The Demolished Man

by Alfred Bester

  “What the hell is the matter with you? I’m Ben Reich! Ben Reich! Do you know me? Answer me.”

  D’Courtney shook his head and tapped his throat. His mouth worked again. Rusty sounds came; then words as faint as dust: “Ben… Dear Ben… Waited so long. Now… Can’t talk. My throat… Can’t talk.” Again he attempted to embrace Reich.

  “Arrgh! Keep off, you crazy idiot.” Bristling, Reich stepped around D’Courtney like an animal, his hackles raised, the murder boiling in his blood.

  D’Courtney’s mouth formed the words: “Dear Ben…”

  “You know why I’m here. What are you trying to do? Make love to me?” Reich laughed. “You crafty old pimp. Am I supposed to turn soft for your chewing?” His hand lashed out. The old man reeled back from the slap and fell into an orchid chair that looked like a wound.

  “Listen to me—” Reich followed D’Courtney and stood over him. He began to shout incoherently. “This payoff’s been on the fire for years. And you want to rob me with a Judas kiss. Does murder turn the other cheek? If it does, embrace me, brother killer. Kiss death! Teach death love. Teach Godliness and shame and blood and—No. Wait. I—” He stopped short and shook his head like a bull trying to cast off a halter of delirum.

  “Ben,” D’Courtney whispered in horror. “Listen, Ben…”

  “You’ve been at my throat for ten years. There was room enough for both of us. Monarch and D’Courtney. All the room in time and space, but you wanted my blood, eh? My heart. My guts in your lousy hands. The Man With No Face!”

  D’Courtney shook his head in bewilderment. “No, Ben. No…”

  “Don’t call me Ben. I’m no friend of yours. Last week I gave you one more chance to wash in decency. Me. Ben Reich. I asked for armistice. Begged for peace. Merger. I begged like a screaming woman. My father would spit on me if he were alive. Every fighting Reich would blacken my face with contempt. But I asked for peace, didn’t I? Eh? Didn’t I?” Reich prodded D’Courtney savagely. “Answer me.”

  D’Courtney’s face was blanched and staring. Finally he whispered: “Yes. You asked… I accepted.”

  “You what?”

  “Accepted. Waiting for years. Accepted.”

  “Accepted!”

  D’Courtney nodded. His lips formed the letters: “WWHG.”

  “What? WWHG? Acceptance?”

  The old man nodded again.

  Reich shrieked with laughter. “You clumsy old liar. That’s refusal. Denial. Rejection. War.”

  “No, Ben. No…”

  Reich reached down and yanked D’Courtney to his feet. The old man was frail and light, but his weight burned Reich’s arm, and the touch of the old skin burned Reich’s fingers.

  “So it’s to be war, is it? Death?”

  D’Courtney shook his head and tried to make signs.

  “No merger. No peace. Death. That’s the choice, eh?”

  “Ben… No.”

  “Will you surrender?”

  “Yes,” D’Courtney whispered. “Yes, Ben. Yes.”

  “Liar. Clumsy old liar.” Reich laughed. “But you’re dangerous. I can see it. Protective mimicry. That’s your trick. You imitate the idiots and trap us at your leisure. But not me. Never.”

  “I’m not…your enemy, Ben.”

  “No,” Reich spat. “You’re not because you’re dead. You’ve been dead ever since I came into this orchid coffin. Man With No Face! Can you hear me screaming for the last time? You’re finished forever!”

  Reich tore the gun out of his breast pocket. He touched the stud and it opened like a red steel flower. A faint groan escaped from D’Courtney when he saw the weapon. He backed away in horror. Reich caught him and held him fast. D’Courtney twisted in Reich’s grasp, his face pleading his eyes glazed and rheumy. Reich transferred his grasp to the back of D’Courtney’s thin neck and wrenched the head toward him. He had to fire through the open mouth for the trick to work.

  At that instant, one of the orchid petals swung open, and a half-dressed girl burst into the room. In a blaze of surprise, Reich saw the corridor behind her, a bedroom door standing open at the far end; the girl, nude under a frost silk gown hastily thrown on, yellow hair flying, dark eyes wide in alarm… A lightning flash of wild beauty.

  “Father!” she screamed. “For God’s sake! Father!”

  She ran toward D’Courtney. Reich swung quickly between them, never relaxing his hold on the old man. The girl stopped short, backed away, then darted to the left around Reich screaming. Reich pivoted and cut viciously at her with the stiletto. She eluded him but was driven back on the couch. Reich thrust the point of the stiletto between the old man’s teeth and forced his jaws open.

  “No!” she cried. “No! For the love of Christ! Father!”

  She stumbled around the couch and ran toward her father again. Reich thrust the gun muzzle into D’Courtney’s mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled explosion and a gout of blood spurted from the back of D’Courtney’s head. Reich let the body drop and leaped for the girl. He caught her while she fought and screamed.

  Reich and the girl were screaming together. Reich shook with galvanic spasms that forced him to release the girl. The girl fell forward to her knees and crawled to the body. She moaned in pain as she snatched the gun from the mouth where it still hung. Then she crouched over the twitching body, silent, fixed, staring into the waxen face.

  Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully. When the roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward the girl, trying to arrange his thoughts and make split second alterations in his plans. He had never counted on a witness. No one mentioned a daughter. God damn Tate! He would have to kill the girl. He—

  She turned again and shot a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder. Again that lightning flash of yellow hair, dark eyes, dark brows, wild beauty. She leaped to her feet, darted out of his sodden grasp, ran to the jewelled door, flung it open and ran into the anteroom. As the door slowly closed, Reich had a glimpse of the guards still slumped on the bench and the girl running silently down the stairs with the gun in her hands…with Demolition in her hands.

  Reich started. The clogged blood began pounding through his veins again. He reached the door in three strides, ran through and tore down the steps to the picture gallery. It was empty but the door to the overpass was just closing. And still no sound from her. Still no alarm. How long before she started screaming the house down?

  He raced down the gallery and entered the overpass. It was still pitch dark. He blundered through, reached the head of the stairs that led down to the music room and paused again. Still no sound. No alarm.

  He went down the steps. The dark silence was terrifying. Why didn’t she scream? Where was she? Reich crossed toward the west arch and knew he was at the edge of the main hall by the quiet splash of the fountains. Where was the girl? In all that black silence, where was she? And the gun! Christ! The tricked gun!

  A hand touched his arm. Reich jerked in alarm. Tate whispered: “I’ve been standing by. It took you exactly—”

  “You son of a bitch!” Reich burst out. “There was a daughter. Why didn’t you—”

  “Be quiet,” Tate snapped. “Let me peep it.” After fifteen seconds of burning silence, he began to tremble. In a terrified voice he whined: “My God. Oh, my God…”

  His terror was the catalyst. Reich’s control returned. He began thinking again. “Shut up,” he growled. “It isn’t Demolition yet.”

  “You’ll have to kill her too, Reich. You’ll—”

  “Shut up. Find her, first. Cover the house. You got her pattern from me. Locate her. I’ll be waiting at the fountain. Jet!”

  He flung Tate from him and staggered to the fountain. At the jasper rim he bent and bathed his burning face. It was burgundy. Reich wiped his face and ignored the muffled sounds that came from the other side of the basin. Evidently some other person or persons unknown were bathing in wine.

  He considered swiftly. The girl
must be located and killed. If she still had the gun when Tate found her, the gun would be used. If she didn’t? What? Strangle her? No… The fountain. She was naked under that silk gown. It could be stripped off. She could be found drowned in the fountain…just another guest who had bathed in the wine too long. But it had to be soon…soon…soon… Before this damned Sardine game was ended. Where was Tate? Where was the girl?

  Tate came blundering up through the darkness, his breath wheezing.

  “Well?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “You weren’t gone long enough to find a louse. If this is a double-cross—”

  “Who could I cross? I’m on the same road you are. I tell you her pattern’s nowhere in the house. She’s gone.”

  “Anyone notice her leave?”

  “No.”

  “Christ! Out of the house!”

  “We’d better leave too.”

  “Yes, but we can’t run. Once we get out of here, we’ll have the rest of the night to find her, but we’ve got to leave as though nothing’s happened. Where’s The Guilt Corpse?”

  “In the projection room.”

  “Watching a show?”

  “No. Still playing Sardine. They’re packed in there like fish in a can. We’re almost the last out here in the house.”

  “Wandering alone in the dark, eh? Come on.”

  He gripped Tate’s shaking elbow and marched him toward the projection room. As he walked he called plaintively: “Hey… Where is everybody? Maria! Ma-ri-aaa! Where’s everybody?”

  Tate emitted a hysterical sob. Reich shook him roughly. “Play up! We’ll be out of here in five minutes. Then you can start worrying.”

  “But if we’re trapped in here, we won’t be able to get the girl.We’ll—”

  “We won’t be trapped. ABC, Gus. Audacious, brave, and confident.” Reich pushed open the door of the projection room. There was darkness in here, too, but the heat of many bodies. “Hey,” he called. “Where is everybody? I’m all alone.”

  No answer.

  “Maria. I’m all alone in the dark.”

  A muffled sputter, then a burst of laughter.

  “Darling, darling, darling!” Maria called. “You’ve missed all the fun, poor dear.”

  “Where are you, Maria? I’ve come to say good night.”

  “Oh, you can’t be leaving…”

  “Sorry, dear. It’s late. I’ve got to swindle a friend tomorrow. Where are you Maria?”

  “Come up on the stage, darling.”

  Reich walked down the aisle, felt for the steps and mounted the stage. He felt the cool perimeter of the projection globe behind him. A voice called: “All right. Now we’ve got him. Lights!”

  White light flooded the globe and blinded Reich. The guests seated in the chairs around the stage started to whoop with laughter, then howled in disappointment.

  “Oh Ben, you cheat,” Maria screeched. “You’re still dressed. That isn’t fair. We’ve been catching everybody divinely flagrante.”

  “Some other time, Maria dear.” Reich extended his hand before him and began the graceful bow of farewell. “Respectfully, Madame. I give you my thanks for—” He broke off in amazement. On the gloaming white lace of his cuff an angry red spot appeared.

  In stunned silence, Reich saw a second, then a third red splotch appear on the lace. He snatched his hand back and a red drop spattered on the stage before him, to be followed by a slow, inexorable stream of gleaming crimson droplets.

  “That’s blood!” Maria screamed. “That’s blood! There’s someone upstairs bleeding. For God’s sake, Ben… You can’t leave me now. Lights! Lights! Lights!”

  6

  At 12:30 A.M., The Emergency Patrol arrived at Beaumont House in response to precinct notification: “GZ. Beaumont. YLP-R” which, translated, meant: “An Act or Omission, forbidden by law has been reported at Beaumont House, 9 Park South.”

  At 12:40, the Park precinct Captain arrived in response to Patrol report: “Criminal Act possible Felony-AAA.”

  At 1:00 A.M., Lincoln Powell arrived at Beaumont House in response to a frantic call from a deputy inspector: “I tell you, Powell, it’s Felony Triple-A. I’ll swear it is. The wind’s been knocked out of me. I don’t know whether to be grateful or scared; but I know none of us is equipped to handle it.”

  “What can’t you handle?”

  “Look here, Powell. Murder’s abnormal. Only a distorted TP pattern can produce death by violence. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is why there hasn’t been a successful Triple-A in over seventy years. A man can’t walk around with a distorted pattern, maturing murder, and go unnoticed these days. He’d have as much chance of going unnoticed as a man with three heads. You peepers always pick ’em up before they go into action.”

  “We try to…when we contact them.”

  “And there are too many peeper screens to pass in normal living these days for you to be avoided. A man would have to be a hermit to do that. How can a hermit kill?”

  “How indeed?”

  “Now here’s a killing that must have been carefully planned…and the killer was never noticed. Never reported. Even by Maria Beaumont’s peeper secretaries. That means there couldn’t have been anything to notice. He must have a passable pattern and yet be abnormal enough to murder. How the hell can we resolve a paradox like that?”

  “I see. Any prospects?”

  “We’ve got a pay-load of inconsistencies to iron out. One, we don’t know what killed D’Courtney. Two, his daughter’s disappeared. Three, somebody robbed D’Courtney’s guards of one hour and we can’t figure how. Four—”

  “Don’t count any higher. I’ll be right over.”

  The great hall of Beaumont House blazed with harsh white light. Uniformed police were everywhere. The white-smocked technicians from Lab were scurrying like beetles. In the center of the hall, the party guests (dressed) were assembled in a rough corral, milling like a herd of terrified steers at a slaughter house.

  As Powell came down the east ramp, tall and slender, black and white, he felt the wave of hostility that greeted him. He reached out quickly to Jackson Beck, police Inspector 2: “What’s the situation Jax?”

  “Scramble.”

  Switching to their informal police code of scrambled images, reversed meanings and personal symbols, Beck continued: “Peepers here. Play it safe.” In a microsecond he brought Powell up to date.

  “I see. Nasty. What’s everybody doing lumped out on the floor? You staging something?”

  “The villain-friend act.”

  “Necessary?”

  “It’s a rotten crowd. Pampered. Corrupt. They’ll never cooperate. You’ll have to do some tricky coaxing to get anything out of them; and this case is going to need it. I’ll be the villain. You be their friend.”

  “Right. Good work. Start recording.”

  Halfway down the ramp, Powell halted. The humor departed from his mouth. The friendliness disappeared from his deep dark eyes. An expression of shocked indignation appeared on his face.

  “Beck,” he snapped. His voice cracked through the echoing hall. There was dead silence. Every eye turned in his direction.

  Inspector Beck faced Powell. In a brutal voice, he said: “Here, sir.”

  “Are you in charge. Beck?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “And is this your concept of the proper conduct of an investigation? To herd a group of innocent people together like cattle?”

  “They’re not innocent,” Beck growled. “A man’s been killed.”

  “All in this house are innocent, Beck. They will be presumed to be innocent and treated with every courtesy until the truth is uncovered.”

  “What?” Beck sneered. “This gang of liars? Treated with courtesy? This rotten, lousy, high-society pack of hyenas…”

  “How dare you! Apologize at once.”

  Beck took a deep breath and clenched his fists angrily.

  “Inspector Beck, did
you hear me? Apologize to these ladies and gentlemen at once.”

  Beck glared at Powell, then turned to the staring guests. “My apologies,” he mumbled.

  “And I’m warning you, Beck,” Powell snapped. “If anything like this happens again, I’ll break you. I’ll send you straight back to the gutter you came from. Now get out of my sight.”

  Powell descended to the floor of the hall and smiled at the guests. Suddenly he was again transformed. His bearing conveyed the subtle suggestion that he was at heart one of them. There was even a tinge of fashionable corruption in his diction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen: Of course I know you all by sight. I’m not that famous so let me introduce myself. Lincoln Powell, Prefect of the Psychotic Division. Prefect and Psychotic. Two antiquated titles, eh? We won’t let them bother us.” He advanced toward Maria Beaumont with hand outstretched. “Dear Madame Maria, what an exciting climax for your wonderful party. I envy all of you. You’ll make history.”

  A pleased rustle ran through the guests. The lowering hostility began to fade. Maria took Powell’s hand dazedly, mechanically beginning to preen herself.

  “Madame…” He confused and delighted her by kissing her brow with paternal warmth. “You’ve had a trying time, I know. These boors in uniform.”

  “Dear Prefect…” She was a little girl, clinging to his arm. “I’ve been so terrified.”

  “Is there a quiet room where we can all be comfortable and endure this exasperating experience?”

  “Yes. The study, dear Prefect Powell.” She was actually beginning to lisp.

  Powell snapped his fingers behind him. To the Captain who stepped forward, he said: “Conduct Madame and her guests to the study. No guards. The ladies and gentlemen are to be left in privacy.”

  “Mr. Powell, sir…” The Captain cleared his throat. “About Madame’s guests. One of them arrived after the felony was reported. An attorney, Mr. ¼maine.”

  Powell found Jo ¼maine, Attorney-At-Law 2, in the crowd. He shot him a telepathic greeting.

  “Jo?”

  “Hi.”

  “What brings you to this Blind Tiger?”

  “Business. Called by my cli(Ben Reich)ent.”