“That shark? Makes me suspicious. Wait here with Reich. We’ll get squared off.”
“That was an effective act with Beck.”
“Hell. You cracked our scramble?”
“Not a chance. But I know you two. Gentle Jax playing a thick cop is one for the books.”
Beck broke in from across the hall where he was apparently sulking: “Don’t give it away, Jo.”
“Are you crazy?” It was as though ¼maine had been requested not to smash every sacred ethic of the Guild. He radiated a blast of indignation that made Beck grin.
All this during the second in which Powell again kissed Maria’s brow with chaste devotion and gently disengaged himself from her tremulous grasp.
“Ladies and gentlemen: we’ll meet again in the study.”
The crowd of guests moved off, conducted by the Captain. They were chattering with renewed animation. It was all beginning to take on the aspect of a fabulous new form of entertainment. Through the buzz and the laughter, Powell felt the iron elbows of a rigid telepathic block. He recognized those elbows and permitted his astonishment to show.
“Gus! Gus Tate!”
“Oh. Hello, Powell.”
“You? Lurking & Slinking?”
“Gus?” Beck popped out. “Here? I never tagged him.”
“What the devil are you hiding for?”
Chaotic response of anger, chagrin, fear of lost reputation, self-deprecation, shame—
“Sign off, Gus. Your pattern’s trapped in a feedback. Won’t do you any harm to let a little scandal rub off on you. Make you more human. Stay here & help. Got a hunch I can use another 1st. This one is going to be a Triple-A stinker.”
After the hall cleared, Powell examined the three men who remained with him. Jo ¼maine was a heavy-set man, thick, solid, with a shining bald head and a friendly blunt-featured face. Little Tate was nervous and twitchy…more so than usual.
And the notorious Ben Reich. Powell was meeting him for the first time. Tall, broad-shouldered, determined, exuding a tremendous aura of charm and power. There was kindliness in that power, but it was corroded by the habit of tyranny. Reich’s eyes were fine and keen, but his mouth seemed too small and sensitive and looked oddly like a scar. A magnetic man, with something vague inside him that was repellent.
He smiled at Reich. Reich smiled, back. Spontaneously, they shook hands.
“Do you take everybody off guard like this, Reich?”
“The secret of my success,” Reich grinned. He understood Powell’s meaning. They were en rapport.
“Well, don’t let the other guests see you charm me. They’ll suspect collusion.”
“Not you, they won’t. You’ll swindle them, Powell. You’ll make ’em all feel they’re in collusion with you.”
They smiled again. An unexpected chemotropism was drawing them together. It was dangerous. Powell tried to shake it off. He turned to ¼maine: “Now then, Jo?”
“About the peeping, Linc…”
“Keep it up on Reich’s level,” Powell interrupted. “We’re not going to pull any fast ones.”
“Reich called me in to represent him. No TP, Linc. This has got to stay on the objective level. I’m here to see that it does. I’ll have to be present at every examination.”
“You can’t stop peeping, Jo. You’ve got no legal right. We can dig out all we can—”
“Provided it’s with the consent of the examinee. I’m here to tell you whether you’ve got that consent or not.”
Powell looked at Reich. “What happened?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’d like your version.”
Jo ¼maine snapped: “Why Reich’s in particular?”
“I’d like to know why he hollered so quick for a lawyer. Is he mixed up in this mess?”
“I’m mixed up in plenty,” Reich grinned. “You don’t run Monarch without building a stock-pile of secrets that have got to be protected.”
“But murder isn’t one of them?”
“Get out of there, Linc!”
“Stop throwing blocks, Jo. I’m just peeping around a little because I like the guy.”
“Well, like him on your own time…not mine.”
“Jo doesn’t want me to love you,” Powell smiled to Reich. “I wish you hadn’t called a lawyer. It makes me suspicious.”
“Isn’t that an occupational disease?” Reich laughed.
“No.” Dishonest Abe took over and answered smoothly. “You’d never believe it, but the occupational disease of detectives is Laterality. That’s right-handedness or left-handedness. Most detectives suffer from strange changes of Laterality. I was naturally left-handed until the Parsons Case when I—”
Abruptly, Powell choked off his lie. He took two steps away from his fascinated audience and sighed deeply. When he turned back to them. Dishonest Abe was gone.
“I’ll tell you about that another time,” he said. “Tell me what happened after Maria and the guests saw the blood dripping down on your cuff.”
Reich glanced at the bloodstains on his cuff. “She yelled bloody murder and we all went tearing upstairs to the Orchid Suite.”
“How could you find your way in the dark?”
“It was light. Maria yelled for lights.”
“You didn’t have any trouble locating the suite with the light on, eh?”
Reich smiled grimly. “I didn’t locate the suite. It was secret. Maria had to lead the way.”
“There were guards there…knocked out or something?”
“That’s right. They looked dead.”
“Like stone, eh? They hadn’t moved a muscle?”
“How would I know?”
“How indeed?” Powell looked hard at Reich.
“What about D’Courtney?”
“He looked dead too. Hell, he was dead.”
“And everybody was standing around staring?”
“Some were in the rest of the suite, looking for the daughter.”
“That’s Barbara D’Courtney. I thought nobody knew D’Courtney and his daughter were in the house. Why look for her?”
“We didn’t know. Maria told us and we looked.”
“Surprised to find her gone?”
“We were beyond surprise.”
“Any idea where she went?”
“Maria said she’d killed the old man and rocketed.”
“Would you buy that?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing was crazy. If the girl was lunatic enough to sneak out of the house without a word and go running naked through the streets, she may have had her father’s scalp in her hand.”
“Would you permit me to peep you on all this for background and detail?”
“I’m in the hands of my lawyer.”
“The answer is no,” ¼maine said. “A man’s got the constitutional right to refuse Esper Examination without prejudice to himself. Reich is refusing.”
“And I’m in one hell of a mess,” Powell sighed and shrugged. “Well, let’s start the investigation.”
They turned and walked toward the study. Across the hall, Beck scrambled into police code and asked:
“Linc, why’d you let Reich make a monkey out of you?”
“Did he?”
“Sure he did. That shark can stiff you any time.”
“Well you better get your knife ready, Jax. This shark is ripe for Demolition.”
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear the slip when he was busy stiffing me? Reich didn’t know there was a daughter. Nobody did. He didn’t see her. Nobody did. He could infer that the murder made her run out of the house. Anybody could. But how did he know she was naked?”
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then, as Powell went through the north arch into the study, a broadcast of fervent admiration followed him: “I bow, Linc. I bow to the Master.”
The “study” of Beaumont House was constructed on the lines of a Turkish Bath. The floor was a mosaic of jacinth, spinel and sunstone. Th
e walls, cross-hatched with gold wire cloisons were glittering with inset synthetic stones…ruby, emerald, garnet, chrysolite, amethyst, topaz…all containing various portraits of the owner. There were scatter rugs of velvet, and scores of chairs and lounges.
Powell entered the room and walked directly to the center, leaving Reich, Tate, and ¼maine behind him. The buzz of conversation stopped, and Maria Beaumont struggled to her feet. Powell motioned her to remain seated. He looked around him, accurately gauging the mass psyche of the assembled sybarites, and measuring the tactics he would have to use. At length he began.
“The law,” he remarked, “makes the silliest damned fuss about death. People die by the thousands every day; but simply because someone has had the energy and enterprise to assist old D’Courtney to his demise, the law insists upon turning him into an enemy of the people. I think it’s idiotic, but please don’t quote me.”
He paused and lit a cigarette. “You all know, of course, that I’m a peeper. Probably this fact has alarmed some of you. You imagine that I’m standing here like some mind-peeping monster, probing your mental plumbing. Well… Jo ¼maine wouldn’t let me if I could. And frankly, if I could, I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be standing on the throne of the universe practically indistinguishable from God. I notice that none of you have commented on that resemblance so far…”
There was a ripple of laughter. Powell smiled disarmingly and continued: “No, mass mind-reading is a trick no peeper can perform. It’s difficult enough to probe a single individual. It’s impossible when dozens of TP patterns are confusing the picture. And when a group of unique, highly individual people like yourselves is gathered, we find ourselves completely at your mercy.”
“And he said I had charm,” Reich muttered.
“Tonight,” Powell went on, “you were playing a game called ‘Sardine.’ I wish I had been invited, Madame. You must remember me next time…”
“I will,” Maria called. “I will, dear prefect…”
“In the course of that game, old D’Courtney was killed. We’re almost positive it was premeditated murder. We’ll be certain after Lab has finished its work. But let’s assume that it is a Triple-A Felony. That will enable us to play another game…a game called ‘Murder.’”
There was an uncertain response from the guests. Powell continued on the same casual course, carefully turning the most shocking crime in seventy years into a morsel of unreality.
“In the game of ‘Murder,’” he said, “A make-believe victim is killed. A make-believe detective must discover who killed the victim. He asks questions of the make-believe suspects. Everyone must tell the truth, except the killer who is permitted to lie. The detective compares stories, deduces who is lying, and uncovers the killer. I thought you might enjoy playing this game.”
A voice asked: “How?”
Another called: “I’m just one of the tourists.”
More laughter.
“A murder investigation,” Powell smiled, “explores three facets of a crime. First, the motive. Second, the method. Third, the opportunity. Our Lab people are taking care of the second two. The first we can discover in our game. And if we do, we’ll be able to crack the second two problems that have Lab stumped now. Did you know that they can’t figure out what killed D’Courtney? Did you know that D’Courtney’s daughter has disappeared? She left the house while you were playing ‘Sardine.’ Did you know that D’Courtney’s guards were mysteriously short-circuited? Yes, indeed. Somebody robbed them of a full hour in time. We’d all like to know just how.”
They were hanging at the very edge of the trap, breathless, fascinated. It had to be sprung with infinite caution.
“Death, disappearance, and time-theft…we can find out all about them through motive. I’ll be the make-believe detective. You’ll be the make-believe suspects. You’ll tell me the truth…all except the killer, of course. We’ll expect him to lie. But we’ll trap him and bring this party to a triumphant finish if you’ll give me permission to make a telepathic examination of each of you.”
“Oh!” cried Maria in alarm.
“Wait, Madame. Understand me. All I want is your permission. I won’t have to peep. Because, you see, if all the innocent suspects grant permission, then the one who refuses must be the guilty. He alone will be forced to protect himself from peeping.”
“Can he pull that?” Reich whispered to ¼maine.
¼maine nodded.
“Just picture the scene for a moment.” Powell was building the drama for them, turning the room into a stage. “I ask formally: ‘Will you permit me to make a TP examination?’ Then I go around this room…” He began a slow circuit, bowing to each of the guests in turn. “And the answers come…‘Yes… Yes… Of course… Why not?… Certainly… Yes… Yes…’ And then suddenly a dramatic pause.” Powell stopped before Reich, erect, terrifying.“‘You, sir,’ I repeat. ‘Will you give me your permission to peep?’”
They all watched, hypnotized. Even Reich was aghast, transfixed by the pointing finger and the fierce scowl.
“Hesitation. His face flushes red, then ghastly white as the blood drains out. You hear the tortured refusal: ‘No!’…” The Prefect turned and enveloped them all with an electrifying gesture: “And in that thrilling moment, we know we have captured the killer!”
He almost had them. Almost. It was daring, novel, exciting; a sudden display of ultra violet windows through clothes and flesh into the soul… But Maria’s guests had bastardy in their souls…perjury…adultery—the Devil. And the shame within all of them rose up in terror.
“No!” Maria cried. They all shot to their feet and shouted “No! No! No!”
“It was a beautiful try, Linc, but there’s your answer. You’ll never get motive out of these hyenas.”
Powell was still charming in defeat. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I really can’t blame you. Only a fool would trust a cop.” He sighed. “One of my assistants will tape the oral statements from those of you who care to make statements. Mr. ¼maine will be on hand to advise and protect you.”
He glanced dolefully at ¼maine: “And louse me.”
“Don’t pull at my heart-strings like that, Linc. This is the first Triple-A Felony in over seventy years. I’ve got my career to watch. This can make me.”
“I’ve got my own career to watch, Jo. If my department doesn’t crack this, it can break me.”
“Then it’s every peeper for himself. Here’s thinking at you, Linc.”
“Hell,” Powell said. He winked at Reich and sauntered out of the room.
Lab was finished in the orchid Wedding Suite. De Santis, abrupt, testy, harassed, handed Powell the reports and said in an overwrought voice: “This is a bitch!”
Powell looked down at D’Courtney’s body. “Suicide?” he snapped. He was always peppery with De Santis who was comfortable in no other relationship.
“Tcha! Not a chance. No weapon.”
“What killed him?”
“We don’t know.”
“You still don’t know? You’ve had three hours!”
“We don’t know,” De Santis raged. “That’s why it’s a bitch.”
“Why, he’s got a hole in his head you could jet through.”
“Yes, yes, yes, of course. Entry above the uvula. Exit below the fontanelle. Death instantaneous. But what produced the wound? What drilled the hole through his skull? Go ahead, ask me.”
“Hard Ray?”
“No burn.”
“Crystallization?”
“No freeze.”
“Nitro vapor charge?”
“No ammonia residue.”
“Acid?”
“Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but it couldn’t burst the back of his skull.”
“Thrusting weapon?”
“You mean a dirk or a knife?”
“Something like that.”
“Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to penetrate like th
is? Couldn’t be done.”
“Well… I’ve just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What about a projectile?”
“How’s that?”
“Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and smelly.”
“Not a chance here.”
“Why?”
“Why?” De Santis spat. “Because there’s no projectile. None in the wound. None in the room. Nothing nowhere.”
“Damnation!”
“I agree.”
“Have you got anything for me? Anything at all?”
“Yes. He was eating candy before his death. Found a fragment of gel in his mouth…bit of standard candy wrapping.”
“And?”
“No candy in the suite.”
“He might have eaten it all.”
“No candy in his stomach. Anyway, he wouldn’t be eating candy with his throat.”
“Why not?”
“Psychogenic cancer. Bad. He couldn’t talk, let alone eat gook.”
“Hell and damnation. We need that weapon…whatever it is.”
Powell fingered the sheaf of field reports, staring at the waxen body, whistling a crooked tune. He remembered hearing an audio-book once about an Esper who could read a corpse…like that old myth about photographing the retina of a dead eye. He wished it could be done.
“Well,” he sighed at last. “They licked us on motive, and they’ve licked us on method. Let’s hope we can get something on opportunity, or we’ll never bring Reich down.”
“What Reich? Ben Reich? What about him?”
“It’s Gus Tate I’m worried about most,” Powell murmured. “If he’s mixed up in this… What? Oh, Reich? He’s the killer, De Santis. I slicked Jo ¼maine down in Maria Beaumont’s study. Reich made a slip. I staged an act and misdirected Jo while I peeped to make sure. This is off the record, of course, but I got enough to convince me Reich’s our man.”
“Holy Christ!” De Santis exclaimed.
“But that’s a long way from convincing a court. We’re a long way from Demolition, brother. A long, long way.”
Moodily, Powell took leave of the Lab Chief, loafed through the anteroom and descended to field headquarters in the picture gallery.
“And I like the guy,” he muttered.
In the picture gallery outside the Orchid Suite where temporary headquarters had been set up. Powell and Beck met for a conference. Their mental exchange took exactly thirty seconds in the lightning tempo typical of telepathic talk:
The Demolished Man Page 7
