by John Brunner
“Shut up!” Tileman screamed. He pushed himself to his feet, his chair going over with a crash. “Lies, lies!”
There was a tune called Lies; Bitchy promptly parodied it with a mass of tinkling ragtime frills.
“I don’t think the lady next to you would agree, doctor! People, meet Medea Logan, Sammy’s widow, currently keeping company with the man who so kindly endowed her with half a million pounds. No doubt she expresses proper gratitude for the windfall…”
Lover When You’re Hear Me.
“Shut up!” Tileman bellowed. “Get the manager! It is disgusting, it is disgraceful!”
“Sure, murder’s a dirty business,” Bitchy shrugged, “And like they say the greater the truth the greater the libel. Doctor, how would you like to hit me with a suit for slander so I can parade my evidence in a court of law?”
At that moment, those last few among the listeners who had been bracing themselves to be tipped over a precipice into mockery when Bitchy returned to the regular content of the act realised that this, for once, was not a put-on. A clamour of talk broke out. Everyone stared at Tileman, shaking like a jelly, and Medea, cowering back from him.
A scared-looking man in evening dress emerged from the door behind the piano and seized Bitchy’s mike. “Ladies and gentlemen! On behalf of the management—”
“Give me back that mike!” Bitchy snapped, tore it from his grasp, and advanced on the audience, pointing: “You there—Monica Sheldrake! Tell your cousin Horace that he was seen at Apricots last night and he’d better quit while his nose is clean. And you over there—Bobby Finchborough! One of your brother officers was at Apricots too. Pass the word. And you, Aggie Combe-West! That was where your fiancé spent last night, not with the pretty little yob you were so worried about when you saw them together. Of course you do have grounds to worry and if you can cancel the wedding you’d be well advised. And—”
But even the mike couldn’t carry the words over the din after that. On every side pale, panic-stricken guests were climbing to their feet, terrified at what name might be spoken next.
Across the table Tileman looked at Laird, who returned his stare levelly. For a moment he thought the gross man was going to hit him. But he only choked out a curse and spun on his heel. With Medea trailing him, he forced his way to the exit.
Laird waited until the rumpus died down. So did Bitchy, holding the mike ready for the closing comment which followed the restoration of calm.
“The most successful performance of my career, I do believe.”
THIRTY-ONE
Laird and Bitchy moved to join the girls at their table, and Laird ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Before it was delivered, however, the scared man in evening dress—according to Bitchy, the acting manager—came over and started to shriek about ruining the club by driving away the wealthiest clients.
“You must be joking,” Bitchy said contemptuously. “When the word gets around there’ll be queues from here to Marble Arch!”
“But we’ll lose our licence! You called that man a murderer!”
“He is one.”
“You must be insane!”
Bitchy gave a camp giggle and fluttered huge artificial lashes. “Why, you say the nicest things!”
The man drew back. “I’m getting on the blower to the boss this minute!” he threatened. “You’ll be fired, I promise!”
“Splendid. I have about enough saved up to open my own club. Laird, where’s that champagne? I think I deserve a glass of it.”
The acting manager vanished, and a worried waiter brought them five glasses. Laird was about to wave away the one he placed in front of Polly, but she checked him.
“I—I think I’ll try some,” she said nervously. “You hear such a lot about champagne…”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, not at this place,” Bitchy said. “They don’t exactly cut it with soda-water, but they might as well at the price they charge. Still, it’s better than nothing.”
Polly coloured. After a pause she said, “I—I want to apologise to you.”
“What in hell for?”
“I think what you did just now must have taken an awful lot of courage. I mean they’re threatening to sack you… And you did it just for the sake of my brother?”
“He was my best friend,” Bitchy said. “In some ways he was my only friend.”
“Well… I’m sorry for what I thought about you.”
Bitchy gave a harsh masculine laugh and reached across the table to grasp Polly’s hand. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I heard all about Sammy’s family, and you’re not what I expected either.”
“Laird, what will happen now?” Courcy demanded. “Like Bitchy said, the news will get around, but it’s still only news, isn’t it? It’s not legal evidence.”
“Tileman’s lost half his customers already,” Bitchy said smugly. “I can tell when someone’s had the shit scared out of him. Sorry, Polly!”
Polly gave a mechanical headshake.
Dagmar said abruptly, “But he will not take this—how do you say?—lying down!”
“I hope not,” Laird said. “Best of all will be if he does as Bitchy invited, and sues for slander.”
“Right,” Bitchy nodded. “But before that happens we have to build a proper case, caulk all the seams. Matter of fact, let’s start on that right away. They won’t want me to do the second go-round tonight, I imagine. I’ll get into plain clothes and we’ll go back to your place and milk Dagmar of whatever else she can tell us.”
An hour later, with Bitchy again in the dark suit Laird had seen before, magically transformed into a masculine image, they sat around the Auvergne-painting coffee-table.
“The drugs themselves,” Bitchy said. “Where does he keep the formula?”
Dagmar hesitated. “There is a wall-safe in his room. I think it must be there, but I never saw it and I wouldn’t understand it if I did.”
“Where does he get the raw materials?”
“He orders by code-number from a chemical catalogue and prepares the drugs himself. There is a private laboratory in the apartment.”
“Search warrant,” Bitchy said, making a note on a scrap of paper. “I can probably fix that. The bastard may be right in claiming that there’s no law against his drugs, but… Ah! A question in the House of Commons, that’s the answer! I know a dyed-in-the-wool Tory reactionary who’ll cheerfully raise some hell. I never thought I’d find a use for him! ‘Is the Rt Hon. Minister aware that at a house in North London there are monthly parties where the guests indulge in drug-taking and all forms of perverted debauchery?’”
“You sound a hell of a lot more hopeful than you did this afternoon,” Laird grunted.
“When I saw those bastards cave in,” Bitchy shrugged, “I had second thoughts.”
Polly, silent at the end of the long lounge, tried to stifle a yawn and failed. Bitchy gave a sympathetic grin.
“Okay, I think we have enough to be going on with. I may not be able to nail Tileman, but I damned well ought to be able to make life bloody uncomfortable for him, and he won’t be able to do a blind thing in return. I’ll get along home and wake up a few influential friends. If they’re in bed. Also I’d better speak to my lawyers. I really stuck my neck out tonight!”
“I’ll see you down,” Laird said, and rose.
At the foot of the stairs, having opened the door but made no move to cross the threshold, Bitchy turned with a sudden air of decision.
“Laird, I ought to come clean. It’s fine to seem altruistic and stick my neck out for the sake of my friends. But—well, do I have to tell you that this could make me for good and all?”
“You said it was the biggest thing you’d ever touched.”
“Hell, it’s so big it nearly scares me. Me!” Bitchy gave a wondering headshake. “I never thought that could happen. Anyway…” A deep breath. “I’m much obliged to you. Want to share the best-kept secret in London?”
Laird laughed and sh
ook his head. “It doesn’t make any odds to me.”
“Oh, I know that. But I’d like to tell you. There are so damned few people who know, and…” The sexless husky voice broke. “And it’s lonely out here where I am!”
Laird waited in the near-darkness.
“I’m not a man,” the faint voice said. “But I’m not a woman either. There have only been six cases like mine recorded this century. I’m a true hermaphrodite.”
And, with a sudden return to briskness: “So there you are. Okay?”
“Okay,” Laird said gently, and moved by a sudden impulse put his arm friendly around Bitchy’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. A hand closed over his for a moment, and then the door was swinging to.
He went back upstairs very thoughtfully, trying to picture what it was like to be neither male nor female but an exact average between the two. Having had such a ghastly joke played on him/her by Nature, it was small wonder Bitchy had chosen institutionalised malice for a career.
I don’t think I could stand it.
When he re-entered the living-room, he found that Polly had disappeared, and so had her bag, and Courcy—with brisk efficiency—was making up the long lounge as an emergency bed. She’d located the spare blankets which Laird had tried and failed to find; obviously she knew her way around Sammy’s old home better than he did.
In response to his questioning look, she said, “Polly’s dead beat—yawning so much she can hardly talk. I told her to go put her nightie on. Christ, you never saw such a passion-damper!”
Dagmar said uncertainly, helping to tuck in the end of the blanket that had been spread on the lounge, “And you? You have your car to go home, no?”
“I am not going home,” Courcy said with determination, and tossed a pillow on the improvised bed. “I don’t mean to miss a minute of what happens here. If Tileman comes calling in the middle of the night, I want to be on hand to help beat his fat head in.”
“But then where shall I—?”
“That’s a fine wide bed in there,” Courcy interrupted. “It must be at least six feet across. And unless Laird has any objections—which he’d better not…! Of course, Polly may be a little puzzled in the morning. But I think her education’s been shockingly neglected, don’t you?”
THIRTY-TWO
Definitely a crazy town. But I like it.
Laird found himself thinking that as he emerged from sleep. For a moment or two he was half-convinced he had dreamed it all, and would waken to discover himself in his former hotel room. He extended both hands experimentally, in opposite directions. No, it wasn’t a dream. There was too much smooth warm skin under his fingers, and a stereo effect in the sighs he elicited by way of response.
Just as he was organising himself to enjoy the sensation, the phone rang.
Both girls woke up and their eyes met across his chest. They gave identical embarrassed grins. Courcy was on the phone side; twisting around, she picked up the handset and passed it to Laird. Then she jumped out of bed to get a robe from the closet. Passing Dagmar on the way back, she rumpled the ash-blonde locks affectionately and a moment later was heard out in the living-room greeting Polly and promising coffee in a few minutes.
“Yes?” Laird said to the phone.
“Lewis here. Seen this morning’s papers?”
“No! What’s in them?”
“One of them.” A rustling sound. “It’s in the gossip column of the Echo. Here, listen. ‘Patrons of the exclusive Lizzie Borden club scattered like frightened pigeons last night when the club’s resident entertainer, Bitchy Legree, whose speciality is snide rumour and innuendo, got down off his—or possibly her—usual high-camp rostrum and directly accused one of the customers of being concerned in a murder. This was too strong meat for the rest of the audience. The management announced later that Bitchy’s contract was under review, because quote there’s a limit to sick humour and this was beyond that limit unquote.’ Who the hell was the customer—Dr Tileman?”
“Yes.”
“But what for?”
“Bitchy says that Sammy Logan was his—or possibly her—best friend,” Laird grunted.
“I see.” But Lewis sounded very unhappy. “Well, I wish Bitchy Legree had kept his or her big mouth shut! Now I’ve got to go to the Commissioner and say a nightclub entertainer thinks there’s something fishy about the Logan case, can I quit what I’m doing and investigate?”
“You do not. You have to go to him and say there’s going to be a question asked in the House of Commons about drug-parties—make it LSD if you like, he’ll have heard of that—and you have a lead to the man who’s been organising them.”
“Are you certain?”
“Virtually. And won’t it look good when the question comes up if the Yard can say the matter is already being dealt with?”
“You could be right.” Lewis had brightened. “Okay—I’m sorry I flew off the handle. Thanks very much.”
“Just a second!” Laird exclaimed.
“Yes?”
“Did you get the list of Tileman’s customers?”
“Yes; thanks for that too. It’s here on my desk.”
“In that case, isn’t it about time you started fulfilling your side of the bargain?”
“What do you mean?”
“Right now, Tileman is scared of three people—me, his ex-secretary Dagmar Schell, who’s here at my place, and Bitchy. There’s a strong possibility that one of us might drop dead of a heart-attack like Sammy Logan.”
“What do you want—police protection?”
“I want whatever will help us to stay alive. I’d rather have a watch on Tileman than on us.”
“Okay, I’ll see if I can fix it. I think I have enough to swing the deal now.” Unexpectedly, Lewis gave a harsh laugh. “What’s your trade, Walker?”
“I don’t have one. I’m a rich hobo.”
“Thought so. You have all the qualifications of a ganze Macher. Just be careful you don’t pull one string too many and bring the whole lot down on your head. Right, I’ll put the Home Office and the Special Branch on to Tileman—they keep files on defectors open for years, and they may still have one open on him.”
“You make as much trouble for him as you can,” Laird said, and cradled the phone.
When he emerged into the living-room, he found Polly—in a towelling robe over her “passion-damper”—sitting on the end of the lounge, the bedding neatly folded. He walked over and gave her an exuberant kiss on the cheek, making her flinch in astonishment.
“Did you sleep okay, Polly?” he demanded.
“No. Uh—no.” She licked her lips, her eyes avoiding his. “I woke up very early this morning, and I lay awake worrying. I kept thinking about that horrible man. I was half-hoping I’d dreamed it all. To think that my own brother should have been murdered…!”
Choosing a cigarette from his pack, Laird hesitated. He said at last, “That’s not the worst of it, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about squaring accounts with Tileman. It’s revenge, isn’t it? And that’s futile. It won’t buy Sammy back from the grave.”
She nodded.
“Only”—he set light to the cigarette—“as far as I’m concerned that isn’t Tileman’s worst crime. According to the doctor from the Brankside Hospital that I talked to, those drugs he has could be the means of saving people’s sanity, maybe even their lives. And he’s turned them into a party-trick.”
There was a pause. Polly said suddenly, “The love of money is the root of all evil.”
“I don’t know about all evil. But you can’t question Tileman’s love of money.” Laird scowled. Before he could continue, however, Courcy and Dagmar came in, bringing not only coffee but eggs and toast and marmalade, and there was a sudden flurry of breakfast happening.
It was another cool day, and overcast. That, though, didn’t seem to damp Courcy’s vivacity. She kept talking almost nonstop, and Laird’s mind wandered. All of a sudden,
however, he heard Medea referred to and started listening to the conversation again.
Polly, in response to Courcy’s questions, had been saying the same thing as she had told Laird last evening—that she had planned to make a trip abroad with her legacy—and added, “You see, at first I thought there’s one person I ought to visit, just to find out what she’s like. My sister-in-law. She lives in Spain somewhere, at a place called Fas…”
“Not Fastosa?” Courcy exclaimed. “Oh, I know Fastosa! Mummy took me there when I was about fifteen! You wouldn’t like it very much.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the most ghastly colony of expatriates, all so pseudo you wouldn’t believe. Absolutely the ideal place for Medea, though—all glamorous and superficial.” Abruptly Courcy snapped her fingers. “Hey, Laird! I just had an idea! Medea doesn’t know my voice—suppose I ring her up and put a bit more of the fear of God into her?”
Laird had been chafing at his enforced inactivity. He shrugged. “No harm in adding fuel to the fire, I guess. She’s staying at the Rapallo Hotel.”
Courcy jumped up and strode over to the phone. The others listened silently as she asked for Medea.
Suddenly her face fell. She said, “Do you mean she’s gone out?… Gone back to Spain? Ah, hell!… Thank you!”
Cradling the phone, she said to the others, “She’s fled the country—would you believe it?”
“At least that means she won’t be financing Tileman’s expansion,” Laird pointed out.
“Good,” Dagmar said, and charged the word with virulent detestation.
There was a pause. Laird was just about to suggest that if Tileman had gone to the Dramagic office today, it might be the right time for Dagmar to sneak back and collect her belongings, when the phone shrilled and Courcy snatched it up.
“Hello?… For you, Laird. It’s Bitchy.”
“Morning,” said the husky neuter voice. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad. But do you want to know where Tileman is right now?”