Collected Short Fiction, page 155
“For murder,” I said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Let me in, Anne. We’ve got to talk.”
She went slowly pale. We knew each other well enough to know when the other was speaking truth. She turned and wandered back into the room, leaving the door ajar. I shut it behind me.
“He wants to marry you?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What became of Roger Howard? Thought you were engaged to him?”
“He found a nice, normal girl—the kind he really wanted.”
“What does this one call himself?”
“Don’t you know? How did you get his photograph?”
“What’s his name, girl?”
“Tony Fenton.”
“Fenton’s not his name and this is not his photograph. You’d better sit down. I’ve a story to tell you, and it’s some story.”
I knew Peters was waiting impatiently for me, so I told the story pretty badly and that way it sounded sheer dementia. All of the time she just sat and looked at me. She made no comment, spoken or unspoken.
I finished: “So you see how it is. if the police don’t get him within a week, he’ll come for you. I’m aiming to see he doesn’t get you.”
Silence.
“What do you care who gets me?” she said, presently, in a small, tired voice.
“I care plenty.”
“You care only about liquor. You cared nothing about me before. And nothing about mother—not even enough to go to her funeral.”
“When it’s too late, it’s too late,” I said, half to myself.
“So he’s coming for me at the end of the week? He’s supposed to be coming for me this afternoon, any time now. We were going uptown—”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, abruptly. “You’d better pack a week-end bag in a hurry. You can’t stay here.”
“Are you afraid to wait and repeat in front of him what you’ve been telling me?”
“For Pete’s sake, Anne, don’t you believe me? I’m cold sober. I’m not out of my mind. D’you think I’ve made up five bank robberies, two murders and a car smash that was murder, too? I want you to come to Central Homicide with me right now. They can verify what I say. If you refuse to come, they’ll pick you up anyhow. They want to know all you can tell them about Lash.”
She shrugged and reached for a bag. “That’s not much,” she said, beginning to throw things into it. “Only met him three weeks back. He’s a nice-looking guy, with charm and intelligence, and he seemed to like my company enough to want to marry me. After two abortive engagements—you smashed one and I the other—it seemed like third time lucky. He said he came from New Orleans, was on vacation, and worked in a bank.”
“He worked in a bank, all right,” I said. “Where did you meet him?”
“Across the street, in Spiro’s chop-house. He asked me up to his apartment for a drink.”
“And you told him you never touched the stuff because your father was a drunken bum, and so was his father before him.”
“Exactly,” she said, shutting the bag.
“The leading question is, where’s his apartment?”
“It’s—”
There were muffled sounds inside a big, old-fashioned cabinet against the wall. It was big enough to contain a crouching man.
“—directly above this one,” she finished, with a startled side-glance at the cabinet.
I was startled, too, not least to learn that I stood within feet of Lash’s hide-out.
I jerked a thumb at the cabinet, and whispered: “Who’s in there?”
She gestured with open palms to convey that she knew no more than I.
I cocked my gun and started for the cabinet. I was surprised when she seized my arm.
“No, please,” she whispered. “Let’s just get out.”
I stared at her. She was anxious and pleading. But I had to know who was in there. I freed my arm and yanked the cabinet door.
No-one was inside. There was merely a pile of old magazines, half-a-dozen whiskey bottles—one full, one half-full, the rest empties—and a shelf of assorted glasses.
The bottles were lined up in the form of an “L.” So were the glasses.
Anne gave a little sob and looked at me wildly. Her distress seemed to tear something inside me.
I put my gun away and said, gruffly: “You were right. Let’s just get out.”
The bottles silently conveyed revelations and confirmations to both of us. To Anne they confirmed that Lash was the PK-endowed murderer I’d said he was and revealed the cruelty of his humor. Also his lack of love for her. A man who loved her would not humiliate her before her hated father.
They revealed to me the fact that Lash was somewhere nearby, probably in his apartment above and equally probably aware of all we’d said. And confirmed my growing suspicion that Anne had inherited the strain of weakness from my side of the family. Perhaps alcoholism runs in the blood. Or maybe most Hawed characters under stress take to drink.
By this sardonic prank, Lash had intended to hurt us both. Certainly he’d hurt Anne. But my own reaction was a wave of compassionate love for my daughter. I felt closer to her than ever before.
In that moment of protective love was born simultaneously a cold decision: Lash must be killed.
A new pragmatic principle displaced the theoretical old. As Wilde didn’t quite say, each man will kill for the thing he loves.
We got out, silently, and met nobody on the way.
I phoned Peters from the nearest call-box, told him where Lash almost certainly was—or was a few minutes back.
I added: “But I doubt if he’ll be seen there again. He must know we’ve left and where we’re heading. I’ll take a bet he’s watching us right now—somehow.”
Peters was worried. “Come straight to the Chief’s office, Fred. We’ll be waiting. Watch it, though, all of the time. Or you mightn’t get here alive.”
“I think it’ll be all right. He could have killed us up in the apartment if he’d wanted to. No, Lash is like his old man—he’ll do his best to keep his promises. And he promised to kill me in a week’s time. That’ll be the dangerous day . . . If I don’t kill him first.”
I hung up while he was wondering at this volte face.
We reached the Chief’s office unharmed, having detected no signs of being followed.
Peters’ Chief of Detectives was, surprisingly, plump and placid. He reminded me of the calm center of a cyclone. Also of an effigy of Buddha—the same lowered eyelids, the faint and benign smile of a being indulgent of man at his best and worst.
Peters feared his anger but it was impossible to imagine him angry.
This, I thought, was the sort of man Anne deserved for a father.
Peters, nail-bitingly on edge, jerkily performed introductions.
The Chief, murmuring like someone half asleep, said: “I have been looking forward to hearing your story—both of you. Do make yourselves comfortable.”
Even if Peters were immune, we found the relaxed mood subtly infectious. No doubt the Chief had found it the most efficient way to get accurate information. Instead of confused and incomplete statements, through haste and nervousness, he got all the facts from us coherently and quietly.
There was only one interruption: a report that a gingerly conducted investigation of Lash’s apartment had proved negative: he’d gone and left not a clue behind.
“Never mind,” commented the Chief, genially. “We’ll catch up with him before long.”
He sounded so assured, I believed him—for the moment.
When we’d finished, he said: “By far the most important fact arising from this is that our little base on Venus is surrounded by invisible and practically omnipotent enemies. The personnel must be warned. I shall advise that the base be abandoned for the time being. For it’s momentarily in real danger of extinction. Later, perhaps, we can come to terms with the Roys. But we’ll need a plan.”
“Then you accept, sir, that the Roys really exist?” asked Peters, frowning. “We’ve only the story of a psychotic as evidence. Lash is a born romancer—he had already admitted lying—”
“The true psychotic never admits that any part of his dream-world is fantasy,” cut in the Chief, equably. “Lash is no more mad than the average showman. When you’re as experienced as I am, Captain Peters, you’ll recognize the click when jigsaw pieces of evidence fit. Off the record, irreconcilable behavior of Venusian probe rockets has been bothering the space boys for years. So has the old mystery of what happened to the Triad. It ties up with a mystery of today: why a police car should suddenly pull out to the wrong side of the road and smash headlong into a perfectly visible oncoming bus. The answer’s the same: the controls were taken over by a psi-functioning mind. Do you doubt, Captain, from the accumulated evidence, that Lash has one?”
“No, sir.”
“Is it what you would describe as a human mind?”
“Er—not exactly.”
“Then that admits the existence of a non-human mind. A Roy, for instance. I suggest, Captain Peters, that you learn to distinguish between real and unreal problems. A very real problem on which you might legitimately expend some thought is where we are going to herd, and usefully employ, our convicted killers when the Venus Base has shut down.”
Peters gulped, and I began to see why he was afraid of his boss.
“When you’ve solved that problem,” the Chief, continued, calmly and inexorably, “you might give me your explanation of how young Lash Leroux came here from Venus, when all ships from the convict settlement are thoroughly combed for stowaways, impostors, and excess baggage. And offer your theory as to how he intends to ‘natch’—to use the ancient vernacular—this young lady here and take her back to Venus.”
“Maybe—um—”
“You haven’t given it a thought, Peters, and that’s the truth. When are you going to start earning your pay?”
Peters was silent, a shattered soul. I was sorry for him. And glad that when I was in the force I had no Chief remotely like this one. But Peters was my friend and loyalty brought me galloping to the rescue.
“Have you given it a thought, Chief? What’s your answer?”
The Chief turned his implacable smile in my direction.
“Pardon me, but I ask the questions in this office. You don’t mind?”
“I do mind. I’m concerned to know how you propose to protect my daughter.”
“So am I.”
“Flattered, I’m sure,” said Anne. “I hope you’re also giving some thought to preventing my father’s murder.”
“Oh, I am, my dear, young lady. He should take Captain Peters’ advice—hop to Europe and lose himself there.”
“And me?” asked Anne.
“You stay here. You’re the bait in the trap. Lash has got to come and get you. Your father’s no use as bait. Lash can kill from a distance, without coming. Your father’s best chance is to make the distance too great to be effective.”
“I’ll go with my father,” said Anne, which sent a warm little glow through me, besides surprising me a lot, if the others not at all.
The Chief shrugged. “In that case, I’ll hand you over to the European police.”
Peters was put out. “Just a minute, sir. Leroux has killed three of my men—our men. I. feel strongly about it. I’m sure you do, too. We owe those men something. It’s up to us to get their murderer.”
“That’s a very nice sentiment, Captain,” said the Chief. “I’m sure you mean well. I’m equally sure you’re overlooking that in the attempt to get him we’ll certainly lose more officers. Including, maybe, your goodself. And if we do get him, at last, we’ll find it impossible to hold him.”
“You’re so right,” I said. “No jail could hope to hold Lash for long. He can open any lock by mind-power, paralyze any man who attacks him, jam the mechanism of any gun turned on him—or divert its bullets.”
“A bomb?” said the Chief, speculatively.
“It’s likely to boomerang back in the laps of those who threw it. He’s the most dangerous criminal who ever walked this earth. Nobody and nothing will be safe until he’s dead.”
Peters gave me a wry look.
“Any suggestions, Fred? For killing him, I mean.”
“It may be possible to catch him by surprise. If he knows a gun is aimed at him, he can jump it. But suppose he doesn’t know?”
“An ambush?” asked Peters.
I shrugged. “I guess he can see around too many corners for that to rate a chance. I was thinking of some kind of automatic trap, with no visible giveaway. Say he’s breaking into a bank vault. He has to get through steel grilles. If a high tension electric current was passing through them, and he touched one, he’d be a dead duck, psi or no psi.”
“It’s an idea,” said the Chief. “I have an idea, too—that he doesn’t work alone. Only one man actually caught him at work, and that man’s beyond reporting what he saw. But from a consideration of logistics. I’d be inclined to say Leroux works with a small gang. That lessens the chances of success. One of his men might touch the grille first. Then the trick would never work again.”
“True—and you’re probably right about the gang,” I said. “Lash, Senior, always operated with what he called his ‘Party.’ Once Junior had demonstrated his powers, he could have rustled up a gang with no trouble. Another ‘Party’ to be reckoned with. By a program of assassination they could conceivably take over the country.”
“As you head the list of victims in this country,” said Peters, “no-one’s going to blame you for getting the hell out of it. Don’t waste any time, Fred. I’ll fix the trip, like I said. We’ll have all rocket-ports and sea-ports watched to see you’re not followed. We’ll see he doesn’t get out of the country.”
The Chief murmured: “The security measures are pretty tough on Venus. I’m still wondering how he slipped through them. However, don’t worry too much. We’ll make the States as airtight as we can. Okay, Peters, take over and do the best you can.”
Peters did a good job on getting us out of the country quickly and inconspicuously next day. Our disguises were light but effective. Although we traveled in the same rocket, we sat apart and pretended we had nothing to do with each other. I was Matt Parkinson, newspaperman. She was Miss Moore, schoolteacher, visiting England under the exchange system.
Up there in the rocket, so high above the Atlantic that it was night at noon, I glanced along the aisle at Anne. Then I looked out at interplanetary space. I wondered if there was any real hope that she would escape abduction and the misty hell far away in that outer darkness.
Lash was still too much of an unknown quantity. There was an over-plus of x’s in the equations. Fear and frustration so depressed me that I came near to ringing for a drink. But somehow I stuck it out, dry, for another hour, and then we reached Gatwick, the rocket-port for London.
Peters’ plans, concocted under pressure, went as smoothly as automation.
At the ’copter port on the South Bank of the Thames, two seemingly civilian cars awaited us and conveyed us individually and discreetly across the river to New Scotland Yard. They were Flying Squad cars. And there my old pal, Richard Trevelyan, received us in his office. It was a Superintendent’s office—and he was a Superintendent. I’d known him when he was Sergeant Trevelyan.
He owed me nothing but his life. He wouldn’t let me forget that.
Every Christmas for years we’d exchanged visa-phone greetings across the Atlantic, so I was prepared for his gray hair and he for the scantiness of mine.
He gave us both a warm double handshake, and said: “Jack Peters told me the whole story. Amazin’, isn’t it? Whiskey?”
And was shaken when we both refused.
“Tea, then,” he said, and pressed a button.
Amid the tea-cups we chewed over plans for Anne and I hiding out—for at least a week.
We agreed that London was too crowded. You just couldn’t watch everyone who, intentionally or not, brushed against your elbow. Better somewhere off the beaten track, somewhere so isolated that no-one need know we were there. Out of sight, out of mind—maybe.
“It so happens,” said Trevelyan, “that I’ll be fifty next month and retiring on a pension. I’ve a little retreat in the country all fixed up and ready to walk into. I’ve been counting the days.” He flung something metallic on the desk. “There’s the key. You’re welcome.”
Anne said: “You’re a much nicer man than my father, Richard.”
“Who isn’t?” I said. “But it’s certainly swell of you, Dick.”
“Not at all. The cottage wants warming up. And you might fix the well-winding—it sticks . . .”
He told us about the place and arranged to drive us down there when evening fell. There were very few other houses in the vicinity, but security would be tighter if we got there after dark, unseen.
“Once inside, stay put,” he advised. “There’s a stock of canned and bottled stuff, but we’ll take some fresh food with us. Rations for a fortnight, anyhow. By the way, there’s no phone: you’re really on your own.”
“If Lash does run us to earth,” I said, “a phone won’t help. I doubt if a couple of tanks would, either. It’s best we go it alone. That way, nobody else can get hurt. I’d prefer it.”
Trevelyan looked at me silently. We’d shared a tough spot once before and I knew he wanted to be at my side in this one, if only for the possible chance to repay. But he was scared I thought he might be in the way. I had only to give him the ghost of a hint of an invitation . . . But I remained silent, too.
I didn’t want him killed. Anyhow it was my fight.
“All right, then, that’s that,” said Trevelyan, briskly. “Now we’ve the afternoon to kill. I’d like to show you around town but it would be wiser to keep off the streets. For all its reputed glamor, the Yard’s a pretty dull sort of hole. I wonder—”
“There’s always the Black Museum,” I said. “Anne’s never seen it, and I should like to have another mosey around.”
“Anything for a laugh,” said Anne.
