Sci fi, p.11
SCI FI, page 11
part #6 of Yellowthread Street Series
Klaus said with an easy grin, “The false floor theory again?”
Embarrassed, Spencer said, “Yes.” He grinned sheepishly, “I’m afraid when I get an idea in my head—”
Klaus said, “The lay out of the carpark was designed by a computer. That’s why it’s so efficient.”
Spencer said sadly, “Yeah ...” He brightened up, “All I need is one white Volkswagen kombi van ...”
“And what if you don’t get it?” Klaus said reasonably, “There aren’t any false walls or floors in the place however hard you look—”
Spencer said with conviction, “Then I’m going to spend the rest of my life working out just how it’s done! It wouldn’t have beaten Holmes for five minutes so it shouldn’t beat me for more than five weeks.” Spencer said with rising anger, “If I have to I’ll grill every one of the victims so hard their eyes will drop out. If I have to—” Klaus said, “But you’ve already said they’re not reliable. That they said the van was yellow and blue and black and whatever because—”
Spencer said, “If I have to I’ll have them relive the experience under hypnosis—under truth drugs—”
“But it’s white. You said Mr Auden was the only reliable witness—”
“No one else has seen it as white except him!”
Klaus said, “I did! I saw it for a second on the screen when Mr Auden saw it and I saw it as white too.”
“I don’t know.” Spencer pursed his lips, “I just don’t know ...”
Klaus said, “What if you saw it yourself?”
“Ah, then I’d be sure it’s white. Then I’d be sure the witnesses didn’t know what they were talking about.” Spencer said grittily, “Then I’d know that there really was a Volkswagen and that it was white and that somehow, it got past us.” He paused for a moment, “I’d know there wasn’t a false floor or a wall in here where it changed colour and hid.”
Klaus considered it for a moment. He shrugged, thinking. He said, “Hmm, maybe there is a false wall—” He glanced down at the console on his desk, “If there isn’t, I get the impression you’ll have all the victims in this goddamned place giving statements to the cops for the next twenty years.”
Spencer said firmly, “Twenty five.” He glanced at his watch.
Klaus said, “Hmm ...” There was a sudden terrible sound of glass breaking from somewhere up on the second or third floor and Klaus gasped out, “My God, another one!”
Spencer rushed to the console and began pressing buttons. The picture on the television screen exploded into lines and snow and Klaus pushed past him and got up the picture of the ground floor right. Spencer said, “No, it was high up! Quick, punch up the third floor— quick!”
“But Mr Auden’s on the second floor!”
“Quick, before Mr Auden gets up to the third. This time we’ll see it ourselves!” Spencer said, “Come on, damn it, do you want to be around here for the next twenty five years?
Find me that white Volkswagen on the third floor—quick!” Klaus pressed a button and there it was. Klaus said, “There! Look! It’s going away towards the throughway! Mr Auden isn’t there yet. It is white! Look!” Klaus wrenched open the ticket office door, “Quick, after it!”
Spencer turned around from the console with an evil smile on his face. He thought about it for a moment, shrugged, and then said lazily, “No, let’s wait until it comes down here.” He saw Klaus start to come forward and leaned over the console, “Let me save you the trouble of pushing up the other floors.” He flicked a few buttons. “Or even the other third floor bays.” Another button—
Spencer said in mock surprise, “Oh my goodness, the white Volkswagen seems to have disappeared.” He leaned forward and put his finger on the screen, “And now, wonder of wonders, I can see where I put the crosses on the pylons not ten minutes ago.” He turned to fix Klaus with a steely eye, “The crosses must be able to do the same disappearing trick as the white Volkswagen because a moment ago when I saw the Volkswagen fleeing, the crosses weren’t bloody well there!” The picture on the screen showed Auden standing at the smashed side window of the Fiat, his Colt Python in his hand, gazing at the line of crosses going away from him on the pylons. Spencer said, “And my goodness me, Mr Auden seems to have learned the trick too—because he was standing on the third floor all the time—he was the one who smashed the Fiat’s window!” Spencer reached in under his coat, withdrew his handcuffs, and laid them on top of the console significantly and said in a voice that brooked no discussion, “Come over to this console and show me where the video tape button is.” He saw Klaus about to protest, “The video tape button that cuts in a reel of film showing a white Volkswagen disappearing into nothingness on the third floor!” He demanded, “There never was any mugger or any Volkswagen, was there? The victims smashed their own car windows and—what? Hid the valuables that were supposed to be stolen in their car boots?”
Klaus sighed a long sigh. “Under the rear seats.”
“What the hell did they say the thing was yellow for? And blue? And black? And—when all the time you had this film set up to prove the bloody thing was white?”
“The stupid bastards didn’t understand English properly! The first one thought I said it was a yellow van and then next—” Klaus said with rising disgust for the human race, “The stupid thing about people as opposed to machines is that they all think they’re so goddamned clever and they just don’t realise just how—”
Spencer said maliciously, “Yeah!”
“—how—” Klaus’ voice trailed off, “Just how stupid they really are ...”
Spencer put on his official policeman’s voice, “You can remember that when you get out on bail before your hearing and you have to pay to have your car window repaired.” He nodded to himself. It was only poetic justice. Spencer said, “Machines are all right in their place, but when it comes to working something out—”
Klaus said, “What car window repaired?”
“The Fiat Bambino on the third floor. It was your car. It struck me as only right and proper that if someone’s car window was going to get smashed to prove how it was done then it was only fair that it should be yours.” Spencer said avuncularly, “It’s all been a valuable lesson to you—seeing the superiority of a human brain when it comes to working something out. And if you want my opinion I just don’t think it’s a good thing to let children have pocket calculators and things like that at school in the first place. It stunts the brain. I worked out that it was your car because (a) it had German licence plates and (b) because the back was full of computer and electronics magazines and (c) —”
Klaus said, “I don’t own a car.”
Spencer said, “You’re under arrest. I have to warn you that anything you may say—”
“I tell you, I don’t own a goddamned car! I can’t even drive!”
Spencer said, “Rubbish.” He saw Auden coming towards the ticket office looking pleased with himself and called out, “Phil, that was his car, wasn’t it?”
“Sure. You looked it up. You said so.”
“No, I deduced it because of the—”
Klaus, his misery complete, shouted, “Don’t you try to stick a car stealing rap on me too! All I’ve done is a little fraud so don’t you try and fit me up as some sort of hardened—”
Auden said, “What do you mean you deduced it? You rang Central Computer from outside and got a make on it and you—” His eyes widened, “Didn’t you?” He saw Spencer look away. He said, aghast, “You saw the Fiat had German licence plates on it and—”
Spencer said quickly, “Well, no, actually it had Hong Kong licence plates, but it had a ... a national sticker on the back.” He grinned nervously. “It had DC on it. That stands for something ... Deutschland.” He saw Auden’s face, “Doesn’t it?”
Something ... Deutschland ...
True to form, even at the moment of his triumph, Spencer of Baker Street considered all the other ... Spencer said urgently, “Yes! Something ... Deutschland ... !”
“… Or ... or ...”
Spencer said in a strangled voice, “Or, or—”
Diplomatic ... Corps ... ?
Auden, hopping about in red faced fury, the evidence of broken glass and scratched revolver barrel all over his person, shouted, “You didn’t check with Central Computer? You just—” Auden shouted at the top of his voice, “Jesus Christ in Heaven, Spencer, what the hell do you think bloody machines are for?”
*
Glancing up through the open door of the Detectives’ Room, O’Yee said aghast, “It’s him! He’s got out again!”
Feiffer said, “Who?”
“Him! Goddamned Houdini! The Green Slime!”The Green Slime was on the phone in the empty charge room, saying in Chinese, “Are you sure? Are you certain?” O’Yee shouted, “You! Hey, you!” He knocked over a sheaf of papers in his haste to get out from behind his desk, “You!” He shouted to Feiffer as he took off out of the door, “By God, I know who’s going to arrest him this time—I am!” The Slime’s hand on the telephone receiver was trembling with fear. The Slime said over and over in Cantonese, “Are you certain? Are you sure?”
O’Yee said, “Got you!” He grabbed The Slime by the finned collar and wrenched him about, “By God, this time you’re going to tell me—” O’Yee tore the phone from the man’s grasp and jammed it against his ear, “Who is this? Speak up! Who is this?”
The line went dead.
O’Yee had The Slime in a stranglehold around the neck. Twisting the man’s repulsive masked face to him, he demanded, “You! Who arrested you? By God, if you don’t—”
The Slime, gasping, said, “Special Constable Jensen Ho!”
O’Yee saw Feiffer at the door to the Detectives’ Room and decided not to strangle The Slime in front of witnesses. O’Yee shrieked, “I don’t even know what the hell you were in the cell for in the first place!”
“For nothing!” The Slime broke loose and stood back, panting, ready to duck O’Yee’s clenching hands, “I was in there for nothing! I’m trying to tell you who arrested me and you won’t even listen!” The Slime, at the end of his control, shouted, “Special Constable Jensen Ho—that’s who arrested me!” He saw O’Yee make a move towards him and yelled to halt him, “That’s why I was arrested in the first place! Special Constable Jensen Ho—”
O’Yee said, “Who the hell’s Special Constable Jensen Ho?” The Slime, hesitating a moment and then glancing at the mute telephone, drew a breath.
The Green Slime said quietly, “I am. I’m Special Constable Jensen Ho.”
He seemed a little disappointed, with all the hints he had given him, that the man had not realised it from the beginning.
*
In the foyer of the hotel, the pained look on Constable Lee’s face was increasing in intensity. Standing with his knees pressed hard together and his hands clutched together on his belt buckle, Constable Lee said graphically, “Ohh—ah—yah ...” He looked at Constable Sun.
Sun said, “Aii—!” He grimaced at Lee, his face in pain, and said between clenched teeth, “You ... too?”
Lee said, “Mmmm—ah.” A little to one side of the million dollars there was a corridor with an arrow and a painted representation of the male of the species on the wall. Lee said, “If I don’t go in a minute, I’ll burst!”
Sun said, nodding, “Mmm—yaa ...” He was going red in the face.
Lee looked suddenly heavenwards. “It’s no good, I have to go! If anyone wants to steal the million dollars then they can steal it.” Lee said, looking desperate, “I have to go!” He turned and made off quickly for the sign.
Sun, his straining bladder muscles rooting him to the spot, said in an urgent whisper, “For heaven’s sake, hurry!” Across the foyer, in the bar, there was a barman washing glasses. The sound of running water almost unhinged his reason. He called out in a prayer as Lee hurried away down the magic corridor towards pure, blessed relief, “Hurry! In heaven’s name—hurry!”
*
Under The Spaceman’s gun, Shimada and Mukherjee were pressed against the fifth floor corridor wall edging their way towards the open door to the stairs. The Spaceman’s gun followed them, the black faceplate on The Spaceman’s helmet reflecting them opaquely.
Shimada said to The Spaceman, “We’re not who you think we are ... we’re nobodies ... we’re ...” He hit a little side table and almost knocked it down. He made a grab for the overbalancing lamp on top of it. Shimada said, “It’s just a—! It’s just a ... lamp ... !”
Mukherjee bumped into him against the wall and gave him a nudge he hoped The Spaceman didn’t notice. Mukherjee said, “For God’s sake, don’t talk! Just ...” Shimada seemed to have stopped by the side table. Mukherjee gasped at him, “Go on, go on—!”
The Spaceman heard a sound and jerked his head quickly in the direction of the service elevator at the far end of the corridor.
Shimada said soothingly, “There’s nothing! It’s just—” The Spaceman’s gun came back to him, “It’s all right! It’s just—” He hit something with his shoe—an electric socket—and pressed his hands flatter against the wall and edged past it like a child expecting to be hit by an unpredictable father, “It’s nothing—just a—” He saw the open door to the stairs, “Honest, we’ll do exactly what we’re—” He thought The Spaceman might not know about the stairs. He halted, wondering if he could sacrifice Mukherjee and make a run for it.
Mukherjee jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. “Move! Move!”
Shimada felt glued to the wall by the palms of his hands. The stairs were less than ten feet away. Shimada felt his mouth open and shut, but no sound came out. Shimada, hiccoughing with fear, got out, “Can we ... go down the stairs ...?”
The Spaceman, immobile, listening, nodded his head.
Shimada said, “Thank you, thank you ...” He made a series of happy hee-hee sounds and nodded happily at Mukherjee. He said urgently to The Spaceman, bowing, “Thank you, oh thank—”
The muzzle of the flame gun seemed to be dripping a fine fluid. Mukherjee grated out from somewhere deep in his dry throat, “Get on with it, you stupid Japanese bastard!” The stairs were less than five feet away from Shimada’s right hand. Mukherjee said in a series of breathless grunts, “Move, move, move!”
Shimada’s hand touched the doorjamb to the stairs. He halted. The Spaceman’s gun followed him and then halted too, pointing at his chest. Shimada said, “Wife and ...” He hiccoughed, “We’re just very small fish, we’re—” He moved on a single shuffling pace and stood with his back to the open door to freedom, “Can we—?”
The Spaceman lifted up his gun a fraction. He seemed to be thinking.
Mukherjee said carefully, “May we—um ...?”
The gun pointed squarely at Shimada’s chest and then moved to bring itself to bear on Mukherjee. The gun made a clicking sound.
The Spaceman nodded.
The message was clear: die, or run like hell.
Shimada and Mukherjee almost colliding with each other at the top of the stairs, ran like hell.
*
In the Detectives’ Room, The Green Slime said urgently, “My wife and children—the Triads. I—” He brushed at his forehead and took the rubber Slime mask from his cheeks and forehead, “They, I—” He drew a breath, “I’m Special Constable Jensen Ho and I put myself in the cell so I could be blameless, so he wouldn’t—” He stared at O’Yee with something approaching hatred, “But you were too stupid to work out who I was!”
“I still don’t know who you are!”
“I’m Jensen Ho!”
“Who the hell is Jensen Ho?”
“The Special Constable who—”
Feiffer said slowly, “—who works for the Hong Kong Safe And Strongbox Company.”
“Yes!” The Slime turned to O’Yee, “Why couldn’t you have worked that out? I’m the man the police call in when there’s a safe they have to get open or when there’s a lock that—” He opened his hands in mute appeal to all that was reasonable in the world, “Who else in the Colony do you think could open a cell with nothing but a nail or a match and a piece of string? I’m Special Constable Jensen Ho!”
Feiffer said, “What were you doing in the cells?”
“I was hiding. I was protecting myself from—” The Slime wiped sweat from his face with his hand, “I thought he’d think I’d been arrested on the way. I got a phone call from him saying that unless I co-operated the Triads would kill my family. That’s why I got into one of the cells—so he’d think I’d wanted to do the job but I’d just had bad luck on the way and been arrested.” He turned to O’Yee, “That’s why I shouted and yelled and escaped—so you’d beat me up and make it look good. And you didn’t! You were so busy doing whatever else you were doing you didn’t even stop to think. I wanted you to guess who I was—but you didn’t!” The Slime said, “It’s the forty five million dollars! The lock on the case holding the forty five million dollars!”
Feiffer looked at him.
“The one on the case in the Empress of India hotel!” The Slime, a helpless victim to the assembled stupidity of the world, said, “Where else?”
“What forty five million dollars in a case at the hotel? There’s one million in a—”
“He said that it involved forty five million American dollars and he was from the Triads and that, for that sort of money, if I didn’t open the lock for him while he created a diversion, the lives of my family wouldn’t be worth a—”
Feiffer said, “Who?”
The Slime, his eyes filling with tears, said desperately, “Him! The Triad man! He said he’d be dressed up as a—he said he’d—” The Slime, staring at O’Yee said, “What else could I do? I couldn’t think of any other way of getting out of it and protecting my family at the same time. I just—” All of a sudden, like a balloon abruptly deflated, he sank into a chair and seemed to shrink. Tears flowed down his cheeks. “He said he’d meet me in the carpark by the flying saucer.”
