by Jeff Sutton
He grimaced. Cantrup of Chicago, Freyhoff of Germany, Bernardi of Italy—all murdered. The latter's death had occurred at almost the same time two men had died in a gunfight on Kane's lawn. Perhaps Vosin had been murdered, too. Pipelines from Russia indicated there had been something more to the story than the official report.
Bernardi had been killed in exactly the same fashion as Winthrop Farrand, he reflected. Farrand, who had propelled Androki onto the financial scene. Well, Farrand had paid for that.
Dorrance rubbed his jaw wryly. A multimillionaire, a small-time hoodlum, three men with no known records— those five dead men could be likened to John Androki in one way or another, although the thread was tenuous and highly circumstantial. How many circumstances added up to probability?
Cantrup, Freyhoff, Vosin, Bernardi—all top mathematicians, all concerned with the Bornji transformations. Of the four, only Vosin, perhaps, had died a natural death. Even that was suspect. One way or another, they, too, could be linked to John Androki; but again the thread was a glimmery thing.
He let his eyes linger on Conrad's report. Bertram Kane's apartment was bugged; his phone line was tapped. The taped pickups and tapped line led to a listening post manned by private detectives from an obscure agency.
Dorrance smiled cynically at the amateurish job done in the apartment. Well, that was a matter for the local cops, if and when it ever came to their attention. In the meantime, Conrad's men had tapped into the system, providing Conrad with surveillance of both Kane and his watchers. Nothing so far was provable except that the agency appeared to have but a single client: a small public relations outfit with a scattering of accounts, all with businesses in which John Android had a stake. That proved nothing. Yet it was part of the pattern.
"John Androki." He murmured the name, mentally juggling the events in an attempt to piece them together. He knew the task was patently impossible: too many critical items were missing.
The attempt on the life of Bertram Kane particularly was disconcerting. Conrad probably could protect Kane, but he had vetoed the idea, preferring the mathematician's • utility as bait. That was the harsh view, Dorrance knew, but he had to agree with it; the amount of protection that would be required to ensure Kane's safety would most certainly alert… who?
John Androki, he reflected; all trails led to John Androki. And John Androki appeared to be getting desperate. It was possible to hide a murder or two, but you couldn't hide a multitude of them. Not even under a pile of a few billion dollars. =—=—
John Androki the financier.
John Androki the world power.
John Androki the murder master.
John Androki, alias "Mr. Nobody."
Dorrance swore softly. He didn't mind hot potatoes; that was the reason he held the job he did. But John Androki was extremely perturbing, unpredictable, dangerous. Strong foundations were trembling under his touch.
Item: A small but well-equipped, highly trained army of mercenaries now marching through the Belgian Congo to seize the valuable copper mines of the Central Plateau was financed by a group linked to a company which was an offshoot of a Belgium corporation controlled by John Androki.
Item: The recent revolution in Costa Rica, in which Thomas Leon had seized power, most certainly had been financed by Androki's agents. Now all of Central America was jittery.
Item: Panama was threatening to close the Panama Canal following a huge loan to the government by Androki.
Senator Blaire was another case in point. The campaign of acrimony, accusation, innuendo, insult and downright lies, being hurled at him from a hundred sources, now was being accompanied by pickets demanding his recall. A tremendous fund had been raised to oppose his reelection. Despite that, the senator was going after Androki tooth and nail.
Dorrance wished him success.
What was John Androki's grand plan? What was his key objective? Power, of course, the power to control the destinies of nations; all of which boiled down to the control of people. A dozen governments already danced to his strings. But in accomplishing his ends, he was upsetting delicate political, economic, and military power balances.
Dorrance sighed, returning his thoughts to the reality of what he knew. Conrad had reported that Anita Weber, an art professor from LAU, had resigned from the faculty to become the curator of Androki's art collection.
"Beautiful, talented and sexy," the agent had labeled her. The tapes disclosed that she had become Androki's mistress on their second meeting. No one could blame Androki for that, he reflected, but it was more than interesting to note that Anita Weber formerly had dated Bertram Kane. Although Conrad hadn't determined the extent of that relationship, he believed it highly significant that it again linked the destinies of Androki and Kane. Dorrance couldn't fight that.
Bertram Kane seemed a decent enough sort. He had been completely frank with Conrad, but quite naive concerning any possible danger to himself. Dorrance wondered what he might think if he discovered that his apartment was bugged. Conrad had described him as "a longhair, completely out of this world." Well, why not? Dorrance's lips held the shadow of a smile. From the reports gathered, the description was apt.
Bertram Kane lived in the fourth dimension.
XII
Kane was preparing to leave the campus for supper when his phone rang. It was loud and shrill in the silent building. He turned back at the door to answer it.
"Bert?" The voice, low and worried, was Anita's.
"Speaking." He tried to suppress his emotion.
"I have to see you right away," she said urgently.
He asked sharply, "What's wrong?"
"I can't talk, not over the phone."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, it's not that."
He felt a sharp relief. "Where can I meet you?"
"Your apartment," she suggested. "Fifteen minutes?"
"I'll be there," he promised. A click came from the other end and he replaced the instrument, feeling his uneasiness return. Despite her assurance that she was all right, he knew she wouldn't have called him unless the matter was extremely urgent. Yet what could be so urgent that would cause her to turn to him after all that had happened? He knew with certainty that it involved John Androki.
His fears rose as he hurried toward the parking lot. She had been scared! Recalling her words, her tones, he realized a fear in them which he hadn't fully sensed at the time. Fear of what? The question was a spur to his own fears.
Reaching his apartment, he debated calling Maxon, then dismissed the impulse. If she had wanted to confide in Gordie, she would have called him. Or had she tried to call him first? Whatever her trouble was, she needed help, and she wasn't too proud to turn to friends she had all but dropped at the wayside.
He had been home only a few moments when he heard the roar of an engine at the curb. Glancing through the window, he saw her white Jag. She emerged from the vehicle quickly, looking back along the street before starting toward the house. He went to the door to meet her.
"Good to see you." He extended a hand, aware that his voice wasn't quite steady. - m
"Is it? I hope so." She smiled quickly, failing to conceal her worry. He stepped aside to let her enter, then closed the door.
"What's the trouble?" he asked sharply.
She turned, searching his face anxiously before she replied, "I had to talk to someone."
"Androki?"
"Well, yes." Her tongue edged her lip nervously.
"You came to the right place," he answered quietly. "Coffee? It'll only take a jiffy."
"Black." She nodded and sat on the couch.
He filled two cups with the warmed-over liquid, then returned and placed them on the coffee table beside her. "Now, what's it all about?"
She lifted the cup without answering, watching him over the brim. Her hand trembled. She set it down again and said, "Perhaps I'm being foolish."
"I suspect that you're not."
She stared at him. "Why do you
say that?"
He smiled. "You're not a worrier, but you're worried."
"I never thought of myself as a worrier," she confessed. She bit her lip. "I don't quite know how to begin."
"At the beginning," he suggested. "That's usually the best place."
"This has to be in absolute confidence, Bert. If what I say ever got out, it could cause a lot of trouble."
"For you?"
"Yes, and for others as well."
"Who?"
"Mr. Androki," she replied.
"I'll respect your confidence," he promised.
She rubbed her hands, then looked up at him, her face suddenly calm. "I think there was a killing," she said quietly.
"A murder?"
"A killing," she corrected.
"Where?"
"At Mr. Androki's."
"The Malibu estate?"
"No, that's not quite completed. The place off Sunset."
"Tell me about it." He watched her expectantly.
Her eyes came up slowly. "It's so unbelievable that I wonder if I did see it. Oh, I know, I sound confused." She smiled agitatedly. "I am, of course. Dreadfully confused."
"Try to look at it objectively," he encouraged.
She nodded, pursing her lips again before saying, "I was in the art gallery studying a Kirchner painting—that's the Brucke school—which one of Mr. Androki's agents had purchased. It was in the late afternoon and I opened the curtains to examine it under natural light. The window looks out on the rear yard." She paused.
"Go ahead," he prompted.
"The sun was in the west, falling across the lawn. There are no trees in that immediate area and I had a clear view. Then suddenly a man appeared—"
"Appeared?" he cut in.
She jerked her head in violent agreement. "I know it sounds crazy but that's the way it is. I was looking at the lawn when suddenly he appeared in the center of it, just as if he had sprung up from the earth. I saw him clearly. He was holding something in his hand. A gun, I think. Mr. Androki had just driven up in front; I know because I heard his men come in to look through the house. They always do that." She stopped, twisting her hands nervously.
"Keep going," he instructed tersely.
"The man started running toward the front of the house where the cars park. I heard a shot; then he fell."
"The man with the gun?"
She nodded tremulously.
"Did you actually see him get shot… fall?"
"Yes." She whispered the word. "He was still in my sight."
"What happened next?"
"Two of Mr. Androki's bodyguards ran over to him and carried him away. I believe they put him in one of the cars. I heard it drive off a few moments later. I had closed the curtains, afraid someone might see me."
"Did anyone ask if-you had?"
"No, but I was frightened."
"Did the man look like anyone you had ever seen before?"
"I really couldn't tell. I just saw him suddenly appear and start running. I have the impression that he was middle-aged, stocky, that's all. He had on a dark suit." Her eyes came back to his face. "I know it sounds crazy, but that's the way it was. I am positive he was killed."
"Was that this afternoon?"
She shook her head. "No, yesterday. I've been frightened ever since. I wanted to call earlier but I was too scared even to do that. I don't think it was the shooting so much as his sudden appearance. That was positively frightening."
"I didn't see any mention in the paper of a body being found," he observed.
"Neither did I."
"Are you afraid of Androki?"
"Certainly not." Her face blazed defiantly. "I'm just frightened by what happened."
"That's understandable."
"Am I going crazy? I've wondered."
"Of course not."
"But to spring from the earth!"
"Perhaps it wasn't that way at all," he suggested. "Perhaps your eyes just suddenly lit on him, giving the impression that he had suddenly appeared. I've heard of such illusions."
"No, I saw him." She looked suddenly defeated. "There has been so much killing."
]h?"
"Well, the men on your lawn."
"Do you believe there is some connection?"
"Of course not." She tossed her head. "How could there be?"
"I don't know," he answered frankly. "I was wondering why you mentioned it."
"No reason at all, except there has been so much violence. It frightens me, Bert."
"Well, if the fellow was trying to kill Androki…"
"Do you believe that could be it?" She clutched at the hope. "He did have a gun. I'm certain that's what he held in his hand."
"Androki still should have reported it."
"I realize that." She fumbled with her purse. "What shall I do? I can't tell the police."
"Why not?"
"They'd think I was crazy, and besides…" She halted again, working her lips convulsively.
"Besides what?" he urged.
"I don't know that he was killed."
"You know that he was shot," he countered.
"Well, yes."
He leaned back, gazing at her. Somehow the element of fantasy she saw in the story held the ring of truth to him. She was too positive in what she had seen. Neither had he ever known her to be flighty, nor given over to wild imagination. It could have been an illusion, but he doubted it.
He said finally, "I'd get out of there."
"Quit my job?" The defiance sprang back into her eyes. "It's my big chance. I can't just throw it away, Bert. You don't know how much it means to me."
"Is it worth getting mixed up in murder?" he asked quietly. . "But I'm not involved," she protested. "It was just something that I saw, or thought that I saw."
"Don't try to talk yourself out of what you saw," he warned sternly. "I'm thinking of you. It might be dangerous if Androki knew what you saw, or even suspected it."
"To me? That's silly!"
"Is it?" He gazed moodily at her. "I don't know what I can say other than what I have advised. Would you have any objection if I talked it over with Gordie?" She tossed her head. "Gordie's prejudiced."
"Against Androki? I don't believe so."
"He imagines all sorts of crazy things about him."
"He speculates, yes, but he's trying to arrive at the truth."
"Is he? He's trying to make something sensational out of it. All that talk about a lurid article."
"He's sincere," he rebuked. "It's all so silly, Bert."
He said, "You'll have to admit that Androki's mixed up in some strange deals. If what Senator Blaire says is true, he has placed himself beyond the pale of the law; or perhaps I should say above the law. He's undermining this government in a score of different ways and it's doubtful that he's even a citizen."
"Nonsense," she snapped, "I know he is."
"Supposedly from some village near Green Bay," he assented, "but the senator can't verify that."
"That man!"
"I have to side with his viewpoint, Anita."
"Because John Androki is an astute businessman?"
"Because he walks over law and order," he corrected. "He's not at all like people say, Bert. He's kind and considerate, and such a gentle man. Oh, it's his tremendous wealth that has brought so much of the feeling against him. People envy him."
"I'll have to take your word for it."
She gazed disconsolately at the floor. "Talk with Gordie if you want, if you're certain he won't say anything."
"He won't." He spoke more kindly. "But I believe that his advice will be the same: Get out of there."
"I suppose." She pushed aside her cup and rose. "I have to be going."
He got up. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been more helpful."
"You were fine." She forced a smile. "I really needed to talk more than anything else."
"Any time," he offered.
"You're a doll, Bert." She kissed his cheek before turning toward the
door.
"Take care of yourself," he called softly. He listened to her footsteps retreating down the stairs; her heels made a sharp staccato on the front walk. A moment later the Jag engine roared to life, then grew fainter as the car sped off into the dusk.
He returned to the couch and sat down. A man who popped up out of nowhere, ran across a lawn and was shot down… He smiled faintly. Fantastic, yes, yet it was in keeping with other stories concerning Androki. Each- tale was succeeded by an even wilder one. The man rapidly was becoming the subject of a new mythology.
He pondered that. The man was cloaked in mystery. Cloaked in mystery and followed by death, he corrected. Or did he sow death as he went? Maxon had called him a magnet for murder; Anita saw him as considerate, gentle. Which was the true Androki? Was he a victim of society, or was society the victim?
He'd have to think about that.
"Take four dead mathematicians, three unidentified murder victims, one multibillionaire, a guy who appears from nowhere and gets shot down, toss in a few miscellaneous corpses, dump them into a cauldron of Bornji transformations and stir well and what do you get?" asked Maxon.
"A witch's brew," Kane answered sourly.
"If the concoction doesn't taste right, add a dash of multidimensional space and a sprinkle of water from the time stream," the psychologist continued. "Out of it should come something quite interesting."
"Yes, but what?"
"That's what we have to determine. It's a fancy recipe, Bert, for amateur cooks." Maxon gazed around the lounge.
"Do you think Anita might have imagined the fellow springing up from nowhere?"
"The miracle of birth." Maxon snickered, then shook his head. "That's mild compared to some of the things I've imagined."
"She wouldn't listen to my advice to get out."
"Of course not." Maxon's face was deadpan. "Those curator jobs aren't easy to come by."
"Be serious," Kane snapped irritably.
"I'm trying to be," Maxon protested. He looked .hurt. "What do you expect me to do, give you the same kind of gobbledegook we give the students? When we don't know the answer to something in class, we say, 'Therefore it is obvious…' But I don't want to satisfy myself with a snap answer that won't hold up under test. I don't want to guess at what Anita might have seen, her reasons for remaining there, or anything else. I want to know. I especially want to know what makes that guy tick, Bert, and at this point I can only guess. If my guesses are wild, it's only because of the data I have to go by. Like Anita's story—a direct eyewitness report."
