by Mel Gilden
I let him come at me. He got his hands around my throat again but this time, instead of knocking his hands away, I went after the blue plastic collar I knew was hidden inside that sweater. He snapped at me and got a grip on me with his mouth. I ignored the needles of pain shooting up my wrist and probed down into the turtleneck. A second later I had a broken blue plastic collar in my hand and the Zamp android was a heap on the floor. Lying there like that, it was difficult for me to believe it wasn't Zamp just sleeping.
I put the collar into my pocket and hauled the android into the hall closet, where I dumped him in among the coats. I turned the lock. I knew it wasn't necessary, but locking that door made me feel better.
Sending that Zamp android had been a nasty trick, and it had been the wrong thing to do. It had momentarily given me joy and unreasonable hope. With those things gone all I had left was anger. That would carry me. Whether Iron Will or somebody else had done this to me, I would find him and stop his clock.
My, my. Such melodramatic threats.
Bill stood at the living-room end of the hallway and said, "That was great. Boss."
"Not bad." I gently rubbed the lipmarks on my wrist.
Sirens came closer and soon were in my lap. Someone politely but definitely knocked at the door and a voice heavy as a sack full of gravel said, "Open up. It's the police." Always the same line. But what other line was there?
I opened the door for a big uniformed cop with a red face. A plastic bar on his pocket said favere. Just behind him was another cop who was smaller and thinner and younger. They were both grim. Favere said, "You're the one who called nine-one-one?"
"Guilty," I said. "Come on in."
He gave me a small polite smile just in the interest of public relations. He and the young cop left the door open so we could hear the police calls and see the red light sweep across the hallway like a lighthouse in Hell. The officers followed me back to the living room, where I didn't have to point out the body. They studied it as if appraising golf balls on a green.
"You touch anything?" Favere said. "Probably, I didn't see him 'till I'd been home awhile." Favere grunted and knelt but still didn't touch the body. Sergeant Preston came in then, still wearing a brown suit and a brown fedora. His trench coat must have been in the car. He was with a neat older man who carried a doctor's bag and wore a small gray mustache. Sergeant Preston and I nodded at each other while the man with the bag went to work on the body. The two uniformed cops looked around, began dusting for fingerprints, and used tweezers to put bits of nothing at all into labeled plastic bags. Bill toddled around after them.
Sergeant Preston sat in the chair he'd sat in a few days before and took out a small notebook. He said, "Things seem to happen to you."
"Things I could do without."
He didn't even swing at that one, but said, "You getting anywhere on the kidnapping?"
"Not anywhere you'd want to go."
"That means no?"
"Yes."
"Try saying no next time. I'm as much a Chandler fan as you are, but I try to have a life too."
"I like your outfit," I said.
He smiled in an aw-shucks way and said, "All right. It's been nice dancing with you, but all right. Your bot have this all down on tape?" He waved the pencil at the body and at the house.
"Not this time. He was with me."
"Talk to me," Sergeant Preston said, and poised his pencil.
I told him I'd been out and where I'd been out to. I told him I'd come back and found the body. It was a dull story but blessedly short. I left out the part about the four android goons and the tip of the music-box wave and the android Zamp. The androids didn't seem to have anything to do with Doewanit's death. I didn't tell about the music box because I had a vague idea:
Darken Stormy didn't need my protection and probably didn't want it. But I wanted to speak with her before the police rolled her up in law and put her where I couldn't reach her without a lawyer and a step stool.
When I stopped talking. Sergeant Preston let there be a long space in the conversation during which I heard the clatter of police calls and the insect sounds of the policemen as they moved carefully through the house. While we had been talking a couple of big guys had taken Irv Doewanit away in a bag, leaving only a chalk outline to show he'd ever existed. I tried hard not to let it depress me that a man's life had collapsed in on itself until you could play hopscotch with it. I tried and failed. Sergeant Preston said, "Any ideas?" "Aside from the usual nasty ones?" He looked at me with disgust and I said, "All right. It looks to me as if Doewanit was mauled to death by some big animal. When the androids came here the first time to abduct the inmates of this house they had android saber-toothed tigers with them. My guess is that android saber-toothed tigers did this." I wasn't telling him anything he couldn't figure out for himself, but it sounded good. He put down the notebook and set the pencil across it diagonally, as carefully as a French chef organizing a plate of greens. He said, "Anybody could go to Superhero Androids and order up a mess of saber-toothed tigers."
"Anybody who could fill their marble swimming pool with champagne."
"Anybody with money, sure. That's still a lot of people." He watched me, waiting for me to wiggle my ears. I didn't have ears, so I said, "Iron Will might have something to do with it."
He looked surprised. "You mean the Will Industries guy? Why?"
I told Sergeant Preston the whole situation surrounding Whipper going back to work for his father. The police could shake Mr. Will's cage all they wanted to, and I couldn't lose anything. Somebody, probably Mr. Will, was already trying to kill me. He already wouldn't admit anything. I didn't have anything on him the way I had it on Darken Stormy. Let the police save Zamp and the others if they could. I wasn't proud.
Sergeant Preston said, "Circumstantial evidence won't buy you much. Especially when you have it on a guy with as much pull as Iron Will."
"That's what I thought. That's what he's counting on."
"I could talk to him."
"Don't forget to wear your kid gloves and your velvet pumps."
Angrily, he shoved his notebook and pencil into a pocket and stood up. He said, "And people think people join the cops just to push people around."
"You forgot to say 'nuts.' "
"It's a cliche," he said without smiling. He looked into the kitchen, where one of his men was tickling the telephone with a brush to wash a mouse's teeth with. He said, "I was at home when headquarters called. About to climb into bed with the wife. They said you asked for me special."
"I thought you'd appreciate it."
"Appreciation is not the word."
We watched his men work. One of them came into the living room and pleaded with me to make Bill leave him alone. When Sergeant Preston was about to leave, I stuck out my hand and said, "Still friends?"
"Sure," he said. "What's a little patter under the bridge?"
"Let me know if you squeeze any juice out of Iron Will."
He looked as if I'd put itching powder down his back, but he said he would, and he left in a screaming police car driven by one of his uniformed men.
I stood with my nose about an inch from the closed front door, massaging my wrist. Even at this hour traffic passed on PCH. Two women walked by laughing. In the closet to my left an android of Grampa Zamp was going stale. Behind me was a house as big and empty as the space between stars.
Chapter 20
Not Murder, Incorporated
I AWOKE the next morning vigorously scratching my arm and took only a moment to remember where the lip marks had come from. A good night's sleep had not improved my opinion of androids grown from the cells of my grandfather.
I would have liked to discuss the case with Whipper or with Irv Doewanit, but Whipper was too much a part of the action for me to trust his conclusions and old Irv was no longer available for comment. Not even his agent could reach him.
Nothing in the house was worth eating, so I walked down to a coffee shop an
d had an order of grease. While I chewed on it and tried to force it down with coffee I looked at the pieces in my mental shoe box again. I had a pretty clear picture of what Mr. Will was planning for the people on his elegant and exclusive list, but enough pieces were left over for a whole other puzzle.
I needed to know where the lab was and what would happen there. It was silly of me to hope that I would find Zamp and the surfers there, silly to hope I might even get a chance to throw some grit into Mr. Will's well-oiled machine, but I had a lot of silly hopes, especially when they were all I had.
I sorted through the pieces again. Everybody thought I had enough on them. Mr. Toodemax was so sure that he'd sent his four goons after me. Mr. Will was so sure that he'd sent an android Zamp. Mr. Toodemax was probably taking orders from Mr. Will, but again, Mr. Toodemax might have just gotten cute all on his own. Why wasn't I as smart as everybody thought I was? I paid my check, went back to the house to get Bill, and drove a little recklessly along the freeway to Willville.
Traffic was not as thick as the smog on Independence Day, but lumpier. Even following Bill's suggested shortcuts it took me most of the morning to get to Willville. Nothing had changed about it or about the circus around it except that the tacky gaiety was now one day older and one day more forced. The kid who took my money at the parking lot entrance was so perfect he might have been made of wax except that he looked so healthy.
At the main gate I explained that I wasn't here for the entertainment but to see Fran Ignatio at corporate headquarters. The fresh-faced kid found her name on a list, told me where she was, and gave me a ticket that wasn't good for any of the rides, but only for getting into the park. He wished me a nice day.
Bill and I passed the Castle of Android Progress and walked up the Robin Hood street. Bill kept trying to go see something, but I wouldn't let him. We went around the maze, then through the iron gates into Victorian London. Sherlock Holmes was still running around with his magnifying glass, evidently not doing any better with his case than I was doing with mine.
The same android receptionist sat at the desk on the main floor of the Houses of Parliament. The montage of the things Will Industries owned still allowed them to brag about how much money they had without actually showing anybody a balance sheet. I told the receptionist I wanted to see Fran Ignatio and she smiled me through a pair of glass doors. Phoning ahead wasn't necessary. Not to see good ol' Fran.
On the other side of the glass doors was a modern office where another receptionist asked me to wait, Ms. Ignatio would be out in a moment. I stood in front of the reception desk, making us both nervous. I didn't want to sit down. I didn't want to get that comfortable.
A woman almost as wide as she was tall came toward me, rocking as if she were walking the deck of a boat in high seas. She was dressed neatly in black and smelled like soap. A wide green scarf was tied around her neck, one corner dripping fringe from her enormous bosom like a waterfall. Her short white hair was cut in bangs over a pair of wide, intelligent eyes. She would never be beautiful, but that didn't bother her anymore. She was smart and that had gotten her where she was. You probably couldn't get that much information out of a face. She shook hands with me and told me who she was. I told her who I was. She asked me my business. Right out there in the lobby in front of everybody. You didn't take just any visitor back to the office. Like some extra in a gangster picture I said,
"Irv Doewanit sent me." She nodded and said, "Why did Mr. Doewanit not come himself ?"
"He's a little bit dead."
Nothing in Ms. Ignatio's face changed, but the head of the receptionist snapped around as if yanked by a cord, Fran Ignatio nodded again and said, "If you'll just step back to my office... ?" Her incomplete question hung in the air like a spider at the end of a silk filament.
I followed her bulk along a hallway that was painted gray with just enough green in it to give it life and carpeted with the same distinctive color. Paintings of the attractions outside hung on the wall space between doors.
Fran Ignatio's office was nice, but compared to Mr. Will's office this one was a broom closet. It was too small for basketball and the ceiling was not high enough for sky diving. Along one wall windows looked out through slits in the stone facade and let in the kind of bright sunlight they use at amusement parks. Ms. Ignatio settled behind a well-organized desk that had plenty of work on it. Behind her was a low wooden slab supporting three pots of ivy. Above that, on the wall, was a framed poster advertising Superhero Androids. I sat in a customer's chair with padded arms. Bill stood next to me.
Fran Ignatio studied me for what seemed a long time. Typing happened in the next room. At last she said, "Can we have that again about Mr. Doewanit? I'm a little deaf in this ear." She did not indicate which ear.
I said, "Mr. Doewanit was a friend of mine. For one thing, we were in the same business. He was staying at my house out in Malibu. When I came back from an errand I found him on my living room floor. He wasn't doing yoga."
"I'm sorry to hear about that. I did not know Mr. Doewanit well, but our dealings had always been pleasant."
It was my turn to study her. "Is that all?" I said.
"What more should there be? I don't know what you want me to say." Her politely indifferent attitude was setting nicely, like good cement.
"Mr. Doewanit wasn't just staying at my house. He was hiding out. He told me he was hiding out from you."
She almost laughed as she shook her head. "I run the acquisitions department of SA, Mr. Marlowe. That means I look for people who have an appearance and talent that SA may want to promote. Mr. Doewanit had such a talent. We wanted him for our Great Detectives series." "He thought you wanted him a little hard."
"It's true that we pursued him energetically. But we did not kill him. This is Superhero Androids, Mr. Marlowe, not Murder, Incorporated."
I could feel the ground giving way beneath me, but I plunged ahead. I could be just as energetic as she could. I said, "He was killed by an android saber-toothed tiger."
"That changes nothing. Anybody can purchase an android. We do a lot of custom work."
Anybody can buy an android. Sergeant Preston had said the same thing. It was probably even true. While I was still thinking that, Ms. Ignatio said, "I like your style, Mr. Marlowe."
"Style?" I said. I hoped I didn't look as confused as I felt.
"You and Mr. Doewanit were in the same business. We have an opening in our Great Detectives series. Perhaps you would like to fill it." She tossed a thin but very slick catalog at me.
I caught it with my lap.
The catalog contained all the detectives I'd ever heard of and many that I hadn't. They dressed in everything from shorts to tuxedos, with a lot of trench coats and brown suits in-between. A few were elflike women with inquisitive eyes.
"I guess I should be honored," I said as I stood and dropped the catalog on Ms. Ignatio's desk. "But I'm sort of the shy type." I was the type that got the creeps from even thinking about having my cells grown into an android.
She picked up the catalog and slid it into a drawer. "Are you certain? We could make it worth your while."
"If I wanted my while made to be worth something, I would be in a different business."
"The talent for that kind of patter would do it."
"No thanks."
"We'll keep in touch just the same."
"Like you did with Irv Doewanit?"
She didn't like that. She stood up. The interview was over. Bill and I walked to the door, but before we went out I turned with my hand on the knob and said, "I'd like to see Darken Stormy before I go, if I might." I didn't know she was there. I didn't even know she worked in that building. But this time I was lucky.
Fran Ignatio said, "She's busy at the moment, Mr. Marlowe. Please call again." The smile she handed me was calm and professional and meant to hide whatever she was thinking.
I walked along that gray-green corridor trying not to let my head swell too much. Fran Ignatio had told
me everything I wanted to know:
Darken Stormy worked there and she was at work at the moment. I'm afraid I chuckled a little. Bill chuckled too, though he couldn't know why.
I nodded at both receptionists and out in Victorian London found a phone booth that looked like a small greenhouse, the kind of place where General Stemwood might grow his orchids in Farewell, My Lovely. I didn't know that I'd ever seen an orchid. I assumed it was a flower.
Bill reminded me of Darken Stormy's number and I called it. "Darken's not able to come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave your name, your number, and the time you called—" I hung up. I didn't want to leave a message. I had other plans for Darken Stormy's apartment.
Chapter 21
Mondo Condo
DARKEN Stormy lived about ten minutes away from Willville in a complex of condominiums that took up three blocks on one side of a wide main street outside the carnival zone. It looked like a small, compact town that could have existed anywhere. A high cinder-block wall kept out the noise and those who made it.
I left the car where I could—wishing again that Bill had a talent for finding parking places—and we walked half a block to a driveway made of identical round gray stones no larger than baseballs. There were two gates, one for in and one for out. To get in, you had to know what code to play on the key pad; to get out, all you had to do was drive up to the gate. It seemed to me that after a car went through the gate took a long time to slide closed. No guard was on duty; there was not even a little house for one. The people who built those condos had too much confidence in their system, and in the stupidity of somebody who might want to buck it. A kid on crutches could get in if he hustled,
I peered at the directory until somebody drove up, played a sonata on the keypad, and went in past the swinging gate. The car turned a corner and Bill and I strolled in after it. We were three condos away before the gate slammed closed.
