlene’s nose. She breathed deeply, choked, coughed. Her eyelids fluttered, opened. She stared at him bleary-eyed.
Robot Blues Page 15
