Stranglers moon, p.13
Stranglers' Moon, page 13
"All right, then, we'll begin. Did Dak Lehman actually check out last night?
The man wet his lips with his tongue. "I can show you on the records that....
"I saw the records yesterday afternoon. They don't prove a damn thing. You were there, gospodin. Did Dak Lehman personally check out of this hotel?
The clerk was on a spot and he knew it. This ferocious young lady meant business. "Not personally, no. A friend of his checked out for him.
"A friend, eh? Did this friend also go up to the room and clear out all of Gospodin Lehman's belongings?" "Yes, and he also paid the bill. Look, he had a key so I thought it would be all right.
"Yes, I'm sure you did. This friend-had you ever seen him before?
"What do you mean?
"I'm asking the questions here. I would think my meaning was perfectly clear; I used only two words with more than one syllable." She began limbering up her foot as though preparing to kick him in a very sensitive area. The man watched her nervously.
"Uh, yes, I had seen him before.
Yvette cocked her head. "Talking to you, tovarishch, is like pulling teeth. I think we'll add a new rule to the game. It's called completeness of answer, and the way it works is that you try to answer each question as fully as you can, without making me ask a dozen to get the whole story. Each time your answer is not as full as I'd like it, I break one of your fingers. That's known as incentive. Now, would you like to try that last answer one more time?
The poor clerk was sweating blood now. "Yes, I'd seen him before. He comes in here fairly regularly-two, three, sometimes four times a week. I don't know his name, though, honest.
"And does he always check other people out of their rooms?
"Always," the man nodded. "The first thing I know about it is when he comes down to the desk with all their luggage packed. He hands in the key and pays the bill in cash. The hotel doesn't care who checks out as long as the bill's paid.
"No, I don't suppose it does. He must be a remarkably friendly fellow to have so many people trusting him with their belongings, don't you think? No need to answer that, it was just rhetorical. Tell me, though, don't you think it's strange that he does this so often?
"Yes, I do. But I don't think it's any of my business." "How much is this friend paying you to think it's none of your business?
"Fifty rubles each time. But listen, I've got a wife and kids to support, I need....
"That answer is getting a little too full thank you. I'm not interested in your personal problems, although I am interested in your morality." She stared straight into the man's eyes. "You know what's happening to all these guests of yours, don't you? The ones who never check out for themselves?
The clerk took a long, deep breath. There was no point holding any more back-this woman obviously knew most of the story anyway. She was toying with him, seeming to enjoy every little twist of the psychological knife she had stuck in him. "Yes," he sighed.
"They're being murdered. It's a fact of life here on Vesa, and most people accept it. It's only tourists who are killed, never us natives. We accept it.
"Accepting it is one thing, but you're actually helping it. How does that make you feel?How can you go home to a wife and kids you supposedly love and yet know that you have a hand in killing innocent people? How can you face them?
The man shrugged as best he could while tied up. "If I didn't do it, somebody else would.
Why shouldn't I get the money out of it?
Yvette sighed with exasperation. That rationalization had been in existence as long as moral cowardice itself. There was probably at least one corrupt desk clerk in every hotel on Vesa. There was no point arguing this matter further; to the best of this man's limited moral vision he had done no wrong. She decided to change her tack. "Don't the police ever bother you about these disappearances?
"No, why should they? They're under orders not to interfere.
Under orders? That brought Yvette right back to the point that had initially been brought up in the Head's office. "There's only one person who can give the police an order like that, isn't there? The Marchioness.
"That's what I understand. Look, I'm not really a part of this whole thing, I'm only paid to look the other way. I'm no murderer, I don't know anything about them. All I do know is what I hear gossiped around, and people say that the Marchioness has given 'hands off' orders. That's all I can tell you, honest. I don't know anything else.
Yvette was inclined to believe him. This clerk was just a minor part of the operation; he wouldn't be privy to the conspiracy's inner secrets. He had given her several leads and confirmed a lot of what she'd already suspected. She shouldn't press him for more.
"All right," she said aloud. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Because you've been so good at playing this game, I won't hurt you." The man's body visibly sagged with relief. "I will, however, have to keep you out of the way for a while, so that you don't tell anyone about my visit here. I'm turning the setting on this stunner down to seven; you'll be out for approximately thirty-six hours and groggy for a little bit after that, but there'll be no permanent effects. I'd suggest, though, that you move to some other planet and find a new job at once, if you know what's good for you-preferably an honest job.
The man started to protest, but to no avail. Yvette was already squeezing the trigger.
The clerk slumped bonelessly in his chair and Yvette stood up, put the gun back into her purse and walked casually out of the office.
Looks like I'll have to go right to the top, she thought. Flagging down a jit, she headed back for her hotel so that she could get some sleep before paying a call tomorrow on Marchioness Gindri.
In most places, the social calendar of someone as high ranking as a marchioness would have made it impossible for Yvette to get an appointment sooner than two or three days away. In the hierarchy of nobility, marquises ranked just below dukes, who ruled individual planets. A marquis was the lord of a continent-or, in the case of Vesa, a moon-and had a vast territory to oversee. The responsibility was enormous, and the amount of time available for private audiences was therefore limited.
Yvette knew well enough the weight of such nobility. Her father, Etienne d'Alembert, was the Duke of DesPlaines; because he was usually busy managing the Circus-and its clandestine activities for the Emperor the planet was usually run by Yvette's older brother Robert who, as heir to the title of DesPlaines, went by the honorific of the next lower rank, marquis. Robert was an anomaly among d'Alemberts-a man who preferred the quiet harassment of running a world to the excitement of traveling with the Circus-and the Duke was glad of the opportunity to dump the responsibility on the shoulders of his heir.
Yvette knew bow strenuous the governing of a planet could be from having seen her brother in action, and she fully expected Marchioness Gindri to be as busy.
Instead, she found that-with the offer of a small bribe -she could convince the Marchioness's appointments secretary to schedule her for that very afternoon. She was a little surprised, but pleased with the fast action. She told the secretary that she was interested in investing some of her considerable fortune on Vesa, and was informed that the Marchioness would be eager to hear her plans.
When she arrived, Yvette found the palace gaudy and pretentious-but she had expected as much. Vesa itself was like that, so why should its ruler be any different? Precious metals, expensive woods and exquisite marbles comprised the setting, with gems inlaid into even the most trivial of objects. The display of opulence and bad taste offended the SOTE agent, but she kept her feelings strictly in line. Not everyone was raised in a tent, she reflected. Tastes differ.
She found it harder to keep her emotions in check when she was finally ushered into the Marchioness's presence. The meeting took place in the salon, a coo as ostentatious as any Yvette had seen. The floor was an abstract pattern of inlaid tiles, the walls were of brown marble and the high-vaulted ceiling was painted in an almost surrealistic design of a spaceship battle that had never taken place. The arched entranceways were supported by pillars a full four meters tall. The room was cluttered with furniture, all of it upholstered in silver embroidered rose satin and wildly overstuffed.
In the center of the room, draped in pearls, sat the Marchioness Gindri, all one hundred and fifty kilograms of her. Her pasty skin shook whenever she made the slightest movement, like a tubful of jelly. Her eyes were deep-set and piggy, her nose large and set flatly against her face. Her mouth seemed intrinsically incapable of closing completely.
Beside and slightly behind the Marchioness's chair stood a man whose face impressed Yvette immediately. His mouth was ringed by a full brown beard and mustache, his eyes were sharp and missed no details as their gaze continually darted about the room. There was a feral intelligence lurking behind those eyes, Yvette decided. The man was dressed in a white tunic-jacket and slacks, with a fist-sized emerald hanging from a gold chain about his neck. In other contexts Yvette would have thought him overweight, but standing beside the Marchioness he looked positively emaciated.
No wonder she's got an empty calendar, Yvette thought. No one wants anything to do with her.
Keeping a firm mask over her true feelings, Yvette curtsied and approached to within two meters. As the daughter of a duke and sister of a marquis, she had been schooled in all the courtly graces and could outpoint anyone on etiquette. But Carmen Velasquez was supposed to be a commoner and, despite having a lot of money, was inexperienced at dealing with nobility. Deliberately she made her curtsy awkward and projected a nervousness at being in the Marchioness's presence that' she certainly did not feel. "Your Highness she began fumblingly.
The man standing beside the Marchioness corrected her. "Your Excellency," he prompted.
"Yes, oh, sorry, Your Excellency. I'm sorry, I've never met anyone of your exalted rank before. My name is Carmen Velasquez and I asked to see you because I was wanting to invest a great deal of my money on Vesa and I wanted to discuss various plans.
"Do you like Vesa?" the Marchioness asked. Her voice was quite raspy and seemed to escape from rather than be uttered by, that large mouth and multiple chins.
"Oh, very much, Your Excellency. I've been here a couple of weeks now and I find it fascinating. My husband died recently, leaving me with a considerable fortune, and your moon looks like a good breeding ground for cash. A smart person could make a killing here.
She scrutinized the faces of both people opposite her, but neither reacted to the word "killing." She hadn't expected them to, but anything was worth a try.
"Many fortunes have indeed been made here, gospozha," said the man, "and small ones have been enlarged. There is always room for capital investment. How much were you thinking of investing?
"Please pardon me, gospodin, but I don't recall having been told your name," Yvette excused. "I don't mean to be rude, but my husband always told me to find out beforehand who you're dealing with.
"Of course, dear lady; the apologies are all mine for not having spoken up sooner. My name is Garst, and I am Her Excellency's First Advisor.
Though her face remained placid, her mind was spinning as she tried to place that name.
Garst. I know I've heard it somewhere before. But where? "Thank you, Gospodin Garst.
I was considering a modest sum to start out with-say, seven or eight million rubles?
The way Garst's eyes lit up, she could tell he considered that sum to be slightly better than modest. He began eyeing her in much greater detail now, trying to peek behind the figurative mask she was wearing to discover more about this mysterious rich widow. She could almost hear the gears clicking in his brain. Then suddenly, as his eyes were traveling over her body, he froze for the slightest of instants. A scowl flew quickly across his face and disappeared. "That's a very attractive offer from a very attractive DesPlainian," he said. Did she detect an ever-so-slight emphasis on that last word.
"I'm not a DesPlainian, though you're close," she hastened to point out. "I'm originally from Purity, though I saw the error of those ways early enough to leave before becoming thoroughly conditioned. The gravities of the two planets are remarkably similar, though, and lead to similar body structures, so I can understand the confusion.
"My mistake, gospozha. Please forgive the error." His voice was now carefully neutral, giving not the slightest clue to his feelings.
Suddenly Yvette remembered where she'd heard Garst's name before. Dak had mentioned it. He'd said he was going to a private party at the home of someone named Garst, a local VIP. It was the last thing on his agenda the day he... disappeared.
Myerson had confirmed that Dak had set out to Garst's party, and that was the last anyone had ever seen of him. Suddenly this fellow Garst took on a strange new fascination for Yvette.
He doesn't leave the Marchioness's side, she noticed. It was as though Vesa's ruler depended on him for more than just advice. "I'm glad you find my offer attractive," she said casually. "I know you have plenty of hotels and casinos here already, but you also have so many tourists that I thought one more could always help. To be a little different, I was thinking of subsidizing the construction of a transparent dome up on the actual surface of the moon-with, naturally, transportation tunnels linking it to the rest of Vesa underground. It would be something unique here, and I think the tourists would go for it in a big way.
"The thought of a surface dome has been brought up before," Garst said. "There are, of course, numerous problems to overcome, such as the threat of meteor damage. So far there hasn't been anyone with sufficient capita! and incentive to follow through on the idea. Perhaps you will be the first.
They continued to talk for another fifteen minutes, but the conversation quickly became a verbal sparring match between Yvette and the First Advisor. While the Marchioness sat idly by and listened only to what was said, the other two antagonists were carefully measuring each other's words, tones and inflections for hidden meanings and possible weaknesses. It was a serious verbal game of cat-and-mouse, with neither side willing to concede a point to the other. Yvette detailed her "plans" for the dome and Garst promised the Marchioness's support of the project; but below that level, nothing was accomplished other than a suspicious circling.
By the time she had to leave, Yvette had firmed up several of her suspicions.
Marchioness Gindri was not the brains behind this conspiracy of murder, that much was certain; Yvette saw her as a silly-and very sadwoman. She might well know what was going on, would almost have to, in fact, to give the police their "hands off" orders; they wouldn't take such orders from anyone less, even the First Advisor, lest they be discovered. But Gindri had neither the cunning to set up such an organization nor the drive to keep it going. That would take someone with a lot more guile and a lot fewer weaknesses.
Garst fit that description perfectly. There was an innate craftiness about him that would allow him to conceive of such a scheme; a coldness that would brush aside all moral inhibitions; and a high position that would allow him to act virtually unchecked.
She was definitely going to have to learn more about this Gospodin Garst-and as quickly as possible.
As soon as the Velasquez woman had left the palace, Garst excused himself from the Marchioness's presence and went to ca!! his lieutenant, Lessin. "Is there any word yet on duChamps?" he asked.
"None," Lessin reported, "but it shouldn't be much longer. I've had an artist do up a composite sketch on his face, and every man we've got here has seen it. I've even sent a copy down to the school, on the off chance he'll show up there.
"Good. There's someone else we may have to check out, a woman named Carmen Velasquez. She also looks to be a DesPlainian, which is what made me suspicious. She came in here with too good an offer, and I think she's fishing for something. She claims to be an ex-Puritan, but I've known a few of them and they're not at all like her. Whoever she Is, she's awfully shrewd-too shrewd to be just what she appears.
"Do you want her eliminated?
Garst shook his head. "No, not yet. There's still the chance that she might be legitimate, and her business deal would be a very good one if we could swing it. But I do want to keep a check on her. She said she's staying at the Hotel Regulus. I want her watched all the time. I want to know where she goes, what she does and who she talks to." And particularly, he thought, whether she contacts a DesPlainian calling himself Georges duChamps. She could be the key to cracking that mystery.
Chapter 11
School for Stranglers
As Passar had told him, everything turned out all right better than all right, in fact. Jules had not dared hope to be so successful so quickly.
Passar took Jules upstairs and introduced him to Tuhlman, a short, oily man built like a barrel and smelling like a locker room. Tuhlman was full of pointed questions about their escape, which he viewed as nothing short of miraculous. Jules let Passar do most of the talking. Tuhlman would believe the story more if it came from someone he knew-and besides, Passar did such a good job of embellishing it that Jules could hardly recognize their escapades himself. Any slipups he might have made were covered nicely by Passar's exaggerations.
Then came the matter of paying for their sanctuary. Passar was no problem-he had plenty of contacts and could line himself up with a lot of work in no time. But Jules was another matter. Tuhlman questioned him in depth about his past, and Jules answered carefully from the background Chief Kantana had prepared for him. The picture that resulted was that of a man who would be hunted down like an animal if he stayed on Chandakha, who had a large family that he wanted desperately to support, and who would do anything-including killing to get money. The portrait, Jules hoped, of an ideal recruit for the Vesan conspiracy.
Tuhlman took the bait. He asked Passar to leave the room for a few minutes, and talked to Jules privately about an organization that might help him get off world and at the same time look after his family. The work they would require of him would be both easy and safe, though Tuhlman was careful not to go too deeply into specifics. He spoke in such glowing terms that Jules was convinced the man got a commission for each recruit he gathered. It was a hard sales pitch to resist, and Jules did not want to. He told Tuhlman he'd be delighted to sign up, and the two men shook hands on the deal. Tuhlman then had Passar and Jules shown to a small room where they had a good hot meal and spent the night.
