The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I’m not sure. I backed into the ladies’ lounge and let the door contract. They could have taken him into the gentlemen’s room just across the passage. But there’s another door at the end of the passage marked ‘Employees Only.’”

  “You say he threatened me with a weapon?”

  “Yes. Then you shot him and jumped up and grabbed his weapon and shoved it into your pocket, just as our waiter came up on the other side.”

  (Oho!) “Which pocket did I put it in?”

  “Let me think. I have to turn myself that way in my mind. Your left pocket. Your left outside jacket pocket.”

  “How was I dressed last night?”

  “Evening dress, we had come straight from the ballet. White turtleneck, maroon jacket, black trousers.”

  “Gwen, because you were asleep in the bedroom, I undressed last night here in the living room and hung the clothes I was wearing in that wardrobe by the outer door, intending to move them later. Will you please open that wardrobe, find the jacket I wore last night, and get from its left outside pocket the ‘weapon’ you saw me place in it?”

  “But—” She shut up and, solemn-faced, did as I asked.

  In a moment she returned. “This is all there was in that pocket.” She handed me the stranger’s wallet.

  I accepted it. “This is the weapon with which he threatened me.” Then I showed her my right forefinger, bare. “And this is the weapon I used to shoot him when he pointed this wallet at me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Beloved, this is why criminologists place more faith in circumstantial evidence than they do in the testimony of eyewitnesses. You are the ideal eyewitness, intelligent, sincere, cooperative, and honest. You have reported a mixture of what you did see, what you thought you saw, what you failed to notice although it was in front of you, and what your logical mind fills in as necessities linking what you saw and what you thought you saw. This mixture is now all solidly in your mind as a true memory, a firsthand, eyewitness memory. But it didn’t happen.”

  “But, Richard, I did see—”

  “You saw that poor clown killed. You did not see him threatening me; you did not see me shoot him. Some third person shot him with an explosive dart. Since he was facing you and it hit him in the chest, that dart must have come right past you. Did you notice anyone standing?”

  “No. Oh, there were waiters moving around, and busmen, and the maître d’ and people getting up and sitting down. I mean I didn’t notice anyone in particular—certainly not anyone shooting a gun. What sort of a gun?”

  “Gwen, it might not look like a gun. A concealed assassin’s weapon capable of shooting a dart short range—It could look like anything as long as it had one dimension about fifteen centimeters long. A lady’s purse. A camera. Opera glasses. An endless list of innocent-appearing objects. This gets us nowhere as I had my back to the action and you saw nothing out of the way. The dart probably came from behind your back. So forget it. Let’s see who the victim was. Or whom he claimed to be.”

  I took out everything from all the pockets of that wallet, including a poorly-concealed “secret” pocket. This last held gold certificates issued by a Zurich bank, equivalent to about seventeen thousand crowns—his get-away money, it seemed likely.

  There was an ID of the sort the Golden Rule issues to each person arriving at the habitat’s hub. All it proves is that the “identified” person has a face, claims a name, has made statements as to nationality, age, place of birth, etc., and has deposited with the Company a return ticket or the equivalent in cash, as well as paying the breathing fee ninety days in advance—these latter two being all the Company cares about.

  I do not know as certainty that the Company would space a man who, through some slip, has neither a ticket away nor air money. They might let him sell his indentures. But I would not count on it. Eating vacuum is not something I care to risk.

  This Company ID stated that the holder was Enrico Schultz, age 32, citizen of Belize, born Ciudad Castro, occupation accountant. The picture with it was that of the poor slob who got himself killed through bracing me in too public a place…and for the steenth time I wondered why he hadn’t phoned me, then called on me in private. As “Dr. Ames” I am in the directory…and invoking “Walker Evans” would have got him a hearing, a private hearing.

  I showed it to Gwen. “Is that our boy?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure.”

  “I am sure. As I talked to him face to face for several minutes.”

  The oddest part about Schultz’s wallet was what it did not contain. In addition to the Swiss gold certificates it held eight hundred and thirty-one crowns and that Golden Rule ID.

  But that was all.

  No credit cards, no motor vehicle pilot’s license, no insurance cards, no union or guild card, no other identification cards, no membership cards, nit. Men’s wallets are like women’s purses; they accumulate junk—photos, clippings, shopping lists, et cetera without end; they need periodic housecleaning. But, in cleaning one out, one always leaves in place the dozen-odd items a modern man needs in order to get by. My friend Schultz had nothing.

  Conclusion: He was not anxious to advertise his true identity. Corollary: Somewhere in Golden Rule habitat there was a stash of his personal papers…another ID in a different name, a passport almost certainly not issued by Belize, other items that might give me a lead to his background, his motives, and (possibly) how he had invoked “Walker Evans.”

  Could these be found?

  A side issue niggled at me: that seventeen thousand in gold certificates. Instead of its being get-away money could he have expected to use so fiddlin’ a sum to hire me to kill Tolliver? If so, I was offended. I preferred to think that he hoped to persuade me to make the kill as a public service.

  Gwen said, “Do you want to divorce me?”

  “Eh?”

  “I hustled you into it. My intentions were good, truly they were! But it turns out I was stupid.”

  “Oh. Gwen, I never get both married and divorced on the same day. Never. If you really want to shuck me off, take it up with me tomorrow. Although I think that, to be fair, you ought to try me out for thirty days. Or two weeks, at least. And permit me to do the same. So far, your performance, both horizontally and vertically, has been satisfactory. If either becomes unsatisfactory, I’ll let you know. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough. Although I may beat you to death with your own sophistries.”

  “Beating her husband to death is every married woman’s privilege…as long as she does it in private. Please pipe down, dear; I’ve got troubles. Can you think of any good reason why Tolliver should be killed?”

  “Ron Tolliver? No. Although I can’t think of any good reason why he should be allowed to live, either. He’s a boor.”

  “He’s that, all right. If he were not one of the Company partners, he would have been told to pick up his return ticket and leave, long ago. But I didn’t say ‘Ron Tolliver,’ I just said ‘Tolliver.’”

  “Is there more than one? I hope not.”

  “We’ll see.” I went to the terminal, punched for directory, cycled to “T.”

  “‘Ronson H. Tolliver, Ronson Q.’—that’s his son—and here’s his wife, ‘Stella M. Tolliver.’ Hey! It says here: ‘See also Taliaferro.’”

  “That’s the original spelling,” said Gwen. “But it’s pronounced ‘Tolliver’ just the same.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. At least south of the Mason and Dixon Line back dirtside. Spelling it ‘Tolliver’ suggests poh white trash who can’t spell. Spelling it the long way and then sounding all the letters sounds like a Johnny-come-lately damyankee whose former name might have been ‘Lipschitz’ or such. The authentic plantation-owning, nigger-whupping, wench-humping aristocrat spelled it the long way and pronounced it the short way.”

  “I’m sorry you told me that.”

  “Why, dear?”

  “Because there are three me
n and one woman listed here who spell it the long way, Taliaferro. I don’t know any of them. So I don’t know which one to kill.”

  “Do you have to kill one of them?”

  “I don’t know. Mmm, time I brought you up to date. If you are planning to stay married to me at least fourteen days. Are you?”

  “Of course I am! Fourteen days plus the rest of my life! And you are a male chauvinist pig!”

  “Paid-up lifetime membership.”

  “And a tease.”

  “I think you’re cute, too. Want to go back to bed?”

  “Not until you decide whom you intend to kill.”

  “That may take a while.” I did my best to give Gwen a detailed, factual, uncolored account of my short acquaintance with the man who had used the name “Schultz.” “And that’s all I know. He was dead too quickly for me to learn more. Leaving behind him endless questions.”

  I turned back to the terminal, keyed it to shift to word processing mode, then created a new file, as if I were setting up a potboiler:

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE MISSPELLED NAME

  Questions To Be Answered:

  1. Tolliver or Taliaferro?

  2. Why does T. have to die?

  3. Why would “we all be dead” if T. is not dead by noon Sunday?

  4. Who is this corpse who called himself “Schultz”?

  5. Why am I the logical hatchet man for T.?

  6. Is this killing necessary?

  7. Which one of the Walker Evans Memorial Society sicked this thumb-fingered bubblehead on me? And why?

  8. Who killed “Schultz”? And why?

  9. Why did the staff of Rainbow’s End move in and cover up the killing?

  10. (Omnibus) Why did Gwen leave before I did and why did she come here instead of going home and how did she get in?

  “Do we take them in order?” asked Gwen. “Number ten is the only one I can answer.”

  “That one I just chucked in,” I answered. “Of the first nine I think that, if I find answers to any three, I could then deduce the rest.” I went on putting words up on the screen:

  POSSIBLE ACTIONS

  “When in Danger or in Doubt,

  Run in Circles. Scream and Shout.”

  “Does that help?” asked Gwen.

  “Every time! Ask any old military man. Now let’s take it one question at a time”:

  Q. 1—Phone each Taliaferro in the directory. Learn preferred pronunciation of name. Strike out any who use the every-letter pronunciation.

  Q. 2—Dig into background of whoever is left. Start with the Herald back files.

  Q. 3—While checking Q2, keep ears spread for anything scheduled or expected for noon Sunday.

  Q. 4—If you were a corpse arriving at Golden Rule space habitat and you wanted to conceal your identity but had to be able to get at your passport and other documents for departure, where would you stash them? Hint: Check when this cadaver arrived in Golden Rule. Then check hotels, lockers, deposit box services, poste restante, etc.

  Q. 5—postpone

  Q. 6—postpone

  Q. 7—Reach by phone as many of the “Walker Evans” oath group as possible. Keep going till one spills. Note: Some jelly brain may have talked too much without knowing it.

  Q. 8—Morris, or the maître d’, or the busman, or all of them, or any two, knows who killed Schultz. One or more of them expected it. So we look for each one’s weak point—liquor, drugs, money, sex (comme ci ou comme ça)—and what was your name back dirtside, chum? Any paper out on you somewhere? Find that soft spot. Push it. Do this with all three of them, then see how their stories check. Every closet has a skeleton. This is a natural law—so find it in each case.

  Q. 9—Money (Conclusive assumption until proved false.)

  (Query: How much is all this going to cost me? Can I afford it? Counter query: Can I afford not to pursue it?)

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” said Gwen. “When I poked my nose in, I thought you were in real trouble. But apparently you are home free. Why must you do anything, my husband?”

  “I need to kill him.”

  “What? But you don’t know which Tolliver is meant! Or why he should be dead. If he should be.”

  “No, no, not Tolliver. Although it may develop that Tolliver should be dead. No, dear, the man who killed Schultz. I must find him and kill him.”

  “Oh. Uh, I can see that he should be dead; he’s a murderer. But why must you do it? Both are strangers to you—both the victim and whoever killed him. Actually it’s not your business. Is it?”

  “It is my business. Schultz or whatever his name is was killed while he was a guest at my table. That’s intolerably rude. I won’t put up with it. Gwen my love, if one tolerates bad manners, they grow worse. Our pleasant habitat could decay into the sort of slum Ell-Five is, with crowding and unmannerly behavior and unnecessary noise and impolite language. I must find the oaf who did this thing, explain to him his offense, give him a chance to apologize, and kill him.”

  III

  “One should forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hanged.”

  HEINRICH HEINE 1797-1856

  My lovely bride stared at me. “You would kill a man? For bad manners?”

  “Do you know of a better reason? Would you have me ignore rude behavior?”

  “No but—I can understand executing a man for murder; I’m not opposed to capital punishment. But shouldn’t you leave this to the proctors and the management? Why must you take the law into your own hands?”

  “Gwen, I haven’t made myself clear. My purpose is not to punish but to weed…plus the esthetic satisfaction of retaliation for boorish behavior. This unknown killer may have had excellent reasons for killing the person who called himself Schultz…but killing in the presence of people who’re eating is as offensive as public quarreling by married couples. Then this oaf capped his offense by doing this while his victim was my guest…which made retaliation both my obligation and my privilege.”

  I went on, “The putative offense of murder is not my concern. But as for proctors and the management taking care of that matter, do you know of any regulation forbidding murder?”

  “What? Richard, there must be one.”

  “I’ve never heard of one. I suppose the Manager might construe murder as a violation of the Golden Rule—”

  “Well, I would certainly think so!”

  “You do? I’m never certain what the Manager will think. But, Gwen my darling, killing is not necessarily murder. In fact it often is not. If this killing ever comes to the Manager’s attention, he may decide that it was justifiable homicide. An offense against manners but not against morals.

  “But—” I continued, turning back to the terminal, “—the Manager may already have settled the matter, so let’s see what the Herald has to say about it.” I punched up the newspaper again, this time keying for today’s index, then selecting today’s vital statistics.

  The first item to roll past was “Marriage—Ames—Novak” so I stopped it, punched for amplification, keyed for printout, tore it off and handed it to my bride. “Send that to your grandchildren to prove that Granny is no longer living in sin.”

  “Thank you, darling. You’re so gallant. I think.”

  “I can cook, too.” I scrolled on down to the obituaries. I usually read the obituaries first as there is always the happy chance that one of them will make my day.

  But not today. No name I recognized. Especially no “Schultz.” No unidentified stranger. No death “in a popular restaurant.” Nothing but the usual sad list of strangers dead from natural causes and one by accident. So I keyed for general news of the habitat, let it scroll past.

  Nothing. Oh, there were endless items of routine events, from ships’ arrivals and departures to (the biggest news) an announcement that the newest addition, rings 130-140, was being brought up to spin and, if all went by schedule, would be warped in and its welding to the main cylinder started by 0800 on the sixth.

  But
there was nothing about “Schultz,” no mention of any Tolliver or Taliaferro, no unidentified cadaver. I consulted the paper’s index again, punched for next Sunday’s schedule of events, found that the only thing scheduled for noon Sunday was a panel discussion assembled by holo from The Hague, Tokyo, Luna City, Ell-Four, Golden Rule, Tel Aviv, and Agra: “Crisis in Faith: The Modern World at the Crossroads.” The co-moderators were the president of the Humanist Society and the Dalai Lama. I wished them luck.

  “So far we have zip, zero, nit, swabo, and nothing. Gwen, what is a polite way for me to ask strangers how they pronounce their names?”

  “Let me try it, dear. I’ll say, ‘Miz Tollivuh, this is Gloria Meade Calhoun f’om Savannah. Do you have a cousin, Stacey Mac, f’om Chahlston?’ When she corrects my pronunciation of her name, I apologize and switch off. But if she—or he—accepts the short form but denies knowing Stacey Mac, I say, ‘I wonduhed about that. She said it, Talley-ah-pharoh…but I knew that was wrong.’ What then, Richard? Work it up into a date or switch off by ‘accident’?”

  “Make a date, if possible.”

  “A date for you? Or for me?”

  “For you, and then I’ll go with you. Or keep the date in your place. But I must first buy a hat.”

  “A hat?”

  “One of those funny boxes you sit on the flat part of your head. Or would if you were dirtside.”

  “I know what a hat is! But I was born dirtside same as you were. But I doubt if a hat has ever been seen off Earth. Where would you buy one?”

  “I don’t know, best girl, but I can tell you why I need one. So that I can tip my hat politely and say, ‘Sir or madam, pray tell me why someone wishes you dead by noon Sunday.’ Gwen, this has been worrying me—how to open such a discussion. There are accepted polite modes for almost any inquiry, from proposing adultery to a previously chaste wife to soliciting a bribe. But how does one open this subject?”

  “Can’t you just say, ‘Don’t look now but somebody’s trying to kill you’?”

  “No, that’s the wrong order. I’m not trying to warn this bloke that someone is gunning for him; I’m trying to find out why. When I know why I might approve so heartily that I would just sit back and enjoy it…or even be so inspired by the purpose that I would carry out the intent of the late Mr. Schultz as a service to mankind.