When I read it the warm glow of pleasure was replaced by a chill of worry. Had I given myself away to the police? Would they analyze the clue and be waiting for me?
"No!" I cried aloud. "The police are lazy and relaxed with little crime -to keep them on their toes. They may puzzle over it-but they will never understand it until it is too late. But The Bishop should be able to work it out. He will know that it is a message for him and will labor over it. I hope."
I sipped at my beer and had a good worry. It had taken me tedious hours to work out this little mind-twister. The fact that The Bishop used a chess bishop as his calling card had led me to the chess books. I assumed that he-or she, I don't believe that anyone had ever determined The Bishop's sex, although it was assumed the criminal was male-cared about chess. If more knowledge was needed he could consult the same books that I had. With very little effort it could be discovered that there are two different ways of noting chess moves. The oldest of them, the one that I had used, named the squares of the file after the piece that sat at the end of the file. (If you must know, "ranks" are the rows of squares that stretch from side to side of a chessboard. "Files" are the rows that Stretch between the players. So the square on which the White King sits is King 1. King 2 would be the next one up. If you think that this is complicated don't play chess-because this is the easiest part! However there is a second form of chess notation that assigns a number to each of the 64 squares on the board. So Knight 4 can be either 21, 8, 22, or 45.
Confusing? I hope so. I hope the police never think it is a code and get around to cracking it. Because if they do I am cracked as well. This little bit of chess movement contains the date of my next crime, when I am going to "take bishop," meaning take The Bishop card to a crime. Meaning also I am going to take credit for being The Bishop. Also meaning I am taking The Bishop to the cleaners.
I have the scenario clear in my mind. The police puzzle over the chess move-then discard it. Not so The Bishop in his luxury hideout. He is going to be angry. A crime has been committed and he has been blamed. Money has been taken-and he doesn't have it. My hope is that he will worry over this chess move, see it as a clue, scribble away at it, and eventually solve it.
By thinking about the fact that Knight is a homonym for night. Night three-what can that mean? The third night of what? The third night of the Modern Music Festival in the city of Pearly Gates, that is what. And this third night is also the forty-fifth day of the year, which is-that's correct-also known as Knight 3 in one of its four permutations. With this added verification The Bishop would be sure that some crime would take place on the third night of the Festival. A crime involving money of course. My mental fingers were crossed in the hope that he would be more interested in me than in informing the police in advance about the crime.
I hoped that I had struck the right balance. Too complex for the police, but capable of solution by The Bishop. And he had exactly one week to solve it and come to the Festival.
Which also meant that I had one week to hype myself up and depress myself down, get too much sleep-then not enough sleep. And take pleasure only in the construction of plans and apparatus for this bold foray into the pockets of the public.
On the night in question it was raining heavily-which suited me perfectly. I turned up the collar of my black coat, jammed my black hat down on my head, then seized up the black case that held the musical instrument. A horn of some kind. This was made. obvious by the swollen shape at one end, where the case swelled out to accommodate the bell. It might be a crumpaphone or even a dagennet. Public transportation took me close to the stage entrance to the theater. As I walked the rest of the way I soon found myself braving the elements among other blackgarbed, instrument-bearing musicians, I had my. pass ready, but the doorman just waved us through and out of the rain. There was little chance that anyone would question my identity because I was only one of 230. For tonight was the premier of what was sure to be a head-destroying piece of so-called music modestly entitled Collision of Galaxies, scored for 201 brass instruments and 29 percussion. The composer, Moi-Woofter Geeyoh, was not known for the delicate dissonances other compositions. The choice of this piece of music had also made this the night of my choice; even reading the score gave one a headache.
There was a shortage of dressing rooms for the musical multitude and they were milling about all over the place emitting lost noises. No one noticed when I slipped away, drifted up a back staircase-and let myself into a janitorial broorncloset. The service staff had long departed so I would not be disturbed-other than by the music. Nevertheless I locked the door from the inside. When I heard the sounds of tuning up I took out my copy of the score of Collision.
It started out calmly enough-after all, the galaxies had to get on stage before they could collide. I followed the score with my finger until it reached the red mark I had placed there. The score folded neatly into my pocket as I careftilly unsealed the door and looked out. Corridor empty, as it should be. With steady tread I walked down the corridor, the floor of which was already beginning to throb with impending galactic destruction.
The door was labeled PRIVATE-KEEP OUT. I took the black mask from one pocket, removed my hat and pulled the mask on, extracted the key to the door from another. I did not want to waste time with lockpicks, so had made this key when I had scouted this location. I hummed along with the music-'if that could be said to be possible-with the key in the lock. At the correct destructive crash I opened the door and stepped into the office.
My entrance had of course been unheard, but my movements caught the older man's eye. He turned and stared and the pen he had been using dropped from his limp fingers. His hands reached towards the ceiling when I drew the impressive-and fake-gun from my inside pocket. The other and younger man could not be threatened and dived to the attack. And continued to dive unconscious to the floor, knocking over and breaking a chair on the way.
None of this made a sound. Or rather it made a lot of sound, none of which could be heard over the music that was now rapidly working itself up to a crescendo that would drown out the crack of doom. I moved fast because the really loud parts were coming close.
I took two pairs of handcuffs from a coat pocket and locked the older man's ankle to his desk, then pulled his arms down before they got tired. I next secured the sleeping dreamer the same way. Almost time. I took the plastic explosive from another pocket-yes, there were a lot of pockets in this garment, and not by chance either-and slapped it to the front of the safe. Right over the time lock. They must have felt very secure here with their careful arrangements. All the night's ample receipts had been locked away in the safe in the presence of armed guards. To remain locked and secure until the morning when other armed guards would be present when it opened. I pushed the radio fuse into the explosive, then retreated across the room until I was out of line of fire along with the others.
Every loose object in the room was bouncing in time with the music now while dust rained down from the ceiling. It still wasn't time. I used the opportunity to rip out the phones by their roots. Not that anyone would be talking on a phone until after the concert.
There it was-almost there! I had the musical score in my mind's eye and at the instant when the galaxies finally impacted I pressed the radio actuator.
The front of the safe blew off in silent motion. I was stunned by the musical catastrophe way up here in the office-not by the explosion-and I wondered how many of the audience had gone deaf in the name of art. My wondering didn't stop me from shoveling all the buck bills from the safe into my instrument case. When it was filled I tipped my hat to my prisoners, one wide-eyed, one unconscious, and let myself out. The black mask went back into its pocket and I went out of the theater by an unwatched emergency exit.
It was a brisk two-block walk to the underpass entrance and I was just one other figure hurrying through the rain. Down the steps and along the corridor, to take the turning that led to the station. The commuter trains had left and the corrido
r was deserted. I stepped into the phone booth and made my unobserved identity change in exactly twenty-two seconds, precisely the rehearsed time. The black covering of the case stripped away to reveal the white covering of the case inside. The flared bell-shape went too. That had been shaped from thin plastic that crunched and went into a pocket with the black cover. My hat turned inside out and became white, my black moustache and beard disappeared into their appointed pocket so that I could shed the coat and turn it inside out so that it too, that's right, became white. Thus garbed, I strolled into the station and out the exit along with the other arriving passengers, to the cab rank. It was a short wait; the cab rolled up and the door opened. I climbed in and smiled appreciatively at the shining skull of the robot driver.
"Mah good man, tay-ake me to thu Arbolast Hotel," I said in my best imitation Thuringian accent-since the Thuringar train had arrived at the same time I had.
"Message not understood," the thing intoned.
"Ar-bo-last Ho-tel, you metallic moron!" I shouted. "Ar-bowb-bo-last!"
"Understood," it said, and the cab started forward.
Just perfect. All conversations were stored in a molecular recorder for one month in these cabs. If I were ever checked on, the record would reveal this conversation. And my hotel reservation had been made from a terminal in Thuringia. Perhaps I was being too cautious-but my motto was that this was an impossibility. Being too cautious, I mean.
The hotel was an expensive one and tastefully decorated with mock arbolasts in every corridor and room. I was obsequiously guided to mine-where the arbolast served as a floor lamp-and the robot porter glided away smamnly with a five buck coin in his tip slot.
I put the bag in the bedroom, took off the wet coat, extracted a beer from the cooler-and there was a knock on the door.
So soon! If that was The Bishop he was a good tail, because I had not been aware of being followed. But who else could it be? I hesitated, then realized that there was one certain way to find out. With smile on face, in case it was The Bishop, I opened the door. The smile vanished instantly.
"You are under the arrest," the plainclothes detective said, holding out his jeweled badge. His companion pointed a large gun at me just to make sure that I understood.
CHAPTER NINE
"What . . . what . . ." I said, or something very like this. The arresting officer was not impressed by my ready wit.
"Put on your coat. You are coming with us." In a daze I stumbled across the room and did just as he commanded. I should leave the coat here, I knew that, but I had no will to resist. When they searched it they would find the mask and key, everything else that would betray me. And what about the money? They hadn't mentioned the bag.
As soon as my arm was through the sleeve the policeman snapped a handcuff on my wrist and clicked the other end to his own wrist. I was going nowhere without them. There was little or nothing I could do-not with the gun wielder three steps behind us.
Out the door we went and along the corridor, to the elevator, then down to the lobby. At least the detective had the courtesy to stand close to me so the handcuffs were not obvious. A large black and ominous groundcar was parked in the middle of the no-parking zone. The driver didn't even bother to glance in our direction. Though as soon as we had climbed in and the door closed, he pulled away.
I could think of nothing to say-nor were my companions in a conversational mood. In silence we rolled through the rainy streets, past police headquarters which was unexpected, to stop before the Bit 0' Heaven Federal Building. The Feds! My heart dropped. I had been correct in assuming that breaking the clues and catching me had certainly been beyond the intelligence of the local police.
But I had not reckoned upon the planetary investigation agencies. By hindsight-which is not very satisfying-1 saw my error. After years of absence The Bishop strikes again. Why? And what does the bit of chesswackery mean? Put the cryptologists on it. Oho, a bit of bragging, scene and date of the next crime revealed. Keep it Federal and out of the hands of the local and incompetent police. Watch the cash with the most modern of electronic surveillance techniques. Track the criminal to see if others are involved. .Then pounce.
My state of black depression was so great that I could scarcely walk. I swayed when our little procession stopped before a heavy door labeled FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION, with DIRECTOR FLYNN in smaller gold letters beneath it. My captors knocked politely and the doorlock buzzed and opened. We filed in. "Here he is, sir."
"Fine. Secure him to the chair and I'll take over from here on out. "
The speaker sat massively behind the massive desk. A big man with sleek black hair, who was made even bigger by the enormous quantity of fat that he was carrying around. His chin, or chins, hung down onto the swelling volume of his chest. The size of his stomach kept him well back from the desk, upon which the fingers of his clasped hands rested like a bundle of stout sausages. He returned my shifty gaze with his steady and steely one. I made no protest as I was guided to the chair, dropped into it, felt the handcuffs being secured to it, heard footsteps recede and the door slam.
"You are in very big trouble," he intoned.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, the impact of my innocence lessened by the squeak and tremor of my voice.
"You know full well what I mean. You have committed the crime of theft tonight, purloining the public purse donated by stone-deaf music lovers. But that is the least of your folly, young man. By your age I can tell that you have also purloined the good name of another. The Bishop. You are pretending to be something that you are not. Here, take these. "
Purloined a good name? What in the galaxy was he talking about? I snatched the keys out of the air by reflex. Gaped at them--then gaped even more broadly at him as I tremblingly unlocked the cuffs.
"You are not . . ." I gurgled. "I mean, the arrest, this office, the police . . . You are . . ."
He calmly waited for my next words, a beatific smile on his face.
"You are . . -The Bishop!"
"The same. My understanding of the message concealed by your feeble code was that you wanted to meet me. Why?"
I started to rise and an immense gun appeared in his hand, aimed between my eyes. I dropped back into the chair. The smile was gone, as was all warmth from his voice.
"I don't like to be imitated, nor do I like to be played with. I am displeased. You now have three minutes to explain this matter before I kill you, then proceed to your hotel room to retrieve the money you stole this evening. Now the first thing that you will reveal is the location of the rest of the money stolen in my name. Speak!" -1 spoke-or rather I tried to speak but could only sputter helplessly. This had a sobering affect. He might kill me-but he was not going to reduce me to helpless jelly first. I coughed to clear my throat, then spoke.
"I don't think that you are in too much of a hurry to kill me-nor do I believe in your three-minute time limit. If you will cease in your attempts to bully me I shall try to tell you carefully and clearly my motives in this matter. Agreed?"
Speaking like this was a calculated risk-but The Bishop was a game player, I knew that now. His expression did not change, but he nodded slightly as though conceding a Pawn move-knowing that he still had my King well in check.
"Thank you. I never thought of you as a cruel man. In fact, when I discovered your existence, I used you as a career model. What you have done, what you have accomplished, is without equal in the history of this world. If I offended you by stealing money in your name I am sorry. I will turn all the money from that robbery over to you at once. But if you will stop to think-it is the only thing that I could do. I had no way of finding you. So I had to arrange things so that you could find me. As you have. I counted upon your curiosity-if not your mercy-not to reveal my identity to the police before you had met me yourself. "
Another nod granted me another Pawn move. The unwavering barrel of the gun informed me that I was still in check.
"You are the only person alive who knows
my identity," he said. "You will now tell me why I should not kill you. Why did you want to contact me?"
"I told you-out of admiration. I have decided on a life of crime as the only career open to one of my talents. But I am self-trained and vulnerable. It is my wish to be your acolyte. To study at your knee. To enter the academy of advanced crime in the wilderness of life with you on one end of the log and me on the other. I will pay whatever price you require for this privilege, though I may need a little time to raise more money since I am turning the receipts of my last two operations over to you. There it is. That is who I am. And, if I work hard enough, you are whom I wish to be."
The softening gaze, the thoughtful fingers raised to chin meant I was out of check for the moment. But the game wasn't won yet-nor did I wish it to be. I wanted only a draw.
"Why should I believe a word of this?" he asked at last.
"Why should you doubt it? What other possible reason could I have?"
"It is not your motives that disturb me. I am thinking about the possibility of someone else's, someone in a position of police responsibility who is using you as a pawn to find me. The man who arrests The Bishop will rise to the top of his chosen profession."
I nodded agreement as I thought furiously. Then smiled and relaxed. "Very true-and that must have been the
very first thing to come to your mind. Your office in this building either means that you are high in the ranks of law enforcement, so high that you could easily find out if this had been the plan. Or-even more proof of your genius--you have ways and means of penetrating the police at any level, to fool them. and use them to actually arrest me. My congratulations, sir! I knew that you were a genius of crime-but to have done this, why it borders on the fantastic!"
He nodded his head slowly, accepting his due. Did I see the muzzle of the gun lowered ever so slightly? Was a drawn game possibly in sight? I rushed on.
"My name is James Bolivar diGriz and I was born a little over seventeen years ago in this very city in the Mother Machree Maternity Hospital for Unemployed Porcuswineherders. The terminal I see before you must access Official flies at every level. Bring up mine! See for yourself if what I have told you is not the truth." I settled back into the chair while he tapped commands on the keyboard. I did nothing to distract him or draw his attention while he read. I was still nervous but worked to affect a surface calm.
The Stainless Steel Rat is Born Page 6