The Case of the Little Green Men

by Mack Reynolds

  “I talked to his office girl first; besides, I could hear the typewriters going in the background. What’s your point?”

  He shot me a glare. “I’ll ask the questions, Knight. You just answer them, eh? Did you know this guy Carr?”

  “I already told you I didn’t,” I said irritably. We weren’t getting anywhere; Davis was beginning to rehash the whole thing, beginning to end. “He comes from somewhere in the Middle West, Indianapolis, I think. I’d never heard about him until Ross mentioned Carr’s interest in alien life forms.”

  Davis turned to Mike Quinn. “Get this Les Zimmer guy over here, Mike. And keep trying to locate this guy James Maddigan, eh? Where is he, anyway?”

  Mike Quinn said, “He’s supposed to be on his way, according to his secretary. He left about a half-hour after the killing; his office is on Oglethorpe and West First Street, so he oughta be here any minute.”

  “Okay, bring him in as soon as he shows,” Davis turned to Art Roget. “Did you know this Bob Carr?”

  Roget shook his head emphatically. “No sir, I told you that before. I’d read some of his things in the fanzines, but I’d never met him. This was the first time he ever came to this city as far as I know. I don’t think anybody among the local fen had met him except Ross.”

  Davis’s eyes went to Ross. “Well?”

  Ross Maddigan’s good-natured face was frowning earnestly. He said, “I was passing through Indianapolis on my way West about two years ago. I had a correspondent there and phoned him; he said the local science fiction club was to meet that night and wanted me to attend, so I did. I met Bob Carr at that meeting, along with a dozen others of the Indiana fen. That’s the only contact I’ve ever had with him.”

  Davis took time out to reach into his vest pocket for his pills again. He had set the half consumed glass of water on the desk next to him; now he shook out one pill and swallowed it down with a sigh.

  “You haven’t even corresponded with him since, eh?”

  Ross shook his head. “No. I’m not sure I would have recognized him, we met so briefly.”

  The lieutenant breathed deeply, weariness making his pallor even more pronounced. He said to Ross. “Then what do you think he was doing outside your door?”

  “How should I know? Possibly he came up looking for me. After all, I was the only person in town he knew even the slightest bit.”

  “Then, as far as you know, there is nobody in this city that even knew Carr, let alone had a reason for killing him, eh?”

  “That’s right. Of course, some of the other Indiana fen are in town for the convention. They knew — ”

  Davis brushed that aside. “This was done by a local boy, not somebody that just pulled in from Indiana yesterday or today. This is part of the other two — ”

  Art Roget blurted, “It’s just like Harry and Les. The same thing. There isn’t any motive; not any human one. The only reason anything would want to kill Harry, or Les, or Bob was because they were fen who — ”

  “Knock it off,” Davis growled. “The police department doesn’t go chasing men from Mars.”

  “I’m beginning to think that perhaps you should,” Ross Maddigan said so softly that he could hardly be heard. He stared down at the toe of his brown sport shoe. “I thought Uncle Jim was being fantastic, hiring Jeb Knight to investigate alien life forms — now I don’t know.”

  Davis snorted and turned his empty eyes back to me. “Where’d you find out that Shulman’s magazines were missing, eh?”

  I thought quickly and came up with an answer that was near enough to the truth but would still protect Hermie Cain. “Mrs. Shulman told me.”

  He said carefully, “Actually, Knight, I oughta run you in. I’d feel better about this case if you were in the cooler.”

  “Listen, for crying out loud,” I complained, “on what charge?”

  “You’re a material witness, Knight. And I’m not too sure you don’t know more about this than you’re telling.” He added, irrelevantly, I thought, “I hate a wise guy cluttering up my work.”

  I started to say something, but he rapped, “Shut up and get out of here before I change my mind.”

  I got to my feet, preparatory to leaving.

  “And listen, Knight. You haven’t got a client any more, not after today. So if I have any more trouble with you on this case, I’ll make you rue it. Understand?”

  “As you said, Lieutenant, I haven’t a client any more.”

  As I left, I met Mike Quinn ushering Julie Sharp up the hall. Evidently Davis wanted to speak to her again — when I wasn’t present.

  Quinn said, “You leaving so soon, Buster?”

  I ignored the pop-eyed clown and said to Julie, “Sorry this is all happening; we were just getting acquainted, there at the bar.”

  Her eyes smiled at me. “Heavens, there’ll be other times, Jeb.”

  “They passed on and I looked after them. Did I say them? I meant her. I’ve mentioned her legs, haven’t I?”

  The same elevator girl was on duty. I entered the car and said, “Lobby, please.”

  On the main floor, I went over to the desk. I said to the clerk I’d talked to before, “Thanks, buddy; you were more help than you can imagine.”

  He said stiffly, “I simply told the truth.”

  “Sure, and thanks. But listen. Remember, I asked you Ross Maddigan’s room number and you told me, and then said his key wasn’t in its box?”

  He frowned, his thin, neat eyebrows coming almost together. I owed him my neck, probably, but I still thought he looked like Mr. Whipple in Tillie the Toiler. He said, “I’d forgotten that about the key. I remember you asking for his room number.” He looked back at the box. “The key’s there now.”

  I felt a cold finger trace lightly up my back.

  “You sure?” I looked over his shoulder. There was a key in box 1104, all right.

  It stopped me. While I stood there, trying to make sense out of something that didn’t fit together, he went off to wait on someone. I didn’t move away, so when he was through he came back again.

  He said, “Was there something else?”

  “Do you know Ross Maddigan?” I said slowly. “That is, by sight?”

  He shook his head. “It would hardly be possible, considering the fantastic costume he’s wearing.”

  He must have noticed my expression because he added, “Mr. Maddigan is wearing a costume today.” He sniffed superciliously, and the tiny mustache twitched. “I assume he represents a Martian or something.”

  Involuntarily, I put my hand out and grasped his wrist. “Listen, did you give Ross Maddigan’s key to someone in a costume?”

  “What do you mean, some one in a costume?” he said indignantly, drawing his arm from under my hand. “When Mr. Maddigan asked for his key, I gave it to him. It was none of my business if he was in costume.”

  “How did you know it was Ross Maddigan?”

  He stared at me. “Why — why, he just — why, I don’t know. He asked for his key and I gave it to him.” He batted his eyes apprehensively.

  “When was this?” I was still excited.

  “I don’t remember exactly; just before I went to lunch, I believe.”

  “When did he bring it back again? When I talked to you it was gone.”

  He was worried now. His thin eyebrows edged together. “I really don’t know. So many guests just toss their keys to the desk, you know. We put them in their proper boxes when we get the time.”

  I snapped my fingers. “The fan in the purple costume, the one with the four arms and the suitcase. He tossed a key to the desk just as I finished talking to you.”

  “I didn’t notice him, but that sounds like Mr. Maddigan’s costume,” he said doubtfully. “Perhaps I had better tell the police upstairs about this.”

  “Yeah,” I told him, simmering down suddenly. “Yeah, I guess you’d better.” I turned and headed for the cocktail lounge. It was none of my business, not any more, at least.

  But
I didn’t stop at the bar. My business or not, this thing was too hot. I went out the public entrance of the bar and down the street a hundred feet or so to the entrance of the Sherman Halls. I took the steps up to the auditorium three at a time, excitement growing in me.

  The bobby-soxer at the desk said, “Have you registered yet?” then spotted the pin on my lapel. “Oh, yes — ” she finished inanely. I started to hurry on by her, but suddenly stopped and bent over the desk, my hands resting on its edge.

  “Listen,” I snapped, “did a fan come in here in a purple costume with four arms? He was carrying a small suitcase.”

  I could see now she was upset about something; probably the news of what had happened next door had spread. This convention wasn’t going to be as much fun as a good many science fiction fans had expected. I wondered if they would continue it at all.

  She shook her head, puzzled. “No. No, sir.” Then: “Are you a detective; are you finding out about Bob?”

  “No,” I grunted over my shouder. I hurried into the auditorium, just in case she’d made a mistake. There were less than half as many fans as there had been earlier. Most of those remaining didn’t seem to be particularly interested in books and magazines, nor even in discussing science fantasy. They were still in little groups, but the air was full of murder, instead of rocket ships.

  The four-armed and purple alien costume wasn’t evident. I made doubly sure before turning around and leaving again. Of course he wouldn’t have been there; I could have saved myself the excitement.

  I went back to the Bigelow less hurriedly than I had left it. I walked into the lobby, still trying to make something of the fact that someone besides Ross Maddigan had got his key at the desk, and that a few minutes after he’d returned it, I stumbled upon a body in front of Ross’ door.

  I slumped down into a heavy lobby chair and tried to think. Actually, it didn’t do much in the way of elimination. The person in the costume could have been male or female, short or tall, slim or heavy set.

  Or it didn’t necessarily have to be human.

  I tossed my head impatiently at that. I was getting as bad as Art Roget.

  As I sat there, staring before me, James Maddigan hustled into the lobby from the street. He showed indications that he had already heard about the Carr death. I came to my feet and he spotted me and hurried over.

  “Good gracious, Knight, a fan outside just informed me that — ”

  I nodded. “It’s another one along the same line as Shulman’s death and the attack on Zimmer. Lieutenant Davis is upstairs; he wants to see you, Mr. Maddigan.”

  He nodded. “Yes, so I imagine, since it was my phone call that sent you up there.” He took me by the arm. “Knight, I’d like a stimulant before facing that ordeal. Besides, I would like you to brief me on the situation. This is insane, absolutely, unbelievably insane. I don’t — ” His jowls were trembling.

  He dragged me toward the bar, not that I needed much dragging.

  We entered and found stools. The heavy buzz of conversation was still in the air, but it wasn’t about Van Vogt and Kuttner, Hannes Bok and Cartier, any longer. As in the auditorium, it was about death — death by fantastic means.

  I said to the bartender, “Beer.” He had an assistant now and wasn’t so harried.

  Maddigan ordered, “Irish whiskey, please; double portion with water.”

  The bartender said to me, “They found out anything yet?”

  I shook my head and began to answer him, but Maddigan snapped impatiently, in his most pompous tone, “Please, the drinks.”

  The bartender looked at him reproachfully and went off to get the order.

  Maddigan turned to me and asked, “Just what occurred, Knight?”

  I told him briefly while we waited for the drinks. When they came, Maddigan stiff-wristed his down and ordered another. I took a deep drink of my beer. We both seemed to need it.

  “The killing must have taken place only minutes before I got there,” I told him.

  He frowned, his plump lips together in his peevish expression; he reached down and massaged his knee heavily. “Does that, of necessity, follow?”

  I nodded. “I think so. For one thing, there were fans trooping up and down the corridors. They could hardly have failed to stumble on him in a very short time. And, besides, there was something else.” I took another deep gulp.

  Maddigan must have motioned to the bartender for still another drink, or possibly it was just that the bartender’s intuition told him we were two customers who’d be wanting another round. At any rate, there was another bottle handy for me when I put the glass down, another double shot of Irish for Maddigan.

  “What else?” Maddigan said.

  “I saw the killer,” I told him quietly.

  His eyes bugged at me. “You what?”

  “I saw the killer.” I poured more beer into my glass from the fresh bottle and watched the head go down. “Just after talking to you, I went to the desk and asked for Ross’s room. The clerk told me, and as I turned to leave, a costumed man — or woman, it could have been either — carrying a suitcase, tossed a key to the desk and left. Later on, just a few minutes ago, in fact, the clerk told me that he’d given Ross’s key to a person in that get-up. In other words, somebody came to the desk, got Ross’s key, and evidently did something in Ross’s room that resulted in Carr’s death.”

  “You mean you believe Bob Carr was killed in my nephew’s room?”

  “That’s right,” I nodded. “Killed there probably by use of the hotel’s regular electric current, and then tossed out into the hall. That’s the only answer that makes sense to me.”

  Half a dozen emotions chased themselves across James Maddigan’s face. He was staring across the cocktail lounge, as though unbelieving of some of what I’d told him; as though seeing something he didn’t want to believe.

  He didn’t say anything, so I said, “They’re waiting upstairs, Mr. Maddigan, and already beginning to wonder what’s keeping you. But before you go — I assume you won’t need my services any longer?”

  He brought his eyes back to me. “Eh? Oh.” He thought a moment. “Yes, that is correct. As you pointed out the other day, as far as the investigation of the killing is concerned, the authorities are more efficient, more experienced.” He paused. “Actually, I guess it was rather ridiculous of Art and me to consider that beings from space were committing these crimes.”

  He asked, “The police have still found no motive for any of the crimes?”

  I shook my head. “This one is the worst of all. Nobody in our city has even been acquainted with Bob Carr, aside from Ross. There’s just one possibility in my mind. That is, of course, barring that space aliens actually are at work.”

  “What possibility is that?”

  “That some complete nut, somebody who’s slipped his cogs but good, is behind it. Otherwise, it just doesn’t make sense.”

  He was staring across the room again, but he brought his eyes back to me and said listlessly, “I imagine you’re right.” He held out a plump hand to be shaken. “At any rate, you’ve done what you could, Knight. You’ve neither proven nor disproven the presence of extra-terrestrials, but I’m convinced that it wasn’t because of lack of effort on your part. In the future, if ever I have need of the services of a private investigator, I shall keep you in mind.”

  It was a nice little speech, even if not very accurate. Actually, I’d done damn little, if anything, to earn my money. However, I shook his hand and thanked him and he turned and left the bar, leaving me there to finish my beer.

  I looked across the room to the point at which he’d been staring. Sandra Maddigan sat at a small corner table with a tall, well-dressed, good-looking guy of about thirty-five. Art Roget had earlier pointed him out to me up in the auditorium as Rog Craig, one of the most prolific of the science fiction writers. They had their heads together and evidently their conversation was interesting, for, they were ignoring their drinks.

  CHAPTER S
IXTEEN

  In the morning, I stopped off at Tiny’s for the papers. Brushing through the usual conglomeration of kids around the comic books, I picked up the three morning editions and worked my way back to where Tiny sat on his high stool behind the candy bars and cigarettes.

  He laid his overgrown cigar on the edge of the counter and took the quarter I handed him. While he made change, I gave a quick glance at the headlines. The death of Harry Shulman hadn’t made a particular stir — Carr’s death did. The news rags had finally caught on. Two deaths, both by seemingly supernatural means, a science fiction convention background — all three papers, even the staid Times, were up in arms.

  I looked up at Tiny.

  His little face was expressionless. He took the cigar up again, put it in his mouth and said around it, “The Chronicle is particularly good. Got an editorial that wants you arrested for the murders. Mirror’s got an editorial, too. They don’t come right out and say it, but I think they wanta castrate you.”

  The newspapers weren’t going to be enough reading material to tide me through the day. I turned away from Tiny and began edging myself along the racks looking for something interesting. Most of the magazines there I rejected by the appearance of their covers alone; some I picked up and thumbed through momentarily before putting them back.

  Tiny said, “There’s a new issue of Super-Science Stories just come out.”

  Without turning, I growled, “To hell with Super-Science. I’ve had enough science fiction to last me a lifetime.”

  I worked my way down past sport stories and love pulps, past air war magazines and adventure, past jungle stories and true detective. None of them looked particularly good to me and I finally wound up in front of the science-fantasy racks. Before I knew it, I’d picked up a copy of Other Worlds and was thumbing through it.

  Tiny said, “There’s a good story in that there mag by Fredric Brown.”

  “All right,” I sighed. I turned back to him, tossed a quarter on the counter and put the digest size magazine in my pocket.

  The big cigar was out of his mouth again and Tiny said casually, “That straight about you not working on this case any more?”