by Larry Niven
“About eight. We had dinner at Cziller's House of Irish Coffee, and—Listen, what happened here?”
“There are some things we need to know first, Mr. Porter. Were you and Janice together for all of last evening? Were there others with you?”
“Sure. We had dinner alone, but afterward we went to a kind of party. On the beach at Santa Monica. Friend of mine has a house there. I'll give you the address. Some of us wound up back at Cziller's around midnight. Then Janice flew me home.”
“You have said that you are Janice's lover. Doesn't she live with you?”
“No. I'm her steady lover, you might say, but I don't have any strings on her.” He seemed embarrassed. “She lives here with Uncle Ray. Lived. Oh, hell.” He glanced into the ’doc. “Look, the readout said she'll be waking up any minute. Can I get her a robe?”
“Of course.”
We followed Porter to Janice's bedroom, where he picked out a peach-colored negligee for her. I was beginning to like the guy. He had good instincts. An evening dye job was not the thing to wear on the morning of a murder. And he'd picked one with long, loose sleeves. Her missing arm wouldn't show so much.
“You call him Uncle Ray,” Ordaz said.
“Yah. Because Janice did.”
“He did not object? Was he gregarious?”
“Gregarious? Well, no, but we liked each other. We both liked puzzles, you understand? We traded murder mysteries and jigsaw puzzles. Listen, this may sound silly, but are you sure he's dead?”
“Regrettably, yes. He is dead, and murdered. Was he expecting someone to arrive after you left?”
“Yes.”
“He said so?”
“No. But he was wearing a shirt and pants. When it was just us, he usually went naked.”
“Ah.”
“Older people don't do that much,” Porter said. “But Uncle Ray was in good shape. He took care of himself.”
“Have you any idea whom he might have been expecting?”
“No. Not a woman; not a date, I mean. Maybe someone in the same business.”
Behind him, Janice moaned.
Porter was hovering over her in a flash. He put a hand on her shoulder and urged her back. “Lie still, love. We'll have you out of there in a jiffy.”
She waited while he disconnected the sleeves and other paraphernalia. She said, “What happened?”
“They haven't told me yet,” Porter said with a flash of anger. “Be careful sitting up. You've had an accident.”
“What kind of—? Oh!”
“It'll be all right.”
“My arm!”
Porter helped her out of the ’doc. Her arm ended in pink flesh two inches below the shoulder. She let Porter drape the robe around her. She tried to fasten the sash, quit when she realized she was trying to do it with one hand.
I said, “Listen, I lost my arm once.”
She looked at me. So did Porter.
“I'm Gil Hamilton. With the UN Police. You really don't have anything to worry about. See?” I raised my right arm, opened and closed the fingers. “The organ banks don't get much call for arms. You probably won't even have to wait. I didn't. It feels just like the arm I was born with, and it works just as well.”
“How did you lose it?” she asked.
“Ripped away by a meteor,” I said.
Ordaz said to her, “Do you remember how you lost your own arm?”
“Yes.” She shivered. “Could we go somewhere where I could sit down? I feel a bit weak.”
We moved to the living room. Janice dropped onto the couch a bit too hard. It might have been shock, or the missing arm might be throwing her balance off. I remembered. She said, “Uncle Ray's dead, isn't he?”
“Yes.”
“I came home and found him that way. Lying next to that time machine of his, and the back of his head all bloody. I thought maybe he was still alive, but I could see the machine was going; it had that violet glow. I tried to get hold of the poker. I wanted to use it to switch the machine off, but I couldn't get a grip. My arm wasn't just numb; it wouldn't move. You know, you can try to wiggle your toes when your foot's asleep, but ... I could get my hands on the handle of the damn poker, but when I tried to pull, it just slid off.”
“You kept trying?”
“For a while. Then ... I backed away to think it over. I wasn't about to waste any time with Uncle Ray maybe dying in there. My arm felt stone dead ... I guess it was, wasn't it?” She shuddered. “Rotting meat. It smelled that way. And all of a sudden I felt so weak and dizzy, like was dying myself. I barely made it into the ’doc.”
“Good thing you did,” I said. The blood was leaving Porter's face again as he realized what a close thing it had been.
Ordaz said, “Was your great-uncle expecting visitors last night?”
“I think so.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I don't know. He just—acted that way.”
“We are told that you and some friends reached Cziller's House of Irish Coffee around midnight. Is that true?”
“I guess so. We had some drinks, then I took Drew home and came home myself.”
“Straight home?”
“Yes.” She shivered. “I put the car away and went downstairs. I knew something was wrong. The door was open. Then there was Uncle Ray lying next to that machine! I knew better than to just run up to him. He'd told us not to step into the field.”
“Oh? Then you should have known better than to reach for the poker.”
“Well, yes. I could have used the tongs,” she said as if the idea had just occurred to her. “It's just as long. I didn't think of it. There wasn't time. Don't you understand? He was dying in there, or dead!”
“Yes, of course. Did you interfere with the murder scene in any way?”
She laughed bitterly. “I suppose I moved the poker about two inches. Then, when I felt what was happening to me, I just ran for the ’doc. It was awful. Like dying.”
“Instant gangrene,” Porter said.
Ordaz said, “You did not, for example, lock the elevator?”
Damn! I should have thought of that.
“No. We usually do when we lock up for the night, but I didn't have time.”
Porter said, “Why?”
“The elevator was locked when we arrived,” Ordaz told
Porter ruminated that. “Then the killer must have left by the roof. You'll have pictures of him.”
Ordaz smiled apologetically. “That is our problem. No cars left the roof last night. Only one car arrived. That was yours, Miss Sinclair.”
“But,” Porter said, and he stopped.
“What happened was this,” Ordaz said. “Around five-thirty this morning, the tenants in—” He stopped to remember. “—in 36A called the building maintenance man about a smell as of rotting meat coming through the air-conditioning system. He spent some time looking for the source, but once he reached the roof, it was obvious. He—”
Porter pounced. “He reached the roof in what kind of vehicle?”
“Mr. Steeves says that he took a taxi from the street. There is no other way to reach Dr. Sinclair's private landing pad, is there?”
“No. But why would he do that?”
“Perhaps there have been other times when strange smells came from Dr. Sinclair's laboratory. We will ask him.”
“Do that.”
“Mr. Steeves followed the smell through the doctor's open door. He called us. He waited for us on the roof.”
“What about his taxi?” Porter was hot on the scent. “Maybe the killer just waited till that taxi got here, then took it somewhere else when Steeves finished with it.”
“It left immediately after Steeves had stepped out. He had a taxi clicker if he wanted another. The cameras were on it the entire time it was on the roof.” Ordaz paused. “You see the problem?”
Apparently Porter did. He ran both hands through his white-blond hair. “I think we ought to put off discussing it until we know more.”
&nb
sp; He meant Janice. Janice looked puzzled; she hadn't caught on. But Ordaz nodded at once and stood up. “Very well. There is no reason Miss Sinclair cannot go on living here. We may have to bother you again,” he told her. “For now, our condolences.”
He made his exit. I trailed along. So, unexpectedly, did Drew Porter. At the top of the stairs he stopped Ordaz with a big hand around the inspector's upper arm. “You're thinking Janice did it, aren't you?”
Ordaz sighed. “I must consider the possibility.”
“She didn't have any reason. She loved Uncle Ray. She's lived with him on and off these past twelve years. She hasn't got the slightest reason to kill him.”
“Is there no inheritance?”
His expression went sour. “All right, yes, she'll have some money coming. But Janice wouldn't care about anything like that!”
“Ye-es. Still, what choice have I? Everything we now know tells us that the killer could not have left the scene of the killing. We searched the premises immediately. There was only Janice Sinclair and her murdered uncle.”
Porter bit back an answer, chewed it ... He must have been tempted. Amateur detective, one step ahead of the police all the way. Yes, Watson, these gendarmes have a talent for missing the obvious ... But he had too much to lose. Porter said, “And the maintenance man. Steeves.”
Ordaz lifted one eyebrow. “Yes, of course. We shall have to investigate Mr. Steeves.”
“How did he get that call from, uh, 36A? Bedside phone or pocket phone? Maybe he was already on the roof.”
“I don't remember what he said. But we have pictures of his taxi landing.”
“He had a taxi clicker. He could have just called it down.”
“One more thing,” I said, and Porter looked at me hopefully. “Porter, the elevator wouldn't take anyone up unless they were on its list.”
“Or unless Uncle Ray buzzed down. There's an intercom in the lobby. But at that time of night he probably wouldn't let anyone up unless he was expecting him.”
“So if Sinclair was expecting a business associate, he or she was probably in the tape. How about going down? Would the elevator take you down to the lobby if you weren't in the tape?”
“I'd ... think so.”
“It would,” Ordaz said. “The elevator screens entrances, not departures.”
“Then why didn't the killer use it? I don't mean Steeves necessarily. I mean anyone, whoever it might have been. Why didn't he just go down in the elevator? Whatever he did do, that had to be easier.”
They looked at each other, but they didn't say anything.
“Okay.” I turned to Ordaz. “When you check out the people in the tape, see if any of them shows a damaged arm. The killer might have pulled the same stunt Janice did: ruined her arm trying to turn off the generator. And I'd like a look at who's in that tape.”
“Very well,” Ordaz said, and we moved toward the squad car under the carport. We were out of earshot when he added, “How does the ARM come into this, Mr. Hamilton? Why your interest in the murder aspect of this case?”
I told him what I'd told Bera: that Sinclair's killer might be the only living expert on Sinclair's time machine. Ordaz nodded. What he'd really wanted to know was: Could I justify giving orders to the Los Angeles Police Department in a local matter? And I had answered yes.
* * * *
The rather simple-minded security system in Sinclair's elevator had been built to remember the thumbprints and the facial bone structures (which it scanned by deep radar, thus avoiding the problems raised by changing beard styles and masquerade parties) of up to a hundred people. Most people know about a hundred people, plus or minus ten or so. But Sinclair had only listed a dozen, including himself.
RAYMOND SINCLAIR
ANDREW PORTER
JANICE SINCLAIR
EDWARD SINCLAIR, SR.
EDWARD SINCLAIR, III
HANS DRUCKER
GEORGE STEEVES
PAULINE URTHIEL
BERNATH PETERFI
LAWRENCE MUHAMMAD ECKS
BERTHA HALL
MURIEL SANDUSKY
Valpredo had been busy. He'd been using the police car and its phone setup as an office while he guarded the roof. “We know who some of these are,” he said. “Edward Sinclair Third, for instance, is Edward Senior's grandson, Janice's brother. He's in the Belt, in Ceres, making something of a name for himself as an industrial designer. Edward Senior is Raymond's brother. He lives in Kansas City. Hans Drucker and Bertha Hall and Muriel Sandusky all live in the Greater Los Angeles area; we don't know what their connection with Sinclair is. Pauline Urthiel and Bernath Peterfi are technicians of sorts. Ecks is Sinclair's patent attorney.”
“I suppose we can interview Edward Third by phone.” Ordaz made a face. A phone call to the Belt wasn't cheap. “These others—”
I said, “May I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Send me along with whoever interviews Ecks and Peterfi and Urthiel. They probably knew Sinclair in a business sense, and having an ARM along will give you a little more clout to ask a little more detailed questions.”
“I could take those assignments,” Valpredo volunteered.
“Very well.” Ordaz still looked unhappy. “If this list were exhaustive, I would be grateful. What if Doctor Sinclair's visitor simply used the intercom in the lobby and asked to be let in?”
* * * *
Bernath Peterfi wasn't answering his phone.
We got Pauline Urthiel via her pocket phone. A brusque contralto voice, no picture. We'd like to talk to her in connection with a murder investigation; would she be at home this afternoon? No. She was lecturing that afternoon but would be home around six.
Ecks answered dripping wet and not smiling. So sorry to get you out of a shower, Mr. Ecks. We'd like to talk to you in connection with a murder investigation.
“Sure, come on over. Who's dead?”
Valpredo told him.
“Sinclair? Ray Sinclair? You're sure?”
We were.
“Oh, lord. Listen, he was working on something important. An interstellar drive, if it works out. If there's any possibility of salvaging the hardware—”
I reassured him and hung up. If Sinclair's patent attorney thought it was a star drive ... maybe it was.
“Doesn't sound like he's trying to steal it,” Valpredo said.
“No. And even if he'd got the thing, he couldn't have claimed it was his. If he's the killer, that's not what he was after.”
We were moving at high speed, police-car speed. The car was on automatic, of course, but it could need manual override at any instant. Valpredo concentrated on the passing scenery and spoke without looking at me.
“You know, you and the detective-inspector aren't looking for the same thing.”
“I know. I'm looking for a hypothetical killer. Julio's looking for a hypothetical visitor. It could be tough to prove there wasn't one, but if Porter and the girl were telling the truth, maybe Julio can prove the visitor didn't do it.”
“Which would leave the girl,” he said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Nobody's. All I've got is interesting questions.” He looked at me sideways. “But you're pretty sure the girl didn't do it.”
“Yah.”
“Why?”
“I don't know. Maybe because I don't think she's got the brains. It wasn't a simple killing.”
“She's Sinclair's niece. She can't be a complete idiot.”
“Heredity doesn't work that way. Maybe I'm kidding myself. Maybe it's her arm. She's lost an arm; she's got enough to worry about.” And I borrowed the car phone to dig into records in the ARM computer.
PAULINE URTHIEL. Born Paul Urthiel. Ph.D. in plasma physics, University of California at Irvine. Sex change and legal name change, 2111. Six years ago she'd been in competition for a Nobel prize for research into the charge suppression effect in the Slaver disintegrator. Height: 5’ 9". Weight: 135. Married Lawrenc
e Muhammad Ecks, 2117. Had kept her (loosely speaking) maiden name. Separate residences.
BERNATH PETERFI. Ph.D. in subatomics and related fields, MIT. Diabetic. Height: 5’ 8". Weight: 145. Application for exemption to the Fertility Laws denied, 2119. Married 2118, divorced 2122. Lived alone.
LAWRENCE MUHAMMAD ECKS. Master's degree in physics. Member of the bar. Height: 6’ 1". Weight: 190. Artificial left arm. Vice president, CET (Committee to End Transplants).
Valpredo said: “Funny how the human arm keeps cropping up in this case.”
“Yah.” Including one human ARM who didn't really belong there. “Ecks has a master's. Maybe he could have talked people into thinking the generator was his. Or maybe he thought he could.”
“He didn't try to snow us.”
“Suppose he blew it last night? He wouldn't necessarily want the generator lost to humanity, now, would he?”
“How did he get out?”
I didn't answer.
* * * *
Ecks lived in a tapering tower almost a mile high. At one time Lindstetter's Needle must have been the biggest thing ever built, before they started with the arcologies. We landed on a pad a third of the way up, then took a drop shaft ten floors down.
He was dressed when he answered the door in blazing yellow pants and a net shirt. His skin was very dark, and his hair was a puffy black dandelion with threads of gray in it. On the phone screen I hadn't been able to tell which arm was which, and I couldn't now. He invited us in, sat down, and waited for the questions.
Where was he last night? Could he produce an alibi? It would help us considerably.
“Sorry, nope. I spent the night going through a rather tricky case. You wouldn't appreciate the details.”
I told him I would. He said, “Actually, it involves Edward Sinclair—Ray's great-nephew. He's a Belt immigrant, and he's done an industrial design that could be adapted to Earth. Swivel for a chemical rocket motor. The trouble is, it's not that different from existing designs, it's just better. His Belt patent is good, but the UN laws are different. You wouldn't believe the legal tangles.”
“Is he likely to lose out?”
“No, it just might get sticky if a firm called FireStorm decides to fight the case. I want to be ready for that. In a pinch I might even have to call the kid back to Earth. I'd hate to do that, though. He's got a heart condition.”