“What!”
“Yep. I warned you, Ben. The Guild’s just ruled Monarch out of bounds for me. Company Espionage is unethical.”
“Listen, Ellery, you can’t quit now. I’m on a hook and I need you bad. Someone tried to booby-trap me on the ship this morning. I beat it by an eyelash. I’ve got to find out who it is. I need a peeper.”
“Sorry, Ben.”
“You don’t have to work for Monarch, I’ll put you under personal contract for private service. The same contract Breen has.”
“Breen? A 2nd? The analyst?”
“Yes. My analyst.”
“Not anymore.”
“What!”
West nodded. “The ruling came down today. No more exclusive practice. It limits the service of peepers. We’ve got to be dedicated to the most good for the most people. You’ve lost Breen.”
“It’s Powell!” Reich shouted. “Using every dirty peeper trick he can dig out of the slime to bitch me. He’s trying to nail me to the D’Courtney cross, the sneaking peeper! He—”
“Sign off, Ben. Powell had nothing to do with it. Let’s break it off friendly, eh? We’ve always kept it pleasant. Let’s break it pleasant. What do you say?”
“I say go to hell!” Reich roared and cut the connection. To the launch pilot he said in the same tone:
“Take me home!”
Reich burst into his penthouse apartment, once again awakening the hearts of his staff to terror and hatred. He hurled his traveling case at his valet and went immediately to Breens’ suite. It was empty. A crisp note on the desk repeated the information West had already given him. Reich strode to his own rooms, went to the phone and dialed Gus Tate. The screen cleared and displayed a sign:
SERVICE PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED
Reich stared, broke the connection and dialed Jerry Church. The screen cleared and displayed a sign:
SERVICE PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED
Reich snapped the contact key up, paced around the study uncertainly, then went to the shimmer of light in the corner that was his safe. He switched the safe into temporal phase, revealing the honeycomb paper rack, and reached for the small red envelope in the upper left-hand pigeon hole. As he touched the envelope he heard the faint click. He doubled up and spun away, his face buried in his arms.
There was a blinding flash of light and a heavy explosion. Something brutal punched Reich in the left side, hurled him across the study and slammed him against the wall. Then a hail of debris followed. He struggled to his feet, bellowing in bewilderment and fury, stripping the ripped clothes from his left side to examine the state of his body. He was badly slashed, and a particularly excruciating pain indicated at least one broken rib.
He heard his staff come running down the corridor and roared: “Keep out! You hear me? Keep out! All of you!”
He stumbled through the wreckage and began sorting over the remains of his safe. He found the neuron scrambler he had taken from Chooka Frood’s red-eyed woman. He found the malignant steel flower that was the knife-pistol that had killed D’Courtney. It still contained four unfired shells loaded with water and sealed with gel. He thrust both into the pocket of a new jacket, got a fresh cartridge of Detonation Bulbs from his desk, and tore out of the room, ignoring the servants who stared at him in astonishment.
Reich swore feverishly all the way down from the tower apartment to the cellar garage where he deposited his private Jumper key in the Call slot and waited for the little car. When it came out of storage with the key in the door, another tenant was approaching and even at a distance was staring. Reich turned the key and yanked open the door to jump in. There was a low pressure Rrrrrrip. Reich hurled himself to the ground. The Jumper tank exploded. By some freak, it failed to burst into flame. It erupted a shattering geyser of raw fuel and fragments of twisting metal. Reich crawled frantically, reached the exit ramp, and ran for his life.
On the street level, torn, bleeding, rank with creosote fuel, he searched frantically for a Public Jumper. He couldn’t find a coin-Jumper. He managed to flag a piloted machine.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Reich dabbed dazedly at the blood and oil that smeared him. “Chooka Frood!” he croaked in a hysterical voice.
The cab hopped him to 99 Bastion West.
Reich thrust past the protesting doorman, the indignant reception clerk, and Chooka Frood’s highly paid chargé d’affaires to the private office, a Victorian room furnished with stained glass lamps, overstuffed sofas and a roll-top desk. Chooka was seated at the desk, wearing a dingy smock and a dingy expression that changed to alarm when Reich yanked the scrambler out of his pocket.
“For God’s sake, Reich!” she exclaimed.
“Here I am, Chooka,” he said hoarsely. “So let’s have the trial run before we feed it to the dice. I used this scrambler on you once before. I’m warmed up for it again. You warmed me up, Chooka.”
She shot up from the desk and screamed: “Magda!”
Reich caught her by the arm and hurled her across the office. She side-swiped the couch and fell across it. The red-eyed bodyguard came running into the office. Reich was ready for her. He clubbed her across the back of the neck, and as she fell forward, he ground his heel into her back and slammed her flat on the floor. The woman twisted and clawed at his leg. Ignoring her he spat at Chooka: “Let’s get it squared off. Why the booby-traps?”
“What are you talking about?” Chooka cried.
“What the hell do I look like I’m talking about. Read the blood, lady. I’ve skinned out of three obituaries running. How long can my luck hold out?”
“Make sense, Reich! I can’t—”
“I’m talking about the big D, Chooka, D for death. I came in here and strong-armed the D’Courtney girl out of you. I beat hell out of your girl-friend and I beat hell out of you. So you got frabbed off and set those traps. Right?”
Chooka shook her head dazedly.
“Three of them so far. On the ship coming back from Spaceland. In my study. In my Jumper. How many more, Chooka?”
“It wasn’t me, Reich. So help me. I—”
“It has to be you, Chooka. You’re the only one with a gripe and the only one who hires gimpsters. That adds up to you, so let’s get it squared off.” He slapped the safety off the scrambler. “Ive got no time for a two-bit hater with coffin-queer friends.”
“For God’s sake!” Chooka screamed. “What the hell have I got against you? So you rough-housed a little. So you mugged Magda. You wasn’t the first. You ain’t gonna be the last. Use your head!”
“I used it. If it isn’t you, who else?”
“Keno Quizzard. He hires gimpsters too. I heard you and him—”
“Quizzard’s out. Quizzard’s dead. Who else?”
“Church.”
“He hasn’t got the guts. If he had he would have tried it ten years ago. Who else?”
“How do I know? There’s hundreds hate you enough.”
“There’s thousands, but who could get into my safe? Who could break a phase combination and—”
“Maybe nobody broke into your safe. Maybe somebody broke into your head and peeped the combination. Maybe—”
“Peeped!”
“Yeah. Peeped. Maybe you added Church up wrong… Or some other peeper what’s got a eager reason for filling your coffin.”
“My God…” Reich whispered. “Oh my God… Yes.”
“Church?”
“No. Powell.”
“The cop?”
“The cop. Powell. Yes. Mr. Holy Lincoln Powell. Yes!” The words began pouring out of Reich in a torrent. “Yes, Powell! The son of a bitch is fighting dirty because I’ve licked him clean. He can’t get a case together. He’s got nothing but booby-trapping left…”
“You’re crazy, Reich.”
“Am I? Why the hell did he take Ellery West away from me, and Breen? He knows the only defense I’ve got against a bobby-trap is a peeper. It’s Powell!”
“But a cop
, Reich? A cop?”
“Sure a cop!” Reich shouted. “Why not a cop? He’s safe. Who’d suspect him? It’s smart. It’s what I’d do myself. All right… Now I’m going to booby-trap him!”
He kicked the red-eyed woman from him, went to Chooka and yanked her to her feet. “Call Powell.”
“What?”
“Call Powell,” he yelled. “Lincoln Powell. Call him at his house. Tell him to come down here right away.”
“No, Reich…”
He shook her. “Listen to me, frab-head. Bastion West is owned by the D’Courtney Cartel. Now that old D’Courtney’s dead, I’m going to own the cartel, which means I’ll own Bastion. I’ll own this house. I’ll own you, Chooka. You want to stay in business? Call Powell!”
She stared at his livid face, feebly peeping him, slowly realizing that what he said was true.
“But I got no excuse, Reich.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Reich thought, then yanked the knife-pistol from his pocket and shoved in into Chooka’s hands. “Show him this. Tell him the D’Courtney girl left it here.”
“What is it?”
“The gun that killed D’Courtney.”
“For the love of—Reich!”
Reich laughed. “It won’t do him any good. By the time he’s got it, he’ll be booby-trapped. Call him. Show him the gun. Get him down here.” He thrust Chooka toward the phone, followed her and stood alongside the screen out of the line of sight. He hefted the scrambler in his hand meaningfully. Chooka understood.
She dialed Powell’s number. Mary Noyes appeared on the screen, listened to Chooka, then called Powell. The prefect appeared, his lean face haggard, his dark eyes heavily shadowed.
“I… I got something you might want, maybe, Mr. Powell,” Chooka stammered. “I just found it. That girl you took outa my house. She left it behind.”
“Left what, Chooka?”
“The gun which killed her father.”
“No!” Powell’s face was suddenly animated. “Let’s see it.”
Chooka displayed the knife-pistol.
“That’s it, by heaven!” Powell exclaimed. “Maybe I’m going to get a break after all. Stay right where you are, Chooka. I’ll be down as fast as a Jumper can jet.”
The screen blacked out. Reich ground his teeth and tasted blood. He turned, dashed out of the Rainbow House and located a vacant coin-Jumper. He dropped a half-credit into the lock, opened the door and lurched in. As he took off with a hissing roar, he clattered against a thirtieth story cornice and nearly capsized. He realized dazedly that he was in no condition to pilot a Jumper or set a booby-trap.
“Don’t try to think,” he thought. “Don’t try to plan. Leave it to your instincts. You’re a killer. A natural killer. Just wait and kill!”
Reich fought himself and the controls all the way to Hudson Ramp, and he fought the Jumper down through the crazy, shifting North River winds. The killer instinct prompted him to crash-land in Powell’s back garden. He didn’t know why. As he pounded the twisted cabin door open, a canned voice spoke: “Your attention, please. You are liable for any damage to this vehicle. Please leave your name and address. If we are forced to trace you, you will be liable for the costs. Thank you.”
“I’m going to be liable for a lot more damage,” Reich growled. “You’re welcome.”
He plunged under a heavy clump of forsythia and waited with the scrambler ready. Then he understood why he had crashed. The girl who answered Powell’s phone came out of the house and ran down through the garden toward the Jumper. Reich waited. No one else came from the house. The girl was alone. He surged up out of the brush and the girl spun around before she heard him. A peeper. He pulled the trigger to first notch. She stiffened and trembled…helpless.
At the moment when he was about to pull the trigger all the way back to the big D, instinct stopped him again. Suddenly, the booby-trap for Powell came to him. Kill the girl inside the house. Seed her body with Detonation Bulbs and leave that bait for Powell. Sweat broke out on the girl’s swarthy face. The muscles in her jaws twitched. Reich took her by the arm and led her up the garden to the house. She walked with the stiff-legged gait of a scarecrow.
Inside the house, Reich led the girl through the kitchen to the living room. He found a long, corded modern lounge and thrust the girl down on it. She was fighting him with everything short of her body. He grinned savagely, bent down and kissed her full on the mouth.
“My love to Powell,” he said, and stepped back, raising the scrambler. Then he lowered it.
Someone was watching him.
He turned, amost casually, and darted a quick look around the living room. There was no one. He turned back to the girl and asked: “Are you doing that with TP, peeper?” Then he raised the scrambler. Again he lowered it.
Someone was watching him.
This time, Reich prowled around the living room, searching behind chairs, inside closets. There was no one. He checked the kitchen and the bath. No one. He returned to the living room and Mary Noyes. Then thought of the upper floor. He went to the stairs, started to mount them, and then stopped in mid-stride as though he had been pole-axed.
Someone was watching him.
She was at the head of the stairs, kneeling and peeping through the bannisters like a child. She was dressed like a child in tight little leotards with her hair drawn back and tied with ribbon. She looked at him with the droll, mischievous expression of a child. Barbara D’Courtney.
“Hello,” she said.
Reich began to shake.
“I’m Baba,” she said.
Reich motioned to her faintly.
She arose at once and came down the stairs, holding on to the bannister carefully. “I’m not s’posed to,” she said. “Are you Papa’s friend?”
Reich took a deep breath. “I… I…” he croaked.
“Papa had to go away,” she prattled. “But he’s coming back right away. He told me. If I’m a good girl, he’ll bring me a present. I’m trying, but it’s awful hard. Are you good?”
“Your father? Coming b-back? Your father?”
She nodded. “Was you playing games with Aunt Mary? You kissed her. I saw it. Papa kisses me. I like it. Does Aunt Mary like it?” She took his hand confidently. “When I grow up I’m going to marry Papa and be his girl for always. Do you have a girl?”
Reich pulled Barbara around and stared into her face. “Are you rocketing?” he said hoarsely. “Do you think I’ll fall into that orbit? How much did you tell Powell?”
“That’s my papa,” she said. “When I ask him why his name is different from my name he looks funny. What’s your name?”
“I asked you!” Reich shouted. “How much did you tell him? Who do you think you’re fooling with that act? Answer me!”
She looked at him doubtfully, then began to cry, trying to pull away from him. He held on to her.
“Go ’way!” she sobbed. “Let me go!”
“Will you answer me!”
“Let me go!”
He dragged her from the foot of the stairs to the lounge where Mary Noyes still sat paralyzed. He threw the girl alongside her and stepped back again, with the scrambler raised. Suddenly, the girl whipped upright in the chair in a listening attitude. Her face lost its childishness and became drawn and taut. She thrust out her legs, leaped from the lounge, ran, stopped abruptly, then appeared to open a door. She ran forward, yellow hair flying, dark eyes wide with alarm…a lightning flash of wild beauty.
“Father!” she screamed. “For God’s sake! Father!”
Reich’s heart constricted. The girl ran toward him. He stepped forward to catch her. She stopped short, backed away, then darted to the left and ran in a half circle, screaming wildly, her eyes fixed.
“No!” she cried. “No! For the love of Christ! Father!”
Reich pivoted and clutched at the girl. This time he caught her while she fought and screamed. Reich was shouting too. The girl suddenly stiffened and clutched her ears. Reich
was back in the Orchid Suite. He heard the explosion and saw the blood and brains gout out of the back of D’Courtney’s head. He shook with galvanic spasms that forced him to release the girl. She fell forward to her knees and crawled across the floor. He saw her crouch over the waxen body.
Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully, fighting for control. When the roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward Barbara, trying to arrange his thoughts and make split-second alterations in his plans. He had never counted on a witness. God damn Powell. He would have to kill the girl. Could he arrange a double-murder in the—No. Not murder. Booby-trap. Damn Gus Tate. Wait. He wasn’t in Beaumont House. He was…in…
“Thirty-three Hudson Ramp,” Powell said from the front door.
Reich jerked around, crouched automatically and whipped the scrambler up under his left elbow as Quizzard’s killers had taught him.
Powell side-stepped. “Don’t try it,” he said sharply.
“You son of a bitch,” Reich shouted. He wheeled on Powell who had already crossed him up and again stepped out of the line of fire. “You god damned peeper! You lousy, sleazy, son of a—”
Powell faked to the left, reversed, closed with Reich and delivered a six-inch jab to the ulnar nerve complex. The scrambler fell to the floor. Reich clinched; punching, clawing, butting, swearing hysterically. Powell hit him with three lightning blows, nape, navel, and groin. The effect was that of a full spinal block. Reich crashed to the floor, retching, blood streaming from his nose.
“Brother, you think only you know how to gut fight,” Powell grunted. He went to Barbara D’Courtney, who still knelt on the floor, and raised her.
“All right, Barbara?” he said.
“Hello, Papa. I had a bad dream.”
“I know, baby. I had to give it to you. It was an experiment on that big oaf.”
“Gimme a kiss.”
He kissed her forehead. “You’re growing up fast,” he smiled. “You were just baby-talking yesterday.”
“I’m growing up because you promised to wait for me.”
The Demolished Man Page 17
