Murder on Euripides

by Scott A. Combs

  The music continued for many hours even after Sir Giles left the room for some sleep which he knew he wasn’t going to get until the dance lesson was complete.

  Chapter 7

  Trip the Light Fandango

  SIR GILES SAT IN AN overstuffed Weston designer chair, upholstered with the finest Flinxian leather. Legs crossed, with left hand propping up his chin while his right hand cycled the cover of his chronometer with the flick of his fingers; he was deep in thought. Every tenth flick or so, he would glance at the timepiece with a scowl. He’d been sitting for over an hour doing the same thing. His mood changed when the doorbell rang. He jumped up, brushed his tux down and briskly walked to the door. He composed himself before opening it.

  “Smythe,” said Sir Giles to the young man standing in the hatchway. “Thank God you’ve come.”

  “What’s the matter, Sir Giles?” Smythe asked in alarm. “Has there been another incident I’m not aware of?”

  “There certainly has, my boy. Come in quick.”

  Sir Giles dragged Smythe in, pointing to Nanette’s door within their suite. “She’s been in there for the last three and a half hours. What she’s doing in there is a mystery even to me. I’ve tried knocking, but to no avail. She refuses to answer me with any coherency.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Sir Giles,” comforted Smythe. “Let me have a try.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Smythe rapped lightly on Nanette’s door.

  “Go away! I’m not ready.”

  “Miss Nanette, we’ll be late—”

  The door cracked open just enough for Nanette to peek. “What time is it?”

  “We’re fashionably late already.”

  “Oh, for the Maker’s sake.” The door slammed shut and Sir Giles and Smythe heard a flurry of activity from inside the room. Microwaving a pint of explosives would’ve been quieter than Nanette’s panicked preparations.

  “Is there anything we can do to assist you?” Smythe called out.

  “Just putting on a new coat of lipstick. I’ll be right out,” she replied.

  “How long did you say she’s been in there?”

  Sir Giles looked at his chronometer. “More than three and a half hours. What can a woman be doing with all that time? I haven’t seen her so upset before . . . and over something as simple as a dance? It’s not as if she’s going to war. Is it?”

  Smythe shook his head. “She’s trying too hard to impress me, I’m afraid. Our little dates haven’t been very successful as you know.”

  “You two young people need to relax and let things happen naturally. One thing I’ve learned in my long life is the harder you struggle at something, the more it stays out of reach.”

  “That’s excellent advice,” remarked Smythe. “Unfortunately Miss Nanette doesn’t prescribe to your philosophy. She’s an enigma to me.”

  “Aren’t all women, my boy?” Sir Giles raised his hand to knock again. The sound of a shoe being thrown against the door made him retract his hand before his knock. “She’ll come out when she’s ready.”

  Nanette raged, spitting out unladylike epitaphs. Smythe cringed at the crudeness. Eventually Nanette realized she was loud enough for the men to hear her. “Sorry.” More noises came back to them: a loud thump, a curse, a zipper being zipped, some water trickling and finally silence. Then the door opened slowly.

  The agent stood; transformed into a goddess of love. A silky red dress clung to her body revealing a toned shape in a manner that even the seven Vestal Virgins couldn’t pull off. Her hair was curled, pulled up off bare shoulders and clasped to the top of her head with a golden cord. She’d applied makeup sparingly to allow her true skin tones to shine through. Other than the ruby red lipstick, you’d swear she hadn’t any makeup on, which is the real trick most women never master.

  The fellows stood, stunned, with mouths gaping as she entered the room. “You look divine, my dear,” said Sir Giles, nudging Smythe from his obvious stupor.

  “Uh,” Smythe responded. “You look—look—”

  Sir Giles helped him. “Ravishing is the word you’re searching for, my boy.”

  Smythe nodded like an imbecile. “Ravishing.” The whispered word hung in the air for a few seconds. He watched her form and his heart melted. She could do anything she wanted with his body and he’d endure it just to watch her walk up to him.

  “You both don’t look so bad yourselves,” she said. “Look at you Smythe.” She flicked military gold braiding that hung from his shoulder. “I love to see a man in his best Navy dress blues. Those red leg strips and white gloves are so very fetching. Sexy even.” She ran her fingers up his leg along the piping.

  He tingled at her touch. “Um, yes ma’am,” he stuttered.

  “Don’t you think it’s about time I know your first name?” she asked him. “After all, you are taking me out to a fancy dance, aren’t you?”

  “Well, ma’am.” He looked like he’d forgotten his own name. “People just call me Smythe.”

  “Smythe—” she said, like she was rolling a good wine over her tongue. With a grin she said, “I like just Smythe. It fits you perfectly.” She batted her eyes at him. “That was a joke.” Smythe forced a laugh. “I’ll weasel your given name out of you yet.” She swooped in and bit his ear teasingly. His eyes closed and he felt a tingle in his groin. “Don’t make me use my feminine wiles on you Smythe.”

  Sir Giles smiled. Nanette seemed to have learned the lessons of seduction well from Roderick. Nanette finally released Smythe from her spell and went to her grandfather.

  “And you, Grandfather,” she said. “Look at you! That tux is very smart. I’ll have a devil of a time keeping the ladies from you. They’ll be buzzing around you like honeybees tonight. Pick only one lady so I can do my job of protecting you.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, pumping up his chest. “Ladies everywhere—beware. Sir Giles Thackery is ready to dance the night away. But I’m not so sure I can pick only one lucky vixen with my predilection for the ladies.”

  * * *

  THE MUSIC ECHOED RHYTHMICALLY. Nanette prodded Smythe under their table once they were seated. “Do you mind getting us some refreshments?”

  “Not at all, Miss Nanette,” he responded. He excused himself formally, leaving Nanette alone with her grandfather.

  “I feel so guilty enjoying myself,” she said to Sir Giles. “We should be concentrating on finding the murderer before he strikes again.”

  “We are,” responded Sir Giles. “You have to remember there’s no controlling the flow of information that will catch the killer.”

  “Should we be indulging ourselves in idle pleasures?”

  “My dear grandchild,” he said, grasping her hand. “We are where we are supposed to be. Nothing more can be done but to wait and see what the murderer has in store for us.”

  “But the clues,” she anguished. “We have no fresh ones to help us. Are the old ones of any use now?”

  “That is for me to ponder on,” he concluded. “I have run the words over in my mind for the last few hours. Nothing more can be extracted without allowing the subconscious to digest the data further. I suggest you have a good time getting to know your date instead of worrying about things you can’t alter.” She frowned. Sir Giles changed the subject. “Young Smythe is genuinely enamored with you.”

  “Grandfather!”

  “Don’t give me that,” he retorted. “You’ve seen how the young man dotes on you.”

  “I don’t want to encourage him,” she said. “I’m a SLASP agent. What good would it be to lead him into false hope?”

  Sir Giles kissed her hand affectionately. “Your happiness, for one.”

  “Oh, Grandfather. You’re so old-fashioned.”

  “I like to think of myself as a pragmatic romantic.”

  Both laughed as Smythe returned with three flutes of champagne. “Did I miss something?”

  “No, not really,” said Nanette. She took her drink and handed the ot
her to her grandfather. “I would like to make a toast.” Both men raised their flutes to meet Nanette’s. “To the hunt,” she began. “May we prevail in justice where evil abounds.”

  “I second that,” chimed in Smythe.

  “I thrice,” said Sir Giles, chinking their glasses together.

  “Dance with me Smythe?” Nanette asked. “Let’s see if Roderick’s a good teacher.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice,” he said. “If you’ll excuse us, Sir Giles?”

  “By all means. Go have fun.”

  The orchestra struck up a new, livelier tune, one that Sir Giles didn’t care for, but it was catchy and easy to move to. He watched his granddaughter thrash about, bouncing and swaying her hips to the rhythm, but not what he would call dancing. He thought of the days when he enjoyed being with a good woman, one who knew how to please a man on the dance floor. That was a more civilized time; long, long ago. He felt like a dinosaur . . . he suddenly sensed a presence standing next to him.

  “Seer Geelse,” the tinkly female voice said.

  Sir Giles looked toward her. “Yes.”

  “Youse all aloone?”

  “No, I’m with my granddaughter and her date.”

  “Wood ye leek soom company?”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure of knowing your name,” he said.

  “I be de Ambasseedor froom Millertite. Soomee is me neem. We didn’t have the chance to be properlee introduced last neeght.”

  Sir Giles smiled at the pretty Millertite, such a pale complexion and delicate features. “It is my great pleasure to meet you, Soomee. Would you care to dance?”

  “Not me keend of music. Like slower rhythms.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I see you haven’t anything to drink. Would you like me to get you something from the bar?”

  “I would leek dat berry much. Tell them I’m Millertite. We can’t ingest alcohol like Terran species.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, after properly seating his guest.

  He procured a proper drink for Soomee and went to the orchestra to request some new music. Then he returned to his table and handed Soomee her drink. She took a dainty sip and licked her lips. “Dis is berry refreshink.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Sir Giles.

  Soomee took a larger sip. Her features flushed. She fanned her face. “Berry tasty. I’m invigorated with the desire to dance now.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of requesting suitable music on our behalf.” Sir Giles raised a finger, signaling the band leader they were ready. “Do you know of Frank Sinatra?”

  “I don’t tink so.”

  “Then you are in for a rare treat,” he said.

  The loud chaotic music came to an abrupt end. Couples stopped their bouncing and wandered back to their tables. Nanette and Smythe returned to greet Sir Giles and Soomee.

  Sir Giles grabbed Smythe’s shoulder just as the band leader announced that they were filling a special request from Sir Giles’ table. “That’s our cue, Soomee,” said Sir Giles. To Smythe he whispered, “This is how to woo a lady, young man.”

  Sir Giles took Soomee’s hand and they walked to the center of the dance floor. A spotlight shone on the orchestra and a holographic figure of Frank Sinatra materialized. Frank strolled up to the holographic microphone snapping his fingers to the beat. The band struck up the old standard, Young At Heart.

  Sir Giles held Soomee as they danced in perfect step.

  Frank crooned on with being young at heart.

  “You dance superbly, Soomee,” commented Sir Giles.

  “Yoo too,” she said. “What is dis song? It is so beeyoutiful.”

  “It’s called Young At Heart.”

  “It certainlee makes me feel young.”

  Frank crooned on about surviving to 105.

  Soomee’s skin slinked seductively as they swayed and Sir Giles glided along like a professional dancer. “Soomee?” he asked.

  “Yees.”

  “Are you familiar with a dance step known as the Tango?”

  “Ooh, yees,” she said, eyes twinkling. “American or Argentinean?”

  “Argentine, of course.”

  Frank was just wrapping up. At the end of the song, Frank flickered and faded away. Sir Giles swung Soomee around for the final step of their dance. “Do you want to Tango?”

  “Ooh, yees,” she cooed. “Dat wood bee loverly.”

  Sir Giles put his finger to his forehead, the bandleader received the signal and nodded, starting up the Tango music.

  Nanette watch her grandfather as he positioned himself for the lively dance. “That old sly fox,” she said. “He’s still got it.”

  Smythe watched in awe at the intricate dance steps Soomee and Sir Giles performed. They matched each other’s footwork with the precision of a diamond cutter creating his masterpiece. “He’s an old smoothie.” The purser shook his head in admiration.

  “Look at them go,” laughed Nanette. “Everyone is watching their every move.”

  Sir Giles and Soomee’s hips locked in synchronization, swaying to and fro as their footwork led them around the dance floor, sliding in perfect harmony. Sir Giles’ subconscious warned him something was about to happen as the Tango reached its crescendo. Soomee stumbled and then choked. The music continued but they stopped dancing.

  “Something’s wrong,” said Nanette, rising from her seat.

  “I need drink,” Soomee pleaded.

  Sir Giles looked around for help. “We need some water!”

  Soomee’s face started changing color, paling somehow.

  Then Sir Giles remembered the clue. Precisely he remembered the next verse in the song mentioned and its allusion to turning a whiter shade of pale.

  Soomee was the next victim!

  Things happened in the blink of an eye. Nanette was racing towards Sir Giles who showed obvious signs of distress. Soomee was struggling to breathe, gasping, stroking her slender delicate neck.

  A waiter entered the ballroom with a tray of drinks. When he was in a direct line of sight to the couple on the dance floor the tray began jerking in his grasp. The drinks tumbled over, spilling onto the floor. The handles of the tray snapped off and the edge of the tray fell away to reveal a razor sharp blade. The tray flew through the air in a straight and deadly path towards Sir Giles and Soomee.

  Nanette tackled Sir Giles, bowling him over and Soomee fell to her knees as the tray sliced her head from her body. The tray crashed to the dance floor. Soomee’s head gruesomely rolled around on the dance floor until it wobbled over to the tray to mount itself on the flat surface like an African gazelle head trophy. Soomee’s dead eyes stared back with a piteous gaze.

  * * *

  SIR GILES WAS VISIBLY SHAKEN from this experience. Nanette stood behind him at their table, hands on his shoulders protectively. Captain Aubrey was conversing with Smythe, quietly pointing to the victim. SLASP agents hovered around like swarming bees.

  “It’s all my fault,” moaned Sir Giles. “I realized her danger too late to save her. A second too late like all of them.”

  Nanette stopped comforting him and knelt down so she could look into his face. “No more of these self incriminations,” she said sternly. “You’re Sir Giles Thackery, the greatest living detective. At least you realized the murderer’s intention, where we never had an inkling.”

  Sir Giles feigned a smile.

  “Now get up out of this chair and detect.”

  Sir Giles eyes blazed with new fire. “Right! I am Sir Giles Thackery.” He stood up angered for the first time. “This murderous fiend has riled a sleeping lion.” He stomped off toward the victim.

  Captain Aubrey tried to intercept Sir Giles. “Sir Giles. A moment please.”

  Sir Giles raised a curt finger to ward off the captain. “Not now,” he said with authority, walking past the flabbergasted man. Sir Giles swatted away security men in his way. “Everyone move back from the crime scene.”

  Nanette flashed a look
of ire at one of her men who was about to confront the newly energized sleuth. When the subordinate agent persisted, she made one fluid motion, grabbing the SLASP agent by the throat and put him down on the dance floor without so much as a struggle. The man rolled up into a fetal position and she kicked him away from the crime scene.

  “Obey Sir Giles’ orders without question,” she roared. “Or I’ll have to get rough.” Everyone nodded and moved respectfully away.

  Sir Giles strolled around the victim’s head with his right hand stroking his stiff beard and the other cupping his right elbow. The more he involved his mind the more agitated his stroking became. Moving to the body he closed his eyes and fanned the air with his hands, reenacting the dance moves Soomee and he followed. With a spark of insight, Sir Giles snapped his fingers and rushed back to their table. “Nanette!”

  “Yes?” She rushed to his side.

  “Bring me the waiter who carried the tray and the bartender who made Soomee’s drink.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” She was off in a flash.

  A busboy came to Sir Giles’ table to clean away the old drinks. Before the man could reach for Soomee’s glass, Sir Giles grabbed his wrist. “What are you trying to do?” snapped Sir Giles.

  The frightened man tried to pull his hand back. “Ah—doing my job, sir?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “No one, sir,” answered the busboy. “I just thought the table could use a little tidying up.”

  “You were about to contaminate a very important piece of evidence linking the murderer to this crime.”