by Jack Vance
Pascoglu made an impatient movement. Magnus Ridolph held up his hand, and Pascoglu irritably resumed the attack on his mustache.
"The criminal in all likelihood had had some sort of association with Bonfils."
Pascoglu said, "Don't you think we should be back in the lobby? Maybe someone will confess, or - "
"All in good time," said Magnus Ridolph. "To sum up, it appears that our primary roster of suspects will be Bonfils' shipmates en route to the Hub."
"He came on the Maulerer Princeps; I can get the debarkation list at once." And Pascoglu hurriedly departed the cottage.
Magnus Ridolph stood in the doorway studying the room. He turned to Dr. Scanton. "Official procedure would call for a set of detailed photographs; I wonder if you could make these arrangements?"
"Certainly. I'll do them myself."
"Good. And then - there would seem no reason not to move the body."
III
Magnus Ridolph returned along the tube to the main lobby, where he found Pascoglu at the desk.
Pascoglu thrust forth a paper. "This is what you asked for."
Magnus Ridolph inspected the paper with interest. Thirteen identities were listed:
1. Lester Bonfils, with a. Abu b. Toko c. Homup
2. Viamestris Diasporus
3. Thorn 199
4. Fodor Impliega
5. Fodor Banzoso
6. Scriagl
7. Hercules Starguard
8. Fiamella of Thousand Candles
9. Clan Kestrel, 14th Ward, 6th Family, 3rd Son
10. (no name)
"Ah," said Magnus Ridolph. "Excellent. But there is a lack. I am particularly interested in the planet of origin of these persons."
"Planet of origin?" Pascoglu complained. "What is the benefit of this?"
Magnus Ridolph inspected Pascoglu with mild blue eyes. "I take it that you wish me to investigate this crime?"
"Yes, of course, but - "
"You will then cooperate with me, to the fullest extent, with no further protest or impatient ejaculations." And Magnus Ridolph accompanied the words with so cold and clear a glance that Pascoglu wilted and threw up his hands. "Have it your own way. But I still don't understand - "
"As I remarked, Bonfils has been good enough to provide us a case of definitive clarity."
"It's not clear to me," Pascoglu grumbled. He looked at the list. "You think the murderer is one of these?"
"Possibly, but not necessarily. It might be me, or it might be you. Both of us have had recent contact with Bonfils."
Pascoglu grinned sourly. "If it were you, please confess now and save me the expense of your fee."
"I fear it is not quite so simple. But the problem is susceptible to attack. The suspects - the persons on this list and any other Bonfils had dealt with recently - are from different worlds. Each is steeped in the traditions of his unique culture. Police routine might solve the case through the use of analyzers and detection machines. I hope to achieve the same end through cultural analysis."
Pascoglu's expression was that of a castaway on a desert island watching a yacht recede over the horizon. "As long as the case gets solved," he said in a hollow voice, "and there's no notoriety."
"Come, then," said Magnus Ridolph briskly. "The worlds of origin."
The additions were made; Magnus Ridolph scrutinized the list again. He pursed his lips, pulled at his white beard. "I must have two hours for research. Then - we interview our suspects."
IV
Two hours passed, and Pan Pascoglu could wait no longer. He marched furiously into the library, to find Magnus Ridolph gazing into space, tapping the table with a pencil. Pascoglu opened his mouth to speak, but Magnus Ridolph turned his head, and the mild blue, gaze seemed to operate some sort of relay within Pascoglu's head. He composed himself, and made a relatively calm inquiry as to the state of Magnus Ridolph's investigations.
"Well enough," said Magnus Ridolph. "And what have you learned?"
"Well - you can cross Scriagl and the Clan Kestrel chap off the list. They were gambling in the game-room and have foolproof alibis."
Magnus Ridolph said thoughtfully, "It is of course possible that Bonfils met an old enemy here at the Hub."
Pascoglu cleared his throat. "While you were here studying, I made a few inquiries. My staff is fairly observant; nothing much escapes them. They say that Bonfils spoke at length only to three people. They are myself, you and that moon-faced bonze in the red robes."
Magnus Ridolph nodded. "I spoke to Bonfils, certainly. He appeared in great trouble. He insisted that a woman - evidently Fiamella of Thousand Candles - was killing him." "What?" cried Pascoglu. "You knew all this time?" "Calm yourself, my dear fellow. He claimed that she was engaged in the process of killing him - vastly different from the decisive act whose effect we witnessed. I beg of you, restrain your exclamations; they startle me. To continue, I spoke to Bonfils, but I feel secure in eliminating myself. You have requested my assistance and you know my reputation: hence with equal assurance I eliminate you."
Pascoglu made a guttural sound, and walked across the room.
Magnus Ridolph spoke on. "The bonze - I know something of his cult. They subscribe to a belief in reincarnation, and make an absolute fetish of virtue, kindness and charity. A bonze of Padme would hardly dare such an act as murder; he would expect to spend several of his next manifestations as a jackal or a sea-urchin."
The door opened, and into the library, as if brought by some telepathic urge, came the bonze himself. Noticing the attitudes of Magnus Ridolph and Pascoglu, their sober appraisal of himself, he hesitated. "Do I intrude upon a private conversation?"
"The conversation is private," said Magnus Ridolph, "but inasmuch as the topic is yourself, we would profit by having you join us."'
"I am at your service." The bonze advanced into the room. "How far has the discussion advanced?"
"You perhaps are aware that Lester Bonfils, the anthropologist, was murdered last night."
"I have heard the talk."
"We understand that last evening he conversed with you."
"That is correct." The bonze drew a deep breath. "Bonfils was in serious trouble. Never had I seen a man so despondent. The bonzes of Padme - especially we of the Isavest Ordainment - are sworn to altruism. We render constructive service to any living thing, and under certain circumstances to inorganic objects as well. We feel that the principle of life transcends protoplasm; and in fact has its inception with simple - or perhaps not so simple - motion. A molecule brushing past another - is this not one aspect of vitality? Why can we not conjecture consciousness in each individual molecule? Think what a ferment of thought surrounds us; imagine the resentment which conceivably arises when we tread on a clod! For this reason we bonzes move as gently as possible, and take care where we set our feet."
"Aha, hum," said Pascoglu. "What did Bonfils want?"
The bonze considered. "I find it difficult to explain. He was a victim of many anguishes. I believe that he tried to live an honorable life, but his precepts were contradictory. As a result he was beset by the passions of suspicion, eroticism, shame, bewilderment, dread, anger, resentment, disappointment and confusion. Secondly, I believe that he was beginning to fear for his professional reputation - "
Pascoglu interrupted. "What, specifically, did he require of you?"
"Nothing specific. Reassurance and encouragement, perhaps."
"And you gave it to him?"
The bonze smiled faintly. "My friend, I am dedicated to serious programs of thought. We have been trained to divide our brains left lobe from right, so that we may think with two separate minds."
Pascoglu was about to bark an impatient question, but Magnus Ridolph interceded. "The bonze is telling you that only a fool could resolve Lester Bonfils' troubles with a word."
"That expresses something of my meaning," said the bonze.
Pascoglu stared from one to the other in puzzlement, then threw up his hands in disgust.
"I merely want to find who burnt the hole in Bonfils' head. Can you help me, yes or no?"
The bonze smiled faintly. "My friend, I am dedicated to wonder if you have considered the source of your impulses? Are you not motivated by an archaic quirk?"
Magnus Ridolph interpreted smoothly. "The bonze refers to the Mosaic Law. He warns against the doctrine of extracting an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
"Again," declared the bonze, "you have captured the essence of my meaning."
Pascoglu threw up his hands, stamped to the end of the room and back. "Enough of this foolery!" he roared. "Bonze, get out of here!"
Magnus Ridolph once more took it upon himself to interpret. "Pan Pascoglu conveys his compliments, and begs that you excuse him until he can find leisure to study your views more carefully."
The bonze bowed and withdrew. Pascoglu said bitterly, "When this is over, you and the bonze can chop logic to your heart's content. I'm sick of talk; I want to see some action." He pushed a button. "Ask that Journey's End woman - Miss Thousand Candles, whatever her name is - to come into the library."
Magnus Ridolph raised his eyebrows. "What do you intend?"
Pascoglu refused to meet Magnus Ridolph's gaze. "I'm going to talk to these people and find out what they know."
"I fear that you waste time."
"Nevertheless," said Pascoglu doggedly. "I've got to make a start somewhere. Nobody ever learned anything lying low in the library."
"I take it, then, that you no longer require my services?"
Pascoglu chewed irritably at his mustache. "Frankly, Mr. Ridolph, you move a little too slow to suit me. This is a serious affair. I've got to get action fast."
Magnus Ridolph bowed in acquiescence. "I hope you have no objection to my witnessing the interviews?"
"Not at all."
A moment passed, then the door opened and Fiamella of Thousand Candles stood looking in.
Pan Pascoglu and Magnus Ridolph stared in silence. Fiamella wore a simple beige frock, soft leather sandals. Her arms and legs were bare, her skin only slightly paler than the frock. In her hair she wore a small orange flower.
Pascoglu somberly gestured her forward; Magnus Ridolph retired to a seat across the room.
"Yes, what is it?" asked Fiamella in a soft, sweet voice.
"You no doubt have learned of Mr. Bonfils' death?" asked Pascoglu.
"Oh yes!"
"And you are not disturbed?"
"I am very happy, of course."
"Indeed." Pascoglu cleared his throat. "I understand that you have referred to yourself as Mrs. Bonfils."
Fiamella nodded. "That is how you say it. On Journey's End we say he is Mr. Fiamella. I pick him out. But he ran away, which is a great harm. So I came after him, I tell him I kill him if he will not come back to Journey's End."
Pascoglu jumped forward like a terrier, stabbed the air with a stubby forefinger. "Ah! Then you admit you killed him!"
"No, no," she cried indignantly. "With a fire gun? You insult me! You are as bad as Bonfils. Better be careful, I kill you."
Pascoglu stood back, startled. He turned to Magnus Ridolph. "You heard her, Ridolph?"
"Indeed, indeed."
Fiamella nodded vigorously. "You laugh at a woman's beauty; what else does she have? So she kills you, and no more insult."
"Just how do you kill, Miss Fiamella?" asked Magnus Ridolph politely.
"I kill by love, naturally. I come like this - " She stepped forward, stopped, stood rigid before Pascoglu, looking into his eyes. "I raise my hands - " She slowly lifted her arms, held her palms toward Pascoglu's face. "I turn around, I walk away." She did so, glancing over her shoulder. "I come back." She came running back. "And soon you say, 'Fiamella, let me touch you, let me feel your skin.' And I say, 'No!' And I walk around behind you, and blow on your neck - "
"Stop it!" said Pascoglu uneasily.
" - and pretty soon you go pale and your hands shake and you cry, 'Fiamella, Fiamella of Thousand Candles, I love you, I die for love!' Then I come in when it is almost dark and I wear only flowers, and you cry out, 'Fiamella!' Next I-"
"I think the picture is clear," said Magnus Ridolph suavely. "When Mr. Pascoglu recovers his breath, he surely will apologize for insulting you. As for myself, I can conceive of no more pleasant form of extinction, and I am half-tempted to-"
She gave his beard a playful tweak. "You are too old."
Magnus Ridolph agreed mournfully. "I fear that you are right. For a moment I had deceived myself... You may go, Miss Fiamella of Thousand Candles. Please return to' Journey's End. Your estranged husband is dead; no one will ever dare insult you again."
Fiamella smiled in a kind of sad gratification, and with soft lithe steps went to the door, where she halted, turned. "You want to find out who burned poor Lester?"
"Yes, of course," said Pascoglu eagerly.
"You know the priests of Cambyses?"
"Fodor Impliega, Fodor Banzoso?"
Fiamella nodded. "They hated Lester. They said, 'Give us one of your savage slaves. Too long a time has gone past; we must send a soul to our god.' Lester said, 'No!' They were very angry, and talked together about Lester."
Pascoglu nodded thoughtfully. "I see. I'll certainly make inquiries of these priests. Thank you for your information."
Fiamella departed. Pascoglu went to the wall mesh. "Send Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso here, please."
There was a pause, then the voice of the clerk responded: "They are busy, Mr. Pascoglu - some sort of rite or other. They said they'll only be a few minutes."
"Mmph... Well, send in Viamestris Diasporus."
"Yes, sir."
"For your information," said Magnus Ridolph, "Viamestris Diasporus comes from a world where gladiatorial sports are highly popular, where successful gladiators are the princes of society, especially the amateur gladiator, who may be a high-ranking nobleman, fighting merely for public acclamation and prestige."
Pascoglu turned around. "If Diasporus is an amateur gladiator, I would think he'd be pretty callous. He wouldn't care who he killed!"
"I merely present such facts as I have gleaned through the morning's research. You must draw your own conclusions."
Pascoglu grunted.
In the doorway appeared Viamestris Diasporus, the tall man with the ferocious aquiline head whom Magnus Ridolph had noticed in the lobby. He inspected the interior of the library carefully.
"Enter, if you please," said Pascoglu. "I am conducting an inquiry into the death of Lester Bonfils. It is possible that you help us."
Diasporus' narrow face elongated in surprise. "The killer has not announced himself?"
"Unfortunately, no."
Diasporus made a swift gesture, a nod of the head, as if suddenly all were clear. "Bonfils was evidently of the lowest power, and the killer is ashamed of his feat, rather than proud."
Pascoglu rubbed the back of his head. "To ask a hypothetical question, Mr. Diasporus, suppose you had killed Bonfils, what reason - "
Diasporus cut the air with his hand. "Ridiculous! I would only mar my record with a victory so small."
"But, assuming that you had reason to kill him - "
"What reason could there be? He belonged to no recognized gens, he had issued no challenges, he was of stature insufficient to drag the sand of the arena."
Pascoglu spoke querulously: "But if he had done you an injury - "
Magnus Ridolph interjected a suggestion: "For the sake of argument, let us assume that Mr. Bonfils had flung white paint on the front of your house."
In two great strides Diasporus was beside Magnus Ridolph, the feral bony face peering down. "What is this, what has he done?"
"He has done nothing. He is dead. I ask the question merely for the enlightenment of Mr. Pascoglu."
"Ah! I understand. I would have such a cur poisoned. Evidently Bonfils had committed no such solecism, for I understand that he died decently, through a weapon of prestige."
Pascoglu turned
his eyes to the ceiling, held out his hands. "Thank you, Mr. Diasporus, thank you for your help."
Diasporus departed; Pascoglu went to the wall-mesh. "Please send Mr. Thorn 199 to the library."
They waited in silence. Presently Thorn 199 appeared, a wiry little man with a rather large round head, evidently of a much mutated race. His skin was a waxy yellow; he wore gay garments of blue and orange, with a red collar and rococo red slippers.
Pascoglu had recovered his poise. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Thorn. I am trying to establish - "
Magnus Ridolph said in a thoughtful voice, "Excuse me. May I make a suggestion?"
"Well?" snapped Pascoglu.
"I fear Mr. Thorn is not wearing the clothes he would prefer for so important an inquiry as this. For his own sake he will be the first to wish to change into black and white, with, of course, a black hat."
Thorn 199 darted Magnus Ridolph a glance of enormous hatred.
Pascoglu was puzzled. He glanced from Magnus Ridolph to Thorn 199 and back.
"These garments are adequate," rasped Thorn 199. "After all, we discuss nothing of consequence."
"Ah, but we do! We inquire into the death of Lester Bonfils."
"Of which I know nothing!"
"Then surely you will have no objection to black and white."
Thorn 199 swung on his heel and left the library.
"What's all this talk about black and white?" demanded Pascoglu.
Magnus Ridolph indicated a strip of film still in the viewer. "This morning I had occasion to review the folkways of the Kolar Peninsula on Duax. The symbology of clothes is especially fascinating. For instance, the blue and orange in which Thorn 199 just now appeared induces a frivolous attitude, a light-hearted disregard for what we Earthmen would speak of as 'fact'. Black and white, however, are the vestments of responsibility and sobriety. When these colors are supplemented by a black hat, the Kolarians are constrained to truth."
Pascoglu nodded in a subdued fashion. "Well, in the meantime, I'll talk to the two priests of Cambyses." He glanced rather apologetically at Magnus Ridolph. "I hear that they practice human sacrifice on Cambyses; is that right?"
"Perfectly correct," said Magnus Ridolph.
The two priests, Fodor Impliega and Fodor Banzoso, presently appeared, both corpulent and unpleasant-looking, with red flushed faces, full lips, eyes half-submerged in the swelling folds of their cheeks.
