Murder on Euripides

by Scott A. Combs

  “I was?” he stuttered.

  “That glass could be a pivotal factor in solving this murder.”

  “It could?”

  “Oh, go away,” sighed Sir Giles, seeing Nanette returning with the bartender and the waiter.

  “I found them, Grandfather.”

  “Good,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Barkeep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you mix Ambassador Soomee’s drink tonight?”

  “Um—ah—”

  “Speak up man,” commanded Sir Giles. “It’s a simple yes or no question. No one is accusing you of murdering the ambassador.”

  “Well, no sir, I didn’t,” he answered.

  “Who did then?”

  “I don’t rightly know, sir.” He fidgeted. “I remember you came to the counter and asked for a drink suitable for a Millertite.”

  “Go on,” urged Sir Giles.

  “The funny thing was, the drink was already prepared, just where I would go to mix the drink. I didn’t see anything wrong with giving it to you.”

  “Were you the only individual mixing the drinks tonight?”

  “Yes, I was, sir.”

  “Didn’t you find it a little suspicious that a rare and complex drink, specifically made for a Millertite, would be sitting there ready to be served?”

  “I did for a moment, but the bar was very busy then and I just accepted that someone had prepared it for the ambassador before the dance. We often get special dietary items sent to us. In hindsight I should’ve tossed the drink and prepared a fresh one.”

  “Yes, but that can’t be helped now,” said Sir Giles. “You may leave barkeep. Now for you,” said Sir Giles, turning to the waiter. “How did you come to be handling the murder weapon?”

  “Glory be, sir,” he quaked. “Murder weapon! It was just a tray full of drinks.”

  “Yes, yes.” Sir Giles felt disappointment at the lack of astuteness in the ship’s staff. “I just want to know where you were and why you happened to be holding that tray at the time of the murder. Did you carry it all night? I mean, did you restock and carry the same tray? Or did you pick it up at the last moment?”

  “The last moment, sir.”

  “And what were you doing just before that?”

  “Taking an order.”

  “From whom did you take this order?”

  “Ambassadors Glounce and Pi,” he responded.

  “Is that so?” He nodded.

  “Then I presume you heard a cry for water from me.”

  “Yes, sir. I heard you and seeing a tray laden with drinks, rushed to bring it to you.” He started shaking. “It was like a nightmare. The tray seemed to have a life of its own. It jerked from my hands, spilling all the drinks and flew through the air—”

  “No need to describe it further,” interrupted Sir Giles. “You may leave, but stay close by, I may have more questions.”

  He nodded and returned to the rest of the help standing in a small group.

  “Well, Grandfather,” said Nanette. “Do you know how the crime was committed?”

  “I suspect I do,” he answered in a distracted tone. “All I need is my bag to confirm my hypothesis.”

  The same porter as before came up to them carrying that famous, curious bag. “Ah,” said Sir Giles, taking the bag from the man. “This is becoming a daily routine for us.”

  The porter looked over Sir Giles’ shoulder, getting a good look at the two parts of Ambassador Soomee. He choked. “If that’s all, sir.” He clasped his hand over his mouth and ran away.

  “Squeamish fellow,” commented Sir Giles, as he placed the bag on the table and retrieved a small lamp. He clicked it on and a pale purplish light emitted from its element. “Now we shall see how this mysterious crime was accomplished.”

  “What is it you’re doing?” asked Nanette.

  “Ultraviolet light, my dear,” he answered. “I believe that the drink is laced with super-conductive nanobots. The tray will also show traces of their opposite poled brethren.”

  “So what you’re saying,” she began, “Soomee ingested a highly magnetic substance and the tray was attracted to her?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Fiendishly clever,” she said. “But why go to such lengths?”

  “The murderer is showing off,” he said. “It’s not enough to kill, but to shock us with the most hideous methods possible.”

  Sir Giles inspected the drink. It fluoresced slightly. “Now let’s shine it on Soomee,” he said, going back to the body. He ran his lamp over her body but got only a trace reading from just the severed section. Then he scoped Soomee’s head and neck. Just at the base of her neck they saw the signs of the nanobots glowing. “See,” said Sir Giles. “The super-conductive magnetic material is concentrated where the tray sliced through.” Bending down he found what he was looking for. “Aha!”

  “What is it Grandfather?”

  “Another clue.” Shining the lamp on the tray’s edge, they saw it fluorescing glowing words, which he read aloud:

  Call me a murderer,

  that's my name.

  And away your troubles

  go down the drain.

  “I don’t get it?” Nanette stood up with her hands on her hips. “What kind of saying is that?”

  Sir Giles knew exactly what it meant. “It’s a play on words from an old Terran jingle. I believe it came from a time when companies used to advertise on the television. To make them memorable they would sing catchy sayings. This one came from around the nineteen-fifties, for a prominent plumbing company.”

  “But what is its significance?”

  “That, my dear,” he shook his head, “is the $64,000.00 question.”

  Nanette looked puzzled by the reference to the old saying but didn’t care to ask, they had another clue and time was flying by.

  * * *

  SIR GILES, NANETTE AND SMYTHE sat in Captain Aubrey’s wardroom eating breakfast, waiting for him to arrive. Smythe obviously was not used to this kind of royal treatment. He looked suspiciously at his two eggs—over-medium—crispy bacon, toast, marmalade and coffee all of which the waiter just placed before him. He stabbed the yokes, watching them goo out, noticing that the eggs were prepared just the way he liked them—slightly runny.

  Nanette waited anxiously for Aubrey to show. “Grandfather?”

  “Yes, dear,” responded Sir Giles twisting his breakfast around to suit him better. “What’s on your mind?” He was not looking up as he sliced his hard eggs into perfect diamond shapes.

  “I’m worried—”

  Sir Giles interrupted her. “About who’s the next victim? How we are going to prevent the murder and whether we should bring in more help?”

  “Am I that easy to read?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Am I correct?”

  She nodded.

  “My dear girl,” he said. “Anyone would be easy to read in your circumstances. Caring for an old fuddy-duddy isn’t what a SLASP agent was trained to do. Especially one who’s as capable as you are. You are trained in the art of retaliation, not prevention.”

  Smythe piped up. “I don’t consider you an old fuddy-duddy, Sir Giles.”

  “Thank you, my boy. But I have no qualms about who and what I am. I’m an oddity from a throw-back era that most assuredly is antiquated by today’s standards. My methods—so far—have not proven effective against stopping this particular murderer. They may not stop the murderer, for all I know.”

  “What is our next step?” asked Nanette. “Should I send for more agents to assist us?”

  “That would not be my advice,” said Sir Giles. “More SLASP agents would complicate our investigation.”

  “But your safety?” asked Nanette, full of concern.

  “Phooey!” he said. “A hundred SLASP agents wouldn’t be able to protect me half as much as my own flesh and blood. Besides, you have young Smythe here to help us.”

  “Absolutely,” said Smythe. “I’m you
rs to command, Miss Nanette.”

  She stopped herself from correcting him on calling her Miss, knowing it would be pointless. At that moment Captain Aubrey entered with Ambassador Adlaison, dressed impeccably, moving with an air of importance. Smythe stood and saluted. Aubrey waved Smythe down and slid his hat off under his arm, found his seat and motioned for his guest to sit.

  “Morning everyone,” said Captain Aubrey, looking tired and a bit apprehensive. “You’ll notice I didn’t say Good Morning. For it is not a Good Morning.”

  Sir Giles greeted them. “I’ll say it then. Good Morning Ambassador Adlaison.”

  “I hope it will be.”

  “But surely we are not here socially. You might as well tell us the bad news.” The two men assessed each other intently. The tension in the air was as thick as a polar ice cap.

  “What bad news?” Nanette asked.

  Sir Giles spoke up. “Ambassador Adlaison is here to take me off the case.”

  The ensuing talk around the breakfast table was boisterous, to say the least, with Nanette and Smythe defending Sir Giles as Captain Aubrey countered every point with an equally distasteful response. Ambassador Adlaison and Sir Giles looked at each other allowing the discussion to go only so far when they nodded, raised their palms up together and smacked the table with a whack. The tableware rattled, the arguers ceased arguing and everyone settled down.

  “Quiet—please,” said Sir Giles. “Let’s hear what Ambassador Adlaison has to say.”

  “Thank you, Sir Giles,” he began. “As you are all aware of the dire circumstances we are facing, I won’t reiterate the need for haste in this matter. I also don’t want to belittle the fears about the other delegates’ safety. Some have asked for on board bodyguards while some have requested to have their own put in place. I’ve authorized outside security with the caveat that the new personnel be appropriately screened by SLASP.”

  “I see no objection to this,” said Sir Giles. “Do you my dear?”

  Nanette didn’t like it but nodded ruefully. “No one is better at security than SLASP. But if their bodyguards will make them feel more secure, then I concede to their wishes.”

  “Good,” said Ambassador Adlaison. “Now we come to the delicate topic of whether Sir Giles is to remain the lead investigator.”

  Nanette began to interrupt, but Sir Giles squeezed her hand lightly. Her anger washed away under his gentle touch.

  Adlaison continued, “After last night’s fiasco”—Nanette shifted in disgust—“it is plain to see that Sir Giles might not be the right person for this case.”

  “Why is that?” Nanette spoke with clinched teeth, hardly containing her contempt.

  “The delegation is aghast at the outcome of last night’s murder; one that happened right under Sir Giles’ nose again. I don’t want to sound callous, but how are we to have any confidence in his abilities if the murderer kills at will, right in our midst, while all of us watch in horror?”

  “That is a very good point,” said Sir Giles. “I was unaware of the next victim’s identity until it was too late to prevent the crime. I deeply regret not being able to save Ambassador Soomee—a beautiful creature.” His eyes misted; his ire flared; his voice became emboldened. “By the gods! This monster is going to pay. I swear to you right here and now I will catch him. And no one better hinder me in the process.”

  “I respect your position, Sir Giles,” said Ambassador Adlaison. “But the issue may not be up to you anymore.”

  Smythe broke in, “If Sir Giles is half the man history says of him, then I wouldn’t want to take him off the case. But furthermore, I have grown to know him, and just from personal experience I wouldn’t take him off the case.”

  Nanette nodded. “We rejuvenated Sir Giles after the analysis came back with him being our best hope of stopping these crimes. Its findings showed—”

  Adlaison interrupted. “I know what it says. Sir Giles would need a minimum of five murders to gather a sufficient psychological profile on the murderer. Since we’ve now had them, you believe he should continue. But I say to you he hasn’t shown us his rare gifts yet. If he’s as good as the vidi-history shows tell us, why doesn’t he know who the next victim will be?”

  Everyone looked to Sir Giles. “I don’t want to be an alarmist,” said Sir Giles.

  “So you know who’s next?” asked Smythe.

  “Yes.”

  Adlaison seemed put off. “Would you care to elucidate?”

  “It’s a matter of analyzing the clue on the tray,” he said.

  Nanette flipped her digi-pad open and zoomed into the picture of the tray fluorescing under the UV light. Then she read:

  Call me a murderer,

  that's my name.

  And away your troubles

  go down the drain.

  “You told me it was based on an early twentieth-century jingle,” she said.

  “It is, my dear. A plumbing company to be exact.”

  “But how does it narrow down the potential victims?” asked Captain Aubrey.

  Sir Giles, modest as ever, began to explain. “I’m sure you would come to the same conclusion as myself, once you got into the mind of the killer. We have to assume he’s brilliant, arrogant to a fault, and taunting me with his abilities.”

  They all nodded at this train of thought. “With that in mind, the first two lines are self-evident. He’s in charge, a malevolent entity, toying with his pursuers like a cat with its prey. He doesn’t want the game to end so he gives us clues, keeping us engaged.”

  “So what does the last line mean?” asked Ambassador Adlaison.

  Sir Giles grinned sheepishly. “There’s two parts we can glean from the last line. I’ll start with the last part ‘go down the drain,’ means exactly what it says. The murderer has devised some hideous death that will actually drain away the victim.”

  “How ghastly,” said Nanette. “And the first part, what do you make of that?”

  “Ah—yes,” said Sir Giles. “That’s a very interesting part. The phrase ‘and away your troubles,’ could only mean that the killer believes he must help me by murdering the only person standing in my way from heading this investigation. Remember the killer wants the game with his adversary, me, to continue at all costs.”

  “But . . . but . . . that means,” stammered Ambassador Adlaison.

  “Yes, Ambassador,” said Sir Giles. “You’re my trouble that will go down the drain.”

  * * *

  GLOUNCE AND PI STROLLED OVER, their attention piqued at seeing Sir Giles deep in conversation with Ambassador Adlaison, Nanette and Smythe; all of these illustrious fellows coming out of the captain’s wardroom in a group. Adlaison nodded reluctantly and their dialog abruptly came to an end, guarding their secret conversation.

  “I hope we aren’t interrupting something important?” asked Glounce. He knew he was and hoped he could guilt one of the group into blurting out the topic.

  Pi’s eyestalks waggled with some inner agitation.

  Sir Giles turned and greeted the two. “Just details about last night’s unfortunate incident. Things best not said openly in public.”

  “We—we were there,” stammered Pi. “Very disturbing.”

  “Indeed, very,” said Glounce. “Pi is still rather shaken up—aren’t you Pi?”

  Pi’s eyestalks darted back and forth looking over one shoulder and then the other. “Yes—very shaken. We’ll never be safe again. Who knows where this fiend will strike. He might be any one of us.” He gave everyone an eye.

  Nanette wondered if the Podil was about to have a stroke, his color was certainly the lightest blue she had ever seen on a Podil. “I believe we are safe enough for the moment,” she said reassuringly. “I’m fairly certain the murderer is laying low.”

  “Sure we are safe, Pi,” said Glounce patting him roughly with a tentacle. “If a SLASP agent says so, it must be true.” Glounce winked three of his left eyes toward Nanette. “I, for one, embrace this mystery. Don’t let
it be said that Glounce from Flim is a bluttergloin-liver6.”

  “Podils are though,” said Pi still agitated. “We scare easily. It is a fact that Podils die of fright frequently every year.”

  “I’m convinced we’re safe,” said Glounce trying to be more serious now. “Safe enough that we should continue our line of inquiry.”

  “We should?” Pi said apprehensively. “I think we should wait until this murder business is over.”

  “Nonsense!” roared Glounce. “Sir Giles and Ambassador Adlaison will be gone then and our inquiry would be lost forever.”

  “And what line of inquiry would that be, Noblebeings?” asked Sir Giles.

  Glounce grinned showing a row of razor-sharp teeth. “A friendly competition. Since this horrible business has started, we’ve hardly retained any civil intercourse. Something to get the old blood pumping and adrenal juices flowing?”

  “A sporting event?”

  Glounce and Pi nodded.

  “What do you propose we do to obtain the right balance of blood-juice stimulation?” asked Sir Giles.

  Glounce took a couple of tentacles and rubbed his multi-chinned neckline. “Well, we’ve heard that Ambassador Adlaison is an excellent Squash player. I myself have dabbled in the Terran sport a bit. Since you are a famous Terran, it seems fitting.”

  Smythe pointed a finger at Glounce. “You wouldn’t be trying to mislead Sir Giles and Ambassador Adlaison about your skill level? I’ve seen those trophies in your stateroom.” He turned to the others. “He has a whole wall devoted to his achievements.”

  “Oh, my no,” responded Glounce. “Has my reputation finally caught up with me? Yes, I’ve played a few matches in my time. Not always winning of course. But I do think I’m marginally adept at the game.”

  Smythe glared. “And the fact that you can handle ten rackets at one time doesn’t hurt. Terran rules only allow for one racket per player. Flimian rules leave your opponents at a grave disadvantage.”

  “Pish-posh,” spluttered Glounce. “Terran rules are so restrictive. Our Flimian variation leads to a more lively competition. We are trying to get the circulation up a bit! Exercise is the spark of life, vigor and well-being.”