Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02

by Devil's Planet (v1. 1)

  Stover pressed a button, setting aglow the signal for an air-taxi to come. Then he returned to the sitting-room.

  “She’ll only give Malbrook another chance to insult her,” he began, then saw that Buckalew had left the room. He went to a locker and took from it an electro-automatic pistol. Thrusting this into his girdle, he went back to the balcony.

  WELL, the arbiter of Pulambar society was set on getting his blood, thought Stover. Mace Maibrook, starver of the poor, killer of the thirsty, bully and snob and tyrant, might think the quarrel had started from a trifle, but Stover’s unpleasant experience of the afternoon, coupled with the insult to Bee MacGowan and perhaps stirred up by drink and joy-lamp, had helped launch that blow in Malbrook’s face. Now since death threatened him, it was imperative that he strike first.

  A flying car swooped close, and Stover sprang aboard. “You know where Mace Malbrook lives?” he asked the pilot.

  “Who doesn’t? Are you a friend of his, sir?”

  “I’m an enemy of his — the man who’s going to kill him,” replied Stover. “Take me to his place at once.”

  “Sure thing,” chuckled the pilot, plainly wondering what sort of joke this glittering customer was pleased to make.

  Malbrook lived in a broad central tower of Pulambar, one of the four or five tallest, proudly aloof from the others. Stover disembarked on a terraced balcony.

  A jointed robot servitor tried to halt him, but a shove of his big hand swept the stupid thing clanking clumsily aside. He burst into a reception hall, richly and garishly furnished. Before an inner door sprawled something, another robot, its silvery body clad in the white coat of a valet. It was quite still and limp, the front of its glass face-lamp broken. Somebody else had been here, and in a nasty mood.

  Stover stepped across the metal carcass, up a hall and into a lighted room beyond. He came face to face with Brome Fielding, who lounged on a settle outside a heavy metal panelway.

  “Where’s Malbrook?” demanded Stover.

  Fielding jerked his head at the panel. “Inside his private rooms. I think Prrala’s with him, trying to talk him out of the duel. No use your trying the same thing; it’s beyond apologies now.” Fielding’s eyes shifted to the pistol-butt at Stover’s waist. “Why are you carrying that gun?”

  “It’s for Malbrook,” said Stover. “Who smashed the robot outside?”

  “You mean Malbrook’s valet? I posted him there to keep people out. Phogor tried to get in with that stepdaughter, and one or two others.”

  “The valet’s wrecked,” informed Stover. “Get out of my way. I’m going in after Malbrook.”

  Fielding made a snatch at Stover’s gun, and the young Earthman dispassionately hooked a fist to his jaw. The fellow spun around and crumpled in a corner. Stover knocked on the panel ringingly.

  “Open up, Malbrook,” he called. “Either let me in, or come out. It’s Stover. If we’re going to fight, let’s do it now.”

  Silence, for perhaps five seconds. Then:

  A thunderous crash of sound and force rocked the apartment around like a skiff on a hurricane sea. Stover was hurled backward, the metal door upon him. He fell, wriggled out from under the slap, and came groggily to his feet. Where the door had been set was now an oblong of murky light. He faced it, pistol in hand. Whatever had happened wasn’t enough to kill him. Let Malbrook show his head.

  “Clumsy work!” he cried in challenge. “I’m still all in one piece. Show yourself, and we’ll finish this business.”

  Fielding was getting up, shaky and half-stunned. “What — what — ” he mumbled.

  “Explosion,” said Stover. “Inside. Your friend Malbrook tried some cheap trick, but it didn’t work.”

  Fielding darted through the doorway. Inside, he screamed once, loudly and tremulously. A moment later he sprang back into view.

  “Malbrook!” he cried. “He’s—dead!”

  CHAPTER IV The Law in Pulambar

  THAT news cleared Stover’s buzzing head like a whiff of ammonia. He bounded past Fielding into Malbrook’s private apartment.

  The room was full of hot, choking vapor, the sybaritic luxury thrown into turmoil by the explosion. Plati- num-and-velvet furniture was overturned, gorgeous hangings ripped to shreds, delicately tinted walls racked and bulged. Another step, and he almost stumbled over something.

  Mace Malbrook, judging by the rags of that fire-colored mantle. No person could be so shattered and live. Beside him lay another still form, a flower-headed Martain, still moving slightly.

  Stooping, Stover picked up Prrala’s bladdery body and bore it out into the hall. Fielding was quavering into a vision-phone.

  “Send police! We have the corpse, yes—and the killer!” Spinning, he leveled a ray-thrower.

  “You’re under arrest, Stover,” he said.

  “Don’t be a fool,” snapped the other, laying Prrala upon the settle where Fielding had first been sitting.

  The Martian finally appeared to regain consciousness.

  “Sstoverr?” he slurred feebly. “Why did you do it?”

  “I did nothing,” Stover assured him. “Just as I knocked—”

  Police were rushing in, big, hardbodied men in silk-metal tunics of black. Most of them were of the Lower Pulambar Patrol, but the leader wore the insignia of the Martio-Ter- restrial League Service. He was gaunt and gray-templed, and his narrow eyes took in at a glance the still figure on the couch, Fielding with his leveled weapon, and the baffled, angry Stover.

  “I’m Chief Agent Congreve,” he introduced himself crisply. “What’s what?”

  Fielding gestured with the ray thrower. “Stover did it. He charged in, slapped me down, and—”

  “I wasn’t even inside,” exploded Stover. “An explosion killed Malbrook and hurt Prrala here, almost getting me, too.”

  Congreve faced Fielding. “You saw this man do the killing?”

  “No, he knocked me down, I tell you. But he and Malbrook had quarreled. He came here for a showdown.” Congreve turned to Stover. “How much of that’s true?”

  “All of it, except that someone beat me to it. I didn’t kill Malbrook.”

  Two officers were inspecting the wrecked room. “Almost blown to pieces,” reported one. “Can’t be sure of the explosive.”

  “Then make sure,” snapped Congreve. “Chemical tests, and hurry before the air freshens. Doctor, how’s that hurt Martian?”

  A .Venusian, bending over Prrala, replied gravely.

  “He is reviving a trifle. May speak —perhaps for the last time.”

  “Take a record,” Congreve directed still another man, who produced a dictagraph from his belt-pouch. Then, to Stover: “If you killed Malbrook, why not save us both trouble and say so?”

  “I didn’t,” repeated Stover. “That’s enough for you.”

  “You’re talking to the law,” warned Congreve.

  “I seem to be talking to a fool. Fielding’s the only witness, and he admits he was unconscious when the blast went off.”

  “You came here to kill Malbrook,” accused Fielding.

  “That has nothing to do with it, I was too late to kill him.”

  The Venusian doctor spoke again. “Quiet. This patient is trying to speak.” He needled stimulant into Prrala’s neck. “Do your best,” he urged the Martian. “Tell what happened.”

  ONE of Prrala’s tentacles fluttered up toward Stover. “Thiss man killed Malbrook. I wass prressent.”

  “Prrala was trying to make peace,” volunteered Fielding. “He was in Malbrook’s room when—”

  “Let him tell it,” bade Congreve. Prrala managed more words. “We thought we werre alone. But, while we sspoke, ssomeone appeared in the rroom with uss. Malbrrook sspoke: ‘Sstoverr!’ And I ssaw that it wass he.”

  “Prrala!” protested Stover. “I was outside.”

  “But I rrecognized you....” Prrala was growing weaker. “Grreat height —blond hairr—gold garrmentss—it wass you, Sstoverr. Why. ...”

&nbs
p; “He’s close to the brink,” said Congreve. “Needle him again, Doctor. Prrala, tell us the rest.”

  “Little to tell . . . Malbrrook ssaid, ‘Sstand back, orr I firre.’ Sstover sseemed about to leap. Malbrrook firred an electrro-automatic . . .explosion ... I know nothing morre.

  His voice died away Stover knelt beside him.

  “You say I’m the killer, Prrala. But did nobody come in while you were with Malbrook?”

  He thought of his own visitors earlier in the evening. Each had wanted to see Malbrook. Prrala summoned his last strength.

  “Yess .. . one came . . . interrupted uss forr a moment. ...”

  “Who, Prrala? Who?”

  “It wass. ...” The Martian fell limp and silent.

  “Wake him, Doctor,” urged Congreve. “He can’t die now.”

  The chief agent was wrong. Prrala was already dead.

  Silence. Then two more figures entered. A policeman reported.

  “Look what I found prowling around, Chief. Pretty, eh?”

  He held Bee MacGowan by one round, bare arm. She was drawn of face, but her eyes were steady and unafraid. Congreve beckoned her.

  “You knew Malbrook, young woman?”

  She nodded. “I wanted to ask a favor. His robot valet wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Are you the one who wrecked that robot?” asked Congreve.

  Bee MacGowan said nothing. Stover spoke for her.

  “When was wrecking a robot such a crime? They’re simple, cheap— fifty value-units is plenty to pay for the best of them. And Pulambar crawls with them.”

  “Take the young woman’s name,” ordered Congreve. Then, to Stover: “You talk too much. You’re under arrest. Come to my office.”

  He slid a hand under Stover’s elbow.

  TORN between rage and bewilderment, Stover went with his cap- tors to the police flyer. They sped across the starry night to an opening lower down in another tower and transferred to an elevator. Again descending, they came to an office. Congreve took the single chair, leaving Stover on his feet. Another officer held a dictograph.

  “I give you one more chance to talk,” said Congreve sternly.

  “I tell you once more that I’m innocent!” yelled Stover, the hot temper that had brought him to this plight reasserting itself. “I had had a quarrel with Malbrook. I went there to fight him. But he died at the hand of some other man, and a good thing.”

  Congreve studied his prisoner. “Gold cloth. Big, swell-looking fellow. Rich. Popular. You’ll be missed up in that high-tower set. They’ve got away with many a rough and silly thing, those idle-richers, but the murder of an important man like Malbrook is where simple law officers like me step in. You’ll be made an example.”

  “While you take out your spite against the rich crowd by insulting me,” said Stover acidly. “The real killer’s getting far away.”

  “Hard to crack, this Stover,” said Congreve to the man with the dictagraph. “Lock him up and let him think it over.”

  Again Stover was marched away, down a long corridor of gray metal to a row of doors at the end. One of these doors swung open. Stover stepped in.

  The cell was metal-lined, about five feet broad by seven long, and barely high enough to clear Stover’s blond curls. It had no window, only a ventilator, and the dimmest of blue lights. The sole furniture was a metal cot against the rear wall.

  Congreve had followed Stover. “I’ll put my cards on the table,” he said, “because they’re good enough cards to show. I know these things:

  “You and Malbrook quarreled and were going to shoot it out. You came to his place, on your own confession, to have a showdown. He was shut in a special apartment built to defend him from any attack. The only way in was via the door, if it could be forced.

  “A witness died saying that you were the guilty one. Nobody lies on his deathbed, Stover. Then there’s Fielding’s story, the report of a robot you pushed away to get in, and an air-taximan who says you told him you were going to kill Malbrook.

  “Our tests show that the weapon was simple old-fashioned nitroglycerin. You’re down on Martian registers as a research scientist from Earth. You could have brought or made such stuff easily. You’ve been ugly and threatening to numerous persons and defiant to me. All you can say now is, ‘I didn’t do it.’ ”

  “And I didn’t,” flung out Stover once more.

  “I think you did. I think you smashed that guard-robot at the front door, knocked down Fielding, and jimmied Malbrook’s door some way. He shot at you, but that wouldn’t make your plea of self-defense any good. You were invading his premises. You blew him up. Only the last words of Prrala kept you from covering yourself somehow. That’s what I’m going to prove against you in a court of law. You’ll pay for the crime with your own life. Good-night, Stover.”

  The door clanked shut. Stover, alone in his blue-dim cell, sat on the edge of the cot.

  “They can’t do this to me,” he said aloud. “I’m innocent. Innocent men aren’t found guilty—or are they? In Pulambar anything can happen.”

  SUDDENLY the light turned green, then yellow, then orange, then red.

  Stover gazed up at it.

  “Joy-lamp!” he muttered. “Not that I’m very joyous, though. What’s the idea?”

  The answer came to him. For ages, Martians had used these ever-changing rays as a pleasant stimulant.

  People of Earth, not conditioned as a race to such things, were frequently intoxicated, sometimes drugged — even driven mad—when they got too much joy-lamp. The police, apparently, had another use for the device. A man’s wits, befuddled, would present less of an obstacle to questioning.

  “Congreve will quiz me again,” decided Stover. “Expect to find me off balance and unable to lie. What won’t they think of next?”

  But he had already told the truth, and it had not convinced. Checking back, he could see why not. He had quarreled with Malbrook, struck him, threatened to kill him on sight. He had gone forth to do it. He had been prevented, probably, because someone had done the same errand more promptly.

  “Congreve won’t swallow it,” he told himself moodily. “I’ll get thick- tongued and mouth all this out. He’ll think it sounds even goopier than before, and give me the next jolt of the third degree, probably less pleasant than the joy-lamp.”

  He put his mind on the mystery again. Only proof, complete and convincing, would set him free. Someone else had killed Malbrook. Who?

  His mind turned to the visitors who had discussed the proposed duel at his quarters. Each, as it happened, had sworn to visit Malbrook, for good or ill. Prrala had been the first to go, and was dead now. What of the others?

  If he was to be fuddled by the joy-lamp, he had best make notes from which to argue. From his belt-pouch he took a small pad and a pencil. Waiting for the joy-lamp to give him a clear violet light, he began to write.

  REYNARDINE PHOGOR

  Character: Proud, hard, beautiful. Jealous of Malbrook’s attentions to Bee MacGowan. Considers herself scorned. Probably capable of killing.

  Possible Motive: Jealousy and injured pride.

  Possible mode of murder: As Malbrook’s fiancee, may have known how to enter his specially defended apartment.

  PHOGOR

  Character: Venusian. People of Venus consider murder lightly.

  Possible motive: Knew nothing of stepdaughter’s engagement to Malbrook until incident of challenge. Surprised, resentful.

  Possible mode of murder: May have pushed in, as I am accused of doing. Got there ahead of Prrala and Fielding, hid in room before it was closed.

  ROBERT BUCKALEW

  Character: Mysterious, witty, likeable. Probably would kill if he decided it necessary.

  Possible motive: Malbrook threatened

  him with exposure of some deadly secret.

  Possible mode of murder: As close acquaintance of Malbrook, with quarrel and threat of long standing, may have previously planned way in and method of killing. If so, must h
ave left for Malbrook’s when I did.

  AMYAS CROFTS

  Character: Callow, vicious, vain, hotheaded.

  Possible motive: In love with Bee MacGowan—jealous of Malbrook. Also, it was suggested that Malbrook might kill him in later duel.

  Possible mode of murder: Stealthy or violent entry.

  BROME FIELDING

  Character: Ruthless, haughty, shrewd. Long associated with Malbrook.

  Possible motive: Possible quarrel, personal or business. Both men masterful and Violent, capable of such clash.

  Possible mode of murder: Hard to figure out—accomplice or illusion.

  MY OWN DEFENSE

  Despite identification of myself as killer, there may have been impersonation—mask, wig, stilts for height, costume. Light not too good, appearance brief, Prrala’s testimony given in great pain and at moment of death.

  Explosion occurred in chamber while I was out. Recommend more thorough investigation.

  This last seemed hard to write. Stover felt weary, half-blind. He put away his notes and tried to lie on the cot. Then he looked up at the joy- lamp, and smiled as if in inspiration. He slid under the bed.

  Thus shaded from the befuddling glow, he felt his head wash clear again. Maybe he wouldn’t be thinking at too great a disadvantage, after all.

  CHAPTER V The Escape

  TIME passed. Stover slept, then awakened. His door was being opened. A man in uniform entered. Congreve? No, this was a sturdy, dark fellow with a tray of dishes, plainly a jailor of some sort. Two pale eyes, strange in that swarthy face, looked at Stover.

  “What are you doing down there?” demanded the jailer. “Here, the chief thought you might like some rations.” Stover rose. He felt no more intoxication. “What time is it, approximately?” he asked.

  “Evening. Past sundown. I’m going off duty in five minutes,” The jailer set the tray on the bed.

  Stover, then, had slept for hours, £nd it was dark once more. “Wait,” he said. “I want to talk to you.” What he really wanted was a chance to study the jailer’s face, for inspiration had come to him; but the chance was short.