All the Colors of Darkness

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  And yet—it had to be the same person.

  Ted Arnold burst in on him, panting violently. He kicked his shoes off, sending them flying against the far wall, and dropped into the chair by the desk. There he loosened his tie and mopped his bald head with a handkerchief, and until he’d got control of his breathing he could utter nothing more than a wheezy remark about how his feet hurt.

  “Cheer up,” Darzek said. “Better your feet than your head.”

  “Oh,” Arnold said, instantly sympathetic. “How’s your head?”

  “Perfect. I told you—the doctor couldn’t find a thing wrong with me.”

  “I thought maybe you’d had a relapse. Well, the Boss agrees with you. We’re to work together, and you report to me. Anything I think he should know I’ll pass along verbally.”

  “Good. The way things were shaping up I thought I’d be doing nothing but write reports.”

  “Those dunces on the Board—but you can’t blame them for being concerned. Anyway, you tell me, I tell Watkins—holding back anything we agree to hold back—and then he tells the directors as much as he thinks they should know. It doesn’t look as if the directors will be getting much information, which I gather is the way you want it.”

  “Did you tell Watkins he’s nourishing a viper?” Darzek asked.

  “No. He’d try to smoke him out himself, probably messing up any plan you have in mind. Now that this is settled, how about a report?”

  “Yes, Sire. There were two missing women yesterday; there are six today. The six today are revealed, by way of some excellent photography, to be two women, in three disguises each. One of the two—call her Miss X—is my mysterious blonde of yesterday in three new disguises. The other, whom I am calling Madam Z, is undoubtedly yesterday’s dumpy old dame with the umbrella. We have accomplished one thing, probably with the assistance of the mirrors. There has been no further sleight of hand with handbags and umbrellas.”

  “Neat. I don’t suppose you’ve analyzed their motives.”

  “I have not. I have checked out the eight identifications they used in buying their tickets. All eight are phony. We may safely conclude that they aren’t doing this for the fun of it, and even that they intend to embarrass Universal Trans in some way, though it does seem odd that they haven’t made their move yet. By this time we should have had relatives frantically beating on our doors in search of their missing loved ones, or a hysterical woman sobbing to reporters about how she tried to transmit to Minneapolis and ended up in a sewer in Brooklyn. Instead, we have nothing. It defies the imagination.”

  “You’ve made a good point with those photographs,” Arnold said. “As a standard procedure, as quickly as it can be arranged, we’re going to photograph all passengers, both arriving and departing. Then if someone claims we shipped him to a sewer in Brooklyn, we can produce a photographic record of his smiling face arriving in Albuquerque or wherever.”

  “With the possible exceptions of Miss X and Madam Z.”

  Arnold raised his hands wearily.

  “Any progress in finding out how it’s done?” Darzek asked.

  “None. The more we check into it, the more inexplicable it seems. If you can give us a lead on who’s doing it, and some idea as to why, the how won’t be too important—I hope. If we can get our hands on them, maybe the ladies X and Z will tell us what we want to know.”

  “Which brings up another point,” Darzek said. “What do I do if I catch them? Ask them to go home and be good girls?”

  “I don’t know. No one upstairs will commit himself.”

  “What did your legal officer say?”

  “He hedged. The Board isn’t worried about the legal position so much as the unfavorable publicity.”

  “The false names and addresses they supplied for their insurance certificates leave them open to a charge of insurance fraud. They have also used four different drivers’ licenses each as identification, which would undoubtedly interest the police. Isn’t that enough basis for their arrests?”

  “I’ll ask. You’d have to be absolutely certain it was Miss X or Madam Z you were arresting, or we’d have a whale of a lawsuit on our hands.”

  “True. But it may be worth a certain element of risk to cut them off before they succeed in whatever they’re trying to do. We still have to catch them, of course.”

  Arnold waved his arms forlornly. “I almost wish they’d make their move, and get it over with. That press release has been rewritten a dozen times without satisfying anyone, and the Public Relations Office goes into a tizzy every time the phone rings. It’d be a relief to know just what they’re trying to do.”

  “Or even why they thought it was necessary to slap me on the head. You might tell Public Relations to work on the fraud angle.”

  “If I could just figure out how they’re doing it—” Arnold muttered.

  “Well, shall we go watch for them to do it again?”

  Arnold nodded, and went after his shoes. “One thing more,” he said, panting as he stooped down to tie them. “You said you got a license number last night.”

  “I did. I had it checked out.”

  “I suppose the car was reported stolen two hours before you got conked.”

  “Not at all. It never was reported stolen.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “I’m not sure that I should tell you.”

  Arnold straightened up angrily. “Are you suspecting me?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then whose car was it?”

  “Confidentially, it’s registered in the name of Thomas J. Watkins III. Now shall we go downstairs?”

  * * * *

  Among all of the world’s passenger terminals, those of Universal Trans were unique. In his first glimpse of the interior of the New York Terminal Darzek had sensed that something was wrong, or at least very different. The atmosphere was electrifying, for there was a dramatic feeling of high adventure in watching friends bid farewell to a traveler who would be, seconds later, at a destination hundreds or thousands of miles away. The year 1986 went its hectic, noisy way along Eighth Avenue, but just beyond the Universal Trans revolving door one encountered the remote future. It was not surprising that such an encounter engendered a feeling of strangeness.

  But this was not what had disturbed Darzek. Not until Wednesday, when the lower level was opened to passengers and Universal Trans operations achieved a measure of regularity, did Darzek realize that it was the layout of the terminal that was so different.

  There was no waiting room!

  There were, to be sure, a number of cozy, conversational groupings of settees placed at strategic locations, both on the main floor and on the mezzanine, but there were no rows of hard seats for use by weary travelers attempting to make themselves comfortable while waiting for the ten-fourteen flight to Chicago or the eleven twenty-seven train to Miami. There was no waiting room because, now that Universal Trans had stepped up the efficiency of its operations, there was virtually no waiting. The main floor had an enormous curving row of passenger gates for North American travel. European travelers were accommodated at the shorter row of passenger gates on the mezzanine. You bought your ticket, you walked through the appropriate gate, and you were at your destination.

  In Darzek’s estimation, Thomas J. Watkins III had grossly understated the impact of the Universal Trans revolution. Time en route was, only too often, the least significant portion of the time expended in traveling, ONLY FIVE DAYS TO LONDON, a ship advertisement would state; but you waited two weeks for the sailing date, or perhaps you had to make your reservations four months in advance.

  There were no reservations for Universal Trans. There was no time wasted on awkward travel connections, no layovers, no delays caused by nature or human errors, no obeisance to the tyranny of a schedule. When you wanted to go, you bought your ticket and went.

  So there was no need for a waiting room.

  Few of the people who crowded the terminal were sitting down. Jean Mor
ris had a whole group of settees to herself, and she sat there comfortably relaxed while she furtively scrutinized the faces of those using the main entrance. At the end ticket window Ed Rucks, protected by a sign that read, NEXT WINDOW, PLEASE, was apparently very busy with a stack of records, and just incidentally keeping the side entrance under unwavering observation.

  “It looks as if they have things under control,” Arnold said.

  “Two people couldn’t possibly keep this situation under control. Neither could two dozen. The terminal is too large, there’s a tremendous volume of traffic moving through it, and those women are so expert in disguise that it’s not even fifty-fifty that we’ll recognize them if we see them.”

  “All these years I’ve been thinking you were an optimist,” Arnold grumbled.

  “Go count your transistors, or something. I have to figure out what to do with one of these women if I catch her.”

  For the next hour he wove his way restlessly back and forth through the flow of passengers. He nabbed a pickpocket for the terminal police, and neatly tripped up a suitcase snatcher, and both times felt disgusted with himself for allowing his attention to wander. Finally he went up to the mezzanine, found a seat overlooking the main floor, and attempted to pick out familiar features in the blur of faces below. He also kept a wary eye on the gate attendants, expecting at any moment to see the familiar signal that had already come six times that day—”Another one, Mr. Darzek!”—but there was no signal.

  The constant movement, the incessant babble of hundreds of voices, overwhelmed his mental processes. He returned to the tiny office to reshuffle his ideas, and found it equally difficult to concentrate there. The six faces gazed up at him mockingly from the photographs. The telephone that lurked at one corner of his desk intimidated him. If it rang—”Another one, Mr. Darzek!”—he could only rush down to the lobby, knowing that he was already several minutes too late.

  He telephoned his office, and listened patiently while Jean Morris’s substitute read the reports that had accumulated. “If anyone else phones in,” he said, “tell him to call me at home if it’s important. Otherwise, keep it until morning.”

  He went back to the main floor. Ed Rucks was still performing his expert imitation of the harassed wage slave. Jean Morris tilted an eyebrow in his direction, but did not shift her attention from the entrance. Darzek summoned both of them with a sweep of his hand.

  “Knock it off,” he said. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?” Jean asked. “Doesn’t this place run all night?”

  “It does, but we don’t. Those women have had a busy day. Let’s hope they’re almost as tired as we are. Do your homework, and report here in the morning.”

  “Six o’clock?” Jean asked.

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Slave driver!”

  Darzek telephoned Ted Arnold before he left. “I’m going home to do some thinking,” he announced.

  “Better let me have a couple of men take you home.”

  “No, thank you. If I’m dumb enough to walk into an ambush two nights in a row, I deserve it.”

  “It’s your head. Do you really think Watkins—”

  “Of course not. I have just proved conclusively that Watkins’s car was nowhere near Manhattan last night.”

  “Then how—”

  “But his license plates were. Or someone has gone to the trouble of duplicating his license plates. The only thing I’m certain about is that the men who were at that board meeting will bear watching. Two of them left town right after the meeting. I’ve had tails on the others since last night.”

  Arnold produced a long whistle. “Paid for with Universal Trans money. The innocent ones will have a fit when they find out.”

  “The guilty one will have a fit, too.”

  “Want me to call you if there’s another disappearance?”

  “If you do, I’ll resign.”

  Darzek took a taxi, and had himself driven directly to his apartment. No one followed him. He entered cautiously, automatic in hand, and found the place empty. “So much for that,” he told himself. He had his dinner sent up, and arranged himself to do some serious thinking.

  At six o’clock on Thursday morning Darzek was back at the Universal Trans terminal, having breakfast in the basement cafeteria. Jean Morris, seated opposite him, looked amazingly refreshed, but snarled grumpily when he spoke to her. Ed Rucks looked sleepy and talked like a man tensed for action.

  “I’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “What we need is something that will force their hands.”

  “Got any ideas?”

  “How about running some ads that brag about how absolutely safe Universal Trans is, and how many thousands of passenger miles have been racked up without injury or accident? If someone is trying to ruin the company’s reputation, he might feel he’d have to challenge that.”

  “It’s an idea. I’ll pass it along, though it wouldn’t surprise me if the company has something like that planned anyway.”

  “Did anything happen during the night?” Jean asked.

  Darzek shook his head.

  “Maybe we scared them off,” Ed Rucks said.

  “I prefer to think that they didn’t quite get the results they expected, and they’re cooking up something new. I’ve been asking myself what one sly manipulation would close Universal Trans down instantly and permanently.”

  “Is there one?” Rucks asked.

  “There is. If they could arrange to have a few passengers depart in the usual manner and apparently reach their destinations as corpses, that would do the job. I mentioned the possibility to Arnold, and he’s up in his office right now taking aspirin.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Rucks said. “Here he comes, and he isn’t after breakfast.”

  Arnold swooped down on their table, and helped himself to a chair.

  “Starting early, aren’t they?” Darzek asked.

  Arnold nodded.

  “No corpses, I hope.”

  “No. Just another disappearance. Two more. Only these are from Brussels.”

  “So,” Darzek said, pushing back his chair, “today we work in Brussels.”

  “The Brussels Terminal just opened this morning. Its cameras aren’t set up yet, so there aren’t any photos. It doesn’t have the mirrors yet, either.”

  “We’ll make out with the photos we have. Come, children. You should get more sleep, Jean.”

  “Detective work is no job for a lady,” Jean Morris said.

  At the Brussels Gare de trans universel they found that the unfortunate Chef de gare had allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the catastrophe. By the time Darzek arrived, he had been ordered off to a hospital for observation.

  Fortunately the assistant manager, a Monsieur Vert, had iron beneath his plump little exterior. He had taken charge heroically, conducted his own investigation, and reasoned his way to the conclusion that—as he expressed it to Darzek later—for such untoward events to occur it was required that someone goof. M. Vert quickly established that only two Universal Trans employees had contact with each missing passenger, and it was obvious even to him that he could not blame the ticket agents for what had happened. When Darzek arrived on the scene he found two panic-stricken gate attendants under house arrest, with M. Vert eagerly awaiting permission to call in the police.

  Darzek dismissed the charges, read an edict from Watkins concerning secrecy, and assured M. Vert that the disappearances were only optical illusions. He asked to speak with the gate attendants.

  M. Vert bubbled enthusiastically. “But certainly. I shall interpret for you myself.”

  “I’ll do my own interpreting,” Darzek said.

  The attendants immediately recovered their composure when Darzek informed them that such malfunctions had become commonplace in New York. “I do not mind being blamed for my mistakes, monsieur,” one of them said, “but if this machine swallows a person wrongly that is no affair of mine.”

&nb
sp; “Universal Trans wouldn’t appreciate that figure of speech,” Darzek said. “Tell me what happened.”

  The story was both brief and familiar. An elderly woman had made a routine departure for Berlin, but all that arrived in Berlin had been her umbrella.

  “Very interesting,” Darzek said. “Did you speak with her?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “But just before she stepped through the transmitter, she hesitated, didn’t she?”

  “She stopped and looked about, and then she started back towards me and I told her to go straight ahead. But this happens often. The transmitting is such a new thing, and many a passenger is très confus.”

  “Very good,” Darzek said, turning to the other attendant. “And your passenger—did you speak with her?”

  “Beaucoup, monsieur. Even for a woman her tongue was overworked.”

  “In French?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “How was her French?”

  “Very good, monsieur.”

  “As good as mine?”

  “Quite as good, monsieur. But different. Yours has a slight provincial accent that I cannot place. Hers was pure Parisian.”

  “Interesting. You’re positive there was no foreign accent?”

  “Monsieur, I have been working with travelers all my life, and I speak five languages myself. I cannot remember the last time I mistook a person’s nationality.”

  “You just mistook mine,” Darzek said. “But never mind. Tell me what happened.”

  This passenger had been a young woman, of striking appearance. Darzek whistled, and the attendant grinned and nodded. “And blond,” he went on. “Very blond. Everyone in the terminal stares at her, and for that reason I find her questions much embarrassing. She wants to know how the transmitter will get her beyond the mountains—does she go over them or through them—and such things as that. She starts down the passageway, she comes back and asks more questions. Finally she steps through, but all that reaches Rome is her purse.”