by Eric Flint
"Yet all the murdered women came from just one of those places," said Rebecca. "I smell a rat, and it isn't just Firkin, or the missing Snout. Let's go to the Last Chance and ask some awkward questions."
"Man, but that's a lynch mob brewing in there!" said the mayor uneasily.
"Exactly. Is there one place a guilty man wouldn't go, as bold as brass?" asked Abe, grinning. "Besides, as the mayor, tasting the local brews is your civic duty."
"That's part of the problem," said the mayor, tugging his beard nervously. "No one knows exactly where Laggy stashes his still. God alone knows what goes into the stuff. Evil bastard. He's changed since the Epsilon III rush. I met him back then. He used to be a nice bloke. They called him 'honest' back then because he was too dumb to cheat even the local tax men. He's learned a lot since then, that's for sure."
"Unusual for a man to learn to have brains," said Abe, as they walked towards the flashing light outside the bar.
"He used to drink a lot," explained the mayor. "Always had his own still. I reckon he drank some bad stuff. He's given up. Or at least he barely drinks now."
"Could happen, I suppose," said Abe.
"Unlikely," said Holmes, with a look that said he'd known a few serious drunks.
They walked through the bat-wing doors and into a sudden silence—from what had been a tumultuous racket moments before.
Laggy appeared from the midst of what had been the hubbub. "What do you want here, Captain?" he demanded, with a nasty edge to his voice.
"Just pursuing my enquiries, Mr. Laguna," she said, evenly. "I have several lines of enquiry that lead me . . . here."
"The girls weren't killed anywhere near here!" protested Slim. The crowd stirred like an angry beehive.
"No," said the captain, calmly, "but they all came from here. Unusual, I gather for them to even be out of your establishment—and it's only women from this place who've been attacked, even though there are others working the corridors and tunnels. I've seen them."
There was silence again. Some thoughtful looks.
"They were all lured out of here," Laggy insisted. "By that bat."
It was such a pity that he lacked the physique to have done the deed.
Laggy stuck his hand in his pocket. "I was just going to show the boys. I found this note from that bat in Cindy's things."
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. "That bat lured them out to their deaths," he said, as Rebecca untwisted the screw of paper.
"It sounds to me as if you have a grudge against the council," said Abe evenly. "First the mayor and now Zed."
"It's obvious. They're in it together. They want to destroy my enterprise."
"Indade, not," snapped the bat, fluttering out of an air-vent. "You're a blackhearted vile exploiter."
Laggy gaped at her. "I won't have any non-humans in my bar!" he snapped.
"No, you'll keep them as slaves and cleaners instead," hissed the bat.
Laggy went white. "I . . . I . . ." He fumbled for his flechette pistol.
"That's enough," said Rebecca. "I'll remove the bat once we have discussed a few matters. Firstly, would you like to clarify a few matters as concerns this wallet?"
"I heard that rat of his," said Laggy, pointing at the mayor, "tell that it was found under the body."
Act III, Scene III: Enter the element of surprise, possibly not Watson, but Mercutio
"I'faith you have mighty keen ears, to hear something I have not said," said Firkin loftily, from the air-vent. "I bite my thumb at you, Sirrah. But Cookie tells me that he found the wallet here. It was, as is the custom with such items, placed in the container on the bar."
There was a silence. Several people looked at the big glass jar on the end of the bar.
"Who are you going to believe? Me or some rat?" demanded Laguna.
"Knowing you, the rat, I reckon," said one wag, grinning.
"They're rogues and liars!" shouted the offended proprietor of the Last Chance saloon.
"Yes I am," said Mercutio, appearing next to Firkin. "But who better to set to catch one?"
He leaped onto the table—a prodigious jump, but one he was easily capable of. "Attend!" he said to crowd. "Methinks, you have reached several wrong conclusions. Firstly, you assumed that because the victim was robbed, robbery was part of the motive for the killing."
"But they were robbed. All of them," said Slim. "Are you trying to tell us they were robbed before they were attacked? I might believe that happened once . . ."
"The bodies were robbed after death. After they had been murdered. Not by the murderer."
"Who would do that kind of thing? Anyway, we found them," said Slim, waving at several friends of his in the crowd.
The rat reached into his pouch and flung a rather distinctive silver filigree hair-grip on the table. Several people plainly recognized it by the gasps. "Ah, but methinks you did not find them first. Ask then of the captain. What artifact did she find at the last murder?"
"A rat barrow," supplied the captain.
The rat nodded. "Rats move through the passages. They will loot. You all know that."
The crowd laughed.
"Indade. As it happens a rattess named Snout did find the last body. She did rob it. And she too has been killed," said the bat. "We seek her murderer."
"Who cares if another bloody rat is dead? They're scavengers and thieves. And what does it matter if they robbed the victims?" Laggy calmly reached for a bottle and began filling glasses, as if nothing could ever upset his equilibrium.
"Methinks it matters because if you are wrong about the sequence of events of one part of the crime, you could be wrong about another," said Mercutio.
"No way that they were raped by rats," said Slim dismissively, over the rim of his full glass. "Even if you all think you're hung like Errol Flynn."
Mercutio shook his head, looking thirstily at the glass. "'Tis true that most rats are destined to be hung. But it was not a rat that killed them."
"It was a bloody great rock that someone smashed their skulls with," supplied another drinker. "Too big for a rat."
"Indeed. And that too was not what killed them," said Mercutio, grimly.
Laggy laughed. "You might live on as a bit of head-plastic after your brain gets smashed in. But the rest of us would be dead," he said with a sneer.
"Oh, the rock would have killed them," said Mercutio, digging in his pouch again, and producing a small cellophane packet of white powder. "But this already had."
"What?" demanded Captain Wuollet.
Mercutio held the packet up. "This is what killed them. They were killed by the drug, the same one that killed Snout, when she tried to use what she'd stolen from the last victim. The rest was mere fakery to make it look like a crime of rapine. You did it." He pointed at Laggy.
The proprietor of the Last Chance laughed again. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would I kill them? Anyway, how can you prove it?"
"There was very little blood where we found the body," said the captain, quietly. "And head wounds bleed. You all know that. What you may not know is that dead bodies don't."
Mercutio nodded. "Anyway. We—Snout and I—saw and robbed the body. There was no mark on her. She had not been violated. We heard someone approach and ran off lest we be caught. Methinks, if you offer sufficient reward and impunity, among the rats the looters of the other bodies will come forward. But you may be certain that the last victim was killed before her skull was broken. You had it all backwards."
"Why didn't you tell someone?" demanded Captain Wuollet.
"And be blamed? 'Tis not our business."
"It's drivel," said Laguna. "I mean yes, maybe the dust did come from the women, and might have overdosed your rat. But look, what reason do I have for killing them? They're my business. They were raped and someone killed them to hide his ID. It had to be someone strong, that they knew or could recognize."
He pointed at Holmes. "Someone like him. There is no other motive."
"Give me that," yelled Laggy, his face ashen. "Thief!"
"At least he is just a thief, not a murderer and slave-holder," said the bat, grimly. "As you are. You also forgot that there was a witness. Or perhaps you thought you were safe as he was an alien who cannot speak English. You forgot that we too can speak Korozhet, although we choose not to."
Captain Wuollet held up her hand. "Stop right there. Mr. Laguna told me that he didn't speak Korozhet."
"That is correct," said Mercutio tugging his long whiskers. "Mr. Laguna does not. Unfortunately, Mr. Laguna is dead so what he speaks is of no matter."
"What?" said Abe, just seconds ahead of several others.
Mercutio held up his stubby paws. "'Tis, methinks, both simple and obvious." He pointed at the short, plump proprietor. "This is not Mr. Laguna."
Everybody still looked puzzled. "What?" said Slim finally. "This is my buddy Honest . . ."
"No," said Mercutio, with the air of someone explaining to a simpleton—or a group of simpletons. "The man you call Honest Laguna is a former Korozhet slave who was found by the real Honest Laguna. Laguna was drunk, and trusting. This man—free now because the Korozhet had run off without their slaves—was found by the real Laguna. The slave he helped killed him, stole his clothes and possessions, including his still, and set up shop here. The act was witnessed by a fellow slave . . . one who is still here."
"What?"
"It would appear to me that their brains are stuck on that word," said Firkin. "Laggy here was slave. He's got a few more slaves himself."
"But slaves are totally forbidden in human space," said the mayor.
"Methinks that you have a veritable nugget of fact there." Mercutio fluffed his whiskers. "One that is motive for murder. He has not told them they've been liberated. He uses them in his drug manufacturing process, and to run his stills." He gave his audience a ratty grin. "Just because you have been a slave yourself does not mean that you are a good man. According to Cookie, he was a Korozhet trusty. When the Korozhet fled . . . well, the two of them were found by Laguna, who was drunk. Laggy here was much the same size and build, and for reasons as yet unknown killed him."
"You've just got this crazy rat's word for all this," said Laggy, backing against the bar. "How could I kill the girls? I've got alibis for my time. He lies."
Mercutio regarded him askance. "We eat, perforce, rations. They are scarce, while the hydroponics are getting going. Methinks you will find scant witnesses to your presence during the dinner sittings." He pointed with a stubby pawhand to the door in the painted mural. "Let us look behind the door then and ask the others if I lie."
That gesture proved to be a mistake. All the eyes in the place followed, and people stopped looking, for an instant, at Laggy. Captain Wuollet was one of the first to realize it. And thus caught the full blinding force of the magnesium flare. And something hit her flak-jacket really hard.
* * *
There was, by the noise—she couldn't see anything—a lot of chaos. Which included things like "after the bastard," and "he went that-a-ways." It sounded like Laggy's well-oiled lynch mob was being put to excellent use, thought Rebecca, as she struggled to clear her vision.
By the time she could see again, Holmes had removed his large body from shielding his commanding officer. The bar was empty, with the exception of two rats, one with a large glass of cognac, and the other with her flouncy arms in the till, never mind her fingers. The bat was fluttering around the door in the wall-mural. And what was obviously a weird retinal after-burn shaped just like a cupcake was standing talking gibberish to the bat.
"What happened to Mayor and Abe?"
"The mayor was leading the pack. He might even stop it being an onsite lynching. And Abe was looking for some tools." Sergeant Holmes closed the cash-register and narrowly missed making Firkin a little short-handed.
She sniffed irritably at him, and showed teeth. "Spoilsport."
Abe returned with a small toolkit, and walked over to the mural door. Rebecca saw that the bat was pointing at some small holes she'd never noticed before. "At least you could help instead of indulging in petty larceny!"
Mercutio preened his whiskers. "I never indulge in petty larceny," he said loftily. "This is hundred year old cognac. And you know as well as I that Cookie told us that Laggy has somehow locked that one. Methinks it will take explosives."
Rebecca looked at the rat. "You have some explaining to do."
He cocked his head. "Is Mercutio headed for durance vile?"
"I'll settle for explanations," said Rebecca. "And a glass of that loot. This time. If you stop Firkin trying to open the till again."
Firkin sat down on the bar and pulled a bottle out of her sleeve and drank some of the amber fluid in it. She looked at Mercutio very intently as she did it.
"Art sure you would not have a stoup of this stuff?" he asked.
"Methinks I will stick to my own brew," said the rattess. There seemed to be a hint of menace in that statement, although Rebecca could not put her finger on just why.
"I think," said Mercutio, "That the largest part of my explanation is that things are always quite what they seem by first appearance. And if you can see motive . . . the picture gets clearer."
"I'm still faint but pursuing as to what the picture actually is, and just how he was able to do it." Rebecca took the cognac from the faintly sinister rat. "I assume you found the motive on the disc."
Mercutio shook his head. "I did but deduce it. I know not what is on that disc. Probably the rutting of some miners and one of wenches. There must a hundred of them in his room. I guessed what his reaction would be. I was right."
"Methinks they have great resale value," said Firkin, snatching it up and dancing away.
"I'll resell you," said Rebecca. "Give it back."
"No wonder no one likes the constabulary," said Firkin, tossing it down. "So explain, Mercutio. How then did little Laggy kill the girls, if we grant him the motive?"
Mercutio savored the cognac. "It was a matter of arranging a rendezvous and waiting for the drug to kill them. The note, methinks you will find came from him, not the claw of Zed. I hath seen her script, which the girls had not. I caught a bare glimpse of the note when Laggy gave it to you, but it was neat and handwritten. Wingclaws or feet do a poor job of writing. Zed uses an electronic scripter, even for her picket signs. Did the note offer a great deal of money perchance?"
"Yes," admitted Rebecca. He was too astute for his own good, this rat.
"So that is how he killed them," said Holmes. "But how did he move them then? Mister rat?"
Mercutio shrugged. "He has a vehicle, and he repairs it. I think you'll find he has a slider. Look carefully in the tunnel on the sides and you may see the tracks . . ."
"But we did. For the barrow," said Holmes, shaking his head.
"With a narrow beam," said Firkin. "I was there, I saw you do it. The tracks will be on the edges of the tunnel if they are there at all . . . not where a barrow would leave them, which was what you looked for."
Holmes shook his head again. "God, what a sick bastard. You think he . . ."
It wasn't something Rebecca wanted to think about, either. "Without a forensic expert we won't know. I suspect he found the first body had been robbed, when he went to hide it, and saw a bright way of getting someone else to take the blame."
"We'll ask him, very politely, of course," said Holmes. "When I examine his mind. If they haven't killed him."
Firkin snorted. "They'll not catch him."
"Then I will," said Rebecca, grimly.
"Or
the rats will find him. For a fee, of course," said Mercutio.
"Got it!" said Abe. The painted door in the mural swung open to reveal a room full of lab paraphernalia, and a still. And three terrified looking aliens. Of course, expressions could be hard to read accurately on alien faces. But the cowering wasn't. Cowering crossed the species and interplanetary divide.
Maybe the easy answer was just to pay the rats to bring the bastard in dead, thought Rebecca grimly. She turned to Mercutio. "I'm thinking of giving you a job in the police force."
Mercutio seemed distinctly unwell, and looked around hastily for an exit. "Me? Art diseased in thy mind? My reputation, Iago . . ."