Alienist

by Laurence M. Janifer

  If the chain on the front door—a small, light chain—had to be dropped down into its little socket to chain the door shut, you grabbed the chain, and brought it to the slot, and dropped it in. The lock might even have been set from inside—automatic locking when a door shuts is common enough, and there’s no trouble about arranging it; as I remembered thinking long ago, there are the Hell of a lot of ways to gimmick a lock.

  And to work the chain, from outside the door.

  The chain, I remembered noticing, was made of iron, like the hinges. So you get a magnet. It has to be a large magnet, clumsy to handle—an electromagnet of some size, perhaps. You need a lot of power to get that chain exactly where you want it, hold it and drop it.

  Through a wooden door?

  Yes, I told myself bitterly—through a very thin (as I had also noticed) wooden door. In fact, damn it, I knew that a large, powerful magnet had been used. One large enough to need a rig to support it and help move it just the right way.

  And how did I know that?

  Because the scuff marks of the rig that had held it, flush to the door, were right there, in the dirt, looking like scuff-marks.

  Damn.

  Of course, the whole operation would have been beautifully visible—which didn’t matter, given the walking-trees for a screen, and the distance. And the rig would have been stowed in the killer’s car after the door had been nicely chained up, to make Harris France the only possible suspect.

  Not at all an accidental locked room—a tricksy one, built to box Harris France in very tightly indeed. (Box? Frame? Well, it’s an odd language, isn’t it?)

  The killer had even mentioned having, and using, a car. In fact…

  An old car. A small accident.

  What (I asked myself, in some awe) was I doing running around loose? I was clearly dense enough to be a public danger. The damned car had been aiming at me—had missed, and veered away, passing itself off as an accident that hadn’t quite happened. Somebody had shouted: “Watch out, Foolish!” and I was suddenly sure the somebody had been talking to me.

  Foolish didn’t begin to cover it.

  The question (I realized, as I brewed myself a calming pot of Indigo Hill coffee) was: What do I do now?

  I could sally out and confront the killer—which wouldn’t work, I was sure. I had ideas, and I had a little evidence, but a confrontation would only be an argument—and would certainly result in the disposal of the evidence, such as it was. A sensible person would never have had the evidence lying around—but this killer, even with whatever aid and comfort was available from Folla and company, was sensible, clearly, only in spots. And not all that many spots; the killer alternated between being sly and being helpful.

  After all, as Mirella had said, you kill somebody, you are a nut.

  That reflection, when it came to me, gave me an idea, and I dug out her number and called it. It was late afternoon by that time, and though she was still on duty she’d be coming off it shortly. Maybe she’d have an idea or six.

  She answered as irritably as usual: “Hello? It is sixteen-twenty-seven, damn it. What now?”

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “I am at the house, God damn it—Jerry.” Less than a second to change gears. “Hello, what’s up?”

  “I’ve got something better than questions for you,” I said. “I’ve got answers.”

  “You what?”

  “Answers,” I said. “Actual answers. Of course, they lead to more questions, but don’t they always?”

  She made an impatient sound. “Damn it, I am on duty out here. Wrapping up. Closing out, you know? I am on duty thirty-one and a half minutes more. Will I have to wait, or will you open up on the phone?”

  “I’ll come out and pick you up,” I said. She said at once, and doubtfully:

  “By cab?”

  “I got there by cab last time,” I said. “Drivers here seem pretty good. Not perfect—one of them aimed for me and missed, the other day—but pretty good.”

  “I suppose,” she said. “Look, come ahead. I will be having attacks of anxiety every three minutes. Answers? Really?”

  “Answers,” I said. “Really.”

  As I got out of the cab, paid and thanked the mech, the door opened. Mirella said: “Don’t bother with handkerchiefs or anything. What we got, we have already got. The place is clean, back in order, we’re through.”

  “Where’s Paolo?” I said.

  She shrugged. “Left early,” she said. “Why not? Got to put the place back, right? And he hates housework. I am not fond of it myself, tell the truth.”

  “Really?” I said. “I like it, most of it. It seems to be relaxing.”

  Mirella grimaced. “All right, the truth,” she said. “You said you were coming, I told him go home. Why not? Who needs a third wheel around, right?”

  “Right,” I said, and wondered briefly why I felt uneasy. But only briefly. “Where are we going? It’s your town and your car.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “But it’s your answers, Jerry. And while I am driving, don’t start telling me, I will distract. This is too much to listen to halfway. Where do I drive to?”

  “Station, and change,” I said. “Then—this isn’t a celebration, not yet. I promise you a celebration, but this is a working dinner. Or late lunch, or whatever. Pick a spot.”

  She thought about it for a second or two. Then she said: “You like eggplant parmigiana?”

  It was, by God, the Art Cafe, which I’d spent a lot of time in—and working time, at that—on my last visit to Ravenal. I remembered the eggplant parmigiana with affection—it’s not a frighteningly difficult dish, but it can be ruined with ease, and somebody at the Art Cafe had the touch for it. We found a booth at the rear, and settled in.

  I remembered the wine, too, but not with affection. Mirella said: “In here, the thing is tea. They have sixty kinds, some of them very weird. But they know about it.”

  So we ordered, and drank pots of what the place called Gunpowder Green Tea, which is not much like any other tea I know. I won’t say it can replace coffee, but it is a definite wake-up call to any and all taste-buds. Mirella said: “See? This, they know.”

  “So they do,” I said. “Thanks. At least they know that tea doesn’t come by the cup—it barely exists by the cup. It comes by the pot.”

  “Well, sure,” Mirella said. “You mean there are places, serve one teeny lonely little cup tea? Really?”

  “There are places,” I said. “Not places I am found in a lot.”

  “I should hope not,” she said, took a swallow, and said: “Answers. Tell me.”

  So I did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  She listened to my description of how the chain had been lifted, and then refastened, and nodded. “Damn it,” she said, “I should have got that. I should.”

  “Well, you weren’t looking,” I said. “You were sure France was guilty.”

  “Nobody,” she said, “should be so sure, she doesn’t go look.” She shook her head. “Another time, I will know better.” Then she said: “But one thing you missed. A tiny thing.”

  I swallowed some eggplant, and then I raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

  “No high horsing around,” Mirella said. “The eyebrow, I mean. But really, yes. Just very tiny. The magnet rig got used only on the way out. On the way in, who says the door was chained?”

  “Well, Cornelia Rasczak might have—”

  “In fact, probably not,” she said, and took a forkful of eggplant. “Or would France have been surprised to see the chain hooked on? No. And it was a surprise—he knew only when he saw it, not when he called his doctor.”

  I nodded. “Right,” I said. “That pins it down. You’ve got a good head for detail.”

  She gave me a grin. “But it is very small, because what difference does it make? In he could get. She could let him in, after all. Right? Out is the big thing.”

  “It had to be,” I said. “But it’s not a he.”r />
  “You also know who?” Mirella said. “Not a he. Look, if it is this Folla or something, why would he need a magnet at all?” She took in some more eggplant. “Dieting,” she said casually, “I will do another day. Maybe.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said, and took some more eggplant myself. “Whenever you happen to feel like it. If ever.” A gulp of tea, and: “Not Folla,” I said. “A human being.” She looked at me, and I told her.

  She made the name sound like an awed prayer. “Hester MacEvoy?”

  “Hester,” I said. “Who told me about Dube—but not all about Dube. Who told me a lot—I think that midbrain disease of hers has loosened her up a little, and when she’s not being extra careful, she babbles. She babbled to Cornelia, and had to repair it.”

  “Slowly, you said she babbles.”

  “Slowly, but she does babble,” I said. “She realized she shouldn’t have said a thing about Dube, when I came on back— and she tried to sell me the idea that she hadn’t, I’d remembered it wrong. Must have been two other people.”

  “And?” Mirella said. “So how could you know?”

  “Know she did it?” I said. “I haven’t got proof. What I have got is the fact that she doesn’t stay in that wheelchair of hers, when nobody’s around. And she can drive a car—she told me that She’s tied in with Cornelia Rasczak and with the aliens. If I’d thought of her as actually walking around, too—normally ambulant—she’d have been in the spotlight from the first minute.”

  “And you know she is not in the wheelchair all the time,” Mirella said. “She gets up and walks around, on the quiet.” She swallowed some tea. “So how do you know this?”

  “She lives alone,” I said. “She used to have some help, but not for eight years, since her husband died.”

  “Passed over,” Mirella said. “Which sounds like he was a football at a goal line. Never mind.”

  “Or as if he didn’t get a promotion,” I said. “Right. And there were books on high shelves. Stacked.”

  “So maybe her husband’s books,” Mirella said. “He had books, right? A Professor.”

  “Of Military History,” I said. “Right. And maybe he also had an old, dark-grey woman’s cloak. Because there’s one hanging in her place, on a nice high peg.”

  “So a visitor left it,” Mirella said. “So Cornelia Rasczak left it. By mistake.” She stopped with a forkful of eggplant halfway to her mouth, and shook her head. “I would not believe that if an archangel came from on high and swore to it.” She ate the eggplant.

  “It was there both times,” I said. “Same cloak, different peg. It was the different peg that finally lit it up for me. Somebody took it down and hung it up again. And Hester lives all alone. The peg is too damn high to reach from a wheelchair.”

  “So she gets up and she puts on the cloak and she goes out,” Mirella said, “and when she comes back in, she is very neat and she hangs it on a peg all nice.”

  “And sits back down in the wheelchair,” I said, “in case somebody comes along.”

  Mirella frowned. “Somebody would notice,” she said. “Neighbors. Somebody.”

  “She’s not exactly popular in the neighborhood,” I said. “She wouldn’t be—and she keeps talking about being alone. I doubt people notice her much—and, anyhow, if you’re used to seeing a woman in a wheelchair go in and out of the place, and you see a woman in a dark cloak walk in and out—you don’t think it’s the same person. At high noon on a sunny day— maybe. Otherwise—it’s a nurse. A relative. Somebody, and who cares?”

  “So at high noon in the sunlight, she doesn’t go out,” Mirella said. “When it gets dim, why not?” She grinned at me. “I think you have got it,” she said. “I really think you have got it.”

  “She went out around three o’clock—fifteen—the other day,” I said. “She probably didn’t go out looking for me—how would she have known where to look?—but she went out someplace. Far from home, obviously, where people don’t know her as Hester-in-the-wheelchair and she can just be Hester. She was driving—a car old enough to be an heirloom—and she tried to hit me with it. She’d babbled to me, too, and she tried to repair that, with her car. Then I called and gave her another chance, for God’s sake, for something more peaceful in the way of damage control.”

  “You said on the phone,” Mirella told me blankly. “I thought, a joke, you know? She came close?”

  “Not close enough,” I said. Mirella stared at me grimly.

  “You take care, okay?” she said, in a level, stern voice. “You do not get damaged—you hear me?”

  “I seem to manage all right,” I said. Her expression didn’t change.

  “I am serious,” she said. “You take care.”

  I grinned at her. “I’ll take care,” I said. “But—all right, we know how, and we know who. And now what? I haven’t got a thing anybody could take to an official—and I don’t think I’m going to get anything. No prints, no witnesses—an alibi would be a joke, because Hester doesn’t get noticed all that much, and it’s a thousand to one nobody would remember if Hester happened to be around on one particular afternoon—”

  “The magnet rig,” Mirella said. “It might be someplace.”

  I shook my head. The eggplant was gone, and the tea was gone. A waiter came over—the Art Cafe is human-staffed—and Mirella ordered some kind of flaming Thing. I settled for fruit and cheese.

  “The odds are it’s gone,” I said. “Broken up and trashed. She probably had Folla’s help building the thing—maybe thinking it up in the first place—and Folla would be careful enough.”

  “Maybe not,” Mirella said. “Probably it’s gone. But we got a shot, anyhow. We can go look.”

  “And then what?” I said. “Even if we find it—even if we can manage to connect Hester with the murder solidly—the job isn’t over.”

  “No,” Mirella said. “There’s Folla himself.”

  “There sure as Hell is,” I said.

  PART FOUR

  DEATH AND HIS BROTHER SLEEP

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was on the way back to my hotel that Mirella, stopped at a purple light for some reason I couldn’t figure out, said: “We have got to tell people.”

  “Well,” I said, “I wasn’t thinking of keeping it a secret. It’s early—we could phone Master Higsbee—”

  “I mean people,” Mirella said. “Like everybody. Everywhere, because who knows?”

  I gave it a second. It didn’t really take that long. “Right,” I said. “Folla might be getting help from anybody, anywhere.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “What his limits are, who knows— but he has some. He keeps hitting people right here, maybe he has to focus right here. But maybe only for right now—so we have to warn people.”

  I had discussed the possibility of Folla and company talking to other dreamers, with Euglane. I’d wondered then what the Hell could be done if he had been—on Kingsley, or on Earth, or around some handy corner in City Two. “How do we warn people?” I said.

  Mirella had the car heading on again. She found a parking spot near a playground—deserted, now that the local sun was down—and said, once she was parked and freed from distraction: “There is not much a government is good for. Not even here, and on Ravenal things are not bad. But for getting out the word—nothing else compares.”

  I blinked. “Tell the Comity?” I said. “For God’s sake. Just to begin with, tell them what?”

  “That,” she said, “is the first thing we have got to figure out.”

  We began with the truth. Tell some Comity official that aliens from other spaces were trying to infiltrate our universe? “They’d laugh,” I said. “Then they’d make some phone calls.”

  “To the loony-bin people,” Mirella said. “Maybe not so fast they don’t: this is not going to be just you and me.”

  “Well, the Master—”

  “He has influence,” Mirella said. “A consultant, and I bet he consults for big peo
ple. He has the look: believe it.”

  “He knows some people,” I admitted cautiously.

  “And Euglane,” Mirella said. “He is a Giell, people like Gielli. Also they believe Gielli. He will swing weight.”

  “Four of us,” I said. “Not enough. But maybe—”

  “Sure,” she said. “There are other people. People maybe you know, the ones who will believe you. Maybe three or four more.”

  “And people you know,” I said.

  “Me?” she said. “I am a Lance-Corporal. Who I know, is Paolo. Swings no weight whatever.”

  “But there must be—”

  “Other people? Sure,” she said. “Corporals, a Sergeant or two. I know Murray, runs the Basement, is about as important a person as I got.” She grinned. “Better to lean on your people, Jerry,” she said. “And maybe the Master knows a few, too.”

  She took out her pocket piece and handed it to me. “Here,” she said. “Make the call, we’ll go see Master Higsbee.”

  I grinned back at her. “Now, how would you know I forgot to hook my pocket piece into the system again?”

  “Again says it all,” she told me. “So I watch, and I remember. You got a problem with it?”

  The grin stuck, very nicely. “No problem at all,” I said, and took the phone.

  The Master was sitting down to dinner, but he wanted to discuss spreading the word. Mirella and I, stuffed with eggplant parmigiana and other delights, sat and drank as we all talked; I went with coffee, and was unsurprised to find that the Master also had a stock of Indigo Hill. Mirella took tea. Hilda drank water, all through her own dinner, to the Master’s barely hidden discomfort. I filled the Master in quickly on Hester, our murderer; and he did say it, damn it.

  “I observe,” I said. “I observed the damned cloak. It just took me a while.”

  Mirella, meanwhile, was looking sternly at my coffee-cup. “You drink enough of that stuff,” she said, “you will be very jittery.”

  “Somehow,” I said, “I’ll manage.”