Unidentified Funny Objects 2

by Silverberg, Robert

  I could see plain as day that it was green; he needn’t have pointed it out. A disturbingly luminescent green that quite frankly hurt the back of my brain a little.

  “I honestly couldn’t care less,” I said.

  “Oh, come now, Ash. I’m trading in wigs on the side now. Sort of a hobby thing. Let me set you up. Some metallic silver forelocks?”

  “No.”

  “A rainbow spread of feather extenders?”

  “No.”

  “A full mop in a fetching leopard pattern?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Seriously, let me send you a leopard. I accidentally bought an entire crate and they’re horrid. Absolutely ghastly. Frightened the maid so badly she cried and short-circuited herself.”

  “I said no, Wiggy.”

  He burst into tears.

  “Oh for goodness sake,” I said, rolling my eyes, “send me one then if it’s that important to you.”

  “It’s not that,” he sobbed. “I’m afraid I’m in a terrible predicament. A dreadful quandary. A horrible fix.”

  “Well, spit it out then,” I said, “before my great-grandchildren are billed for the call.”

  “It’s quite simple, Ash. I-I’ve gone and killed a man.”

  I waited for the rest, but apparently that constituted his full confession.

  “I fail to see the problem,” I said.

  Judging from the look on his face this was possibly not the response he’d been looking for.

  “But I didn’t mean to,” he protested.

  “’Didn’t mean to’ accounts for nearly half my kills,” I assured him. “There’s no shame in a bit of collateral damage, though it’s best not to advertise it. Don’t want them thinking you’re only racking up points with hand grenades.”

  “You don’t understand,” wailed Wiggy. “I’ve become a murderer, Ash. An out-and-out criminal of the worst breed. There’s blood on my hands.”

  “Is that all? Let me switch you back to Humbert. He’s simply a wizard with stains.”

  I reached toward the monitor.

  “Wait!” he cried. “That’s not the end of it.”

  “Speaking strictly as a professional,” I said, “I can assure you it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.” He glanced around the room and then back into the VID monitor, hunched lower now, his great beak of a nose filling the screen. “He’s back.”

  “Who’s back?”

  “Howard Hornsby. The chap I accidentally dispatched.”

  I smiled. “Technically, Wiggy, if they’re still kicking then you haven’t actually killed them yet.”

  “No, no, I’m positive I did. Absolutely so.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “I accidentally knocked him into one of the combines here on the farm.”

  “One of those mechanical harvester thingys?”

  “A rather big one, I’m afraid.”

  “And you think what now? He’s patched himself back together and is out for revenge?”

  He sniffed. “As absurd as that may sound, yes. Or, well, something like that. I mean, he must be dead, he simply must. But… oh, I don’t know. I tell you, the whole thing’s got me baffled but good.”

  “Well, I can certainly appreciate your dilemma,” I sympathized. Then I thought about it a bit longer. “Actually, no I can’t. Why exactly did you call me, again?”

  “I need protection. I want to hire you as my bodyguard.”

  “Ah, see, I actually do the opposite of that.”

  “I’m serious, Ash. It’s only a matter of time before he gets me. Or else hires someone for the job. I’ve seen people lurking about, shadows in the bushes. Cold-hearted, backstabbing bastards, the lot of them. Not a twig of guilt or conscience. But that’s your world, Ash. You’re one of them.”

  “My, but you do have a way of flattering a girl.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  I am, generally speaking, immune to begging, having understandably encountered my fair share of it in this line of work, but there was something in the way his chubby little cheeks quivered that got the better of me. I hate it when that happens.

  “Fine,” I said, “I’ll come. But at twice my normal rate and a full maintenance checkup for Humbert. He’s due next month.”

  “I’ll pay, I’ll pay. Whatever it takes.”

  “Fine. Expect us the day after tomorrow.”

  I snapped off the VID and looked down at my book with a sigh.

  Electrocution would just have to wait.

  WE ARRIVED AT WIGGY’S as scheduled, a vast, sprawling parcel of land. The Turpin estate was old money. Full east and west wings, guest houses, gardens, stables, a private observatory, and two thousand acres of prime farmland. A bit of Downton Abbey meets the American Midwest.

  The maid, Greetta, and the butler, Jeevz, met us at the front door. Both were android servants and sported matching bronze Mohawks. I sensed Wiggy’s influence here and no one seemed overly happy about it, least of all me. We left the pleasantries aside.

  “I’m afraid there’s been another incident,” Jeevz intoned.

  “Hornsby again?” I asked.

  “No,” Greetta chimed in. “It’s Mr. Turpin. He’s… well, h-he’s expired you see.”

  “Doesn’t anyone ever check the due dates around here?” I quipped, tongue firmly in check.

  Apparently it was a poor time for risqué humor, as the two of them simply stood there and stared at me blankly. Possibly they had been expecting more in the way of grief from an old friend, but take my word for it, when your final exam with a room full of school chums is “last one standing,” you learn to let go fairly quickly.

  I put on my best somber face. “May we examine the body?”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t one,” said Jeevz.

  The maid let out a shuttering sob and a few sparks flew from the corner of her eye socket.

  “Obviously,” I said, “you’ve been schooled in such matters by the late master of the house. You see, normally we base accusations of death on actual observation of the individual’s current state of health, or, more typically, the lack thereof.”

  Jeevz frowned. “There isn’t a body because Mr. Turpin fell into the combine harvester.”

  I leaned over to Humbert. “Make a note. The next time we require a third man we’re contacting that harvester. It’s establishing an absolutely first rate record.”

  “I can, however, direct you to the location of the incident,” Jeevz continued.

  “And why, pray tell, would we want to do that?”

  “Were you not hired to protect Mr. Turpin?”

  “Yes, but I would venture to say we’ve arrived a little too late to fulfill that particular contractual obligation.”

  “But will you not wish to investigate his death?”

  “Investigate what? It was the combine harvester. You just said so.”

  “Mr. Turpin’s estate will pay you for your services in the successful determination of his murderer.”

  “But… the combine harvester. Remember? We just talked about it. Twice. I say, do you suffer from some sort of short-term memory loss?”

  Jeevz sighed. “The harvester was the instrument, madam, not the culprit.”

  “What culprit? You said he fell in.”

  “My apologies. I meant to say he was pushed in.”

  “Ah, yes, well that’s the problem with the English language, isn’t it? All the words mean different things.”

  “You would be free to pursue the investigation in whatever manner you see fit, completely uninhibited and beholden to no one, save that you provide the estate with a name.”

  “Butterfield.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Butterfield. That’s a name. You said to provide a name.”

  “I meant the name of the actual killer.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be fussy about it.”

  Since there were still several days remaining before my next official as
signment, and since the thought of traveling back to the moon held even less appeal than checking over greasy farm machinery for the mangled remains of a former classmate, I accepted the job. Jeevz showed us to our rooms, gave us directions to the dining hall, and told us dinner was served at six bells. That was still several hours off.

  “What say, Humbert, old goat? Might as well jump in with both feet, eh? Make hay while the weather-controlled sun shines?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “From assassin to bodyguard to private detective all in one day. Who knows what’s next?”

  “My inner parts shudder to think, madam.”

  “Now, now. That’ll be enough cheek out of you,” I warned, donning my working jacket.

  Humbert spread out the portable weapon’s pack on the bed.

  “Just a single concealed knife for the time being,” I instructed. “No need to frighten the domestic staff—or at least, not without due cause. We can always return for the WMDs if things get sticky.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  WE SPENT THE AFTERNOON interviewing: the house staff, the gardeners, the stable hands, the farm hands, all the sentient A.I. on the premises, his close friends, and the neighbors. Anyone and everyone who might be able to shed even a little light on the fate of poor Wiggy and his friend Hornsby. We made little headway in turning up any useful information, but all-in-all I thought I did rather well as a first time investigator, and Humbert only had to remind me twice that waterboarding is not generally considered an acceptable canvassing technique. The one small tidbit we did glean was a hint at some recent hostility between the two of them. They were in a quartet together—Wiggy played the violin and Hornsby the cello—and a bit of friendly rivalry may have ballooned into something nastier.

  We arrived back for dinner at precisely six bells, and without wishing to sound ungrateful I would not have served the meal spread before us to the worst of condemned prisoners. The hors d’œuvres were smoked salmon—or possibly salmon that had a prior smoking habit given their uncanny resemblance to small bits of dried up lung. The entree, Cornish hen with new potatoes, stared at me like we were long lost relatives, and I privately questioned the wisdom of leaving the eyeballs in as a matter of presentation. The pistachio cannoli for dessert would actually have been passable had its particular shade of green not reminded me strongly of Wiggy’s toupee. Finally, we drank a toast in memory of dear Wiggy with the cheapest of watered-down wine and then shuffled off back to our rooms.

  “That was the worst meal in the history of all meals,” I grumbled. “I dare say God himself would have sent back the soup.”

  “There was no soup course, madam,” said Humbert.

  “Which tells you just how bad it must have been, if they couldn’t even bring themselves to serve it. Wherever did Wiggy find those two and please reassure me that we didn’t just eat him.”

  “My condolences to your stomach, madam, but it was not ‘all for naught’ as I believe the saying goes.”

  “Come again?”

  “There is this,” he said, and brought forth a silver butter knife, one from the place settings at dinner.

  “Dear boy, if I’m not paying you enough just say so. No need stooping to petty thievery.”

  “My molecular scanner detected some organic residue on the cutlery, and I matched the DNA pattern to that of your acquaintance, Mr. Turpin. The sample cannot be more than twelve hours old.”

  “Stabbed to death with a butter knife? That harvester is downright brutal.”

  “Actually, the residue is not blood, merely the normal microscopic deposits secreted by all living creatures. It indicates that he held this knife sometime earlier today.”

  “So, not as dead as we were led to believe, eh?”

  “Perhaps, madam, if I may be so bold, some after-hours reconnaissance would not be amiss?”

  “Just so long as it’s followed by an after-hours snack. My stomach is threatening litigation.”

  I’VE ALWAYS LIKED SNEAKING about. It’s so… sneaky.

  We checked everywhere. Both wings, the library, the dance hall, all the unoccupied bedrooms, the baths, the inner gardens, the outer gardens, the stables, and the multi-level garage. Humbert maintained a continual scan for any further signs of our missing host.

  “Still nothing?” I asked some hours later.

  “I’m afraid not, madam.”

  “Well, do one final sweep around the main compound and then meet me in the kitchen.”

  “You believe we will discover some further link there to the knife?”

  “No, I’m merely starving.”

  Humbert lumbered off with the weapon pack and I made my way down to the lower levels. I was delighted (and not a little surprised) to discover they maintained a well-stocked larder with perfectly edible foodstuffs. Why they felt the need to torture fresh vegetables and prime cuts of meat into disfigured semblances of an actual meal was beyond me.

  I was halfway through a mouth-watering cold meat sandwich when hurried footsteps echoed down the stairwell. In a flash I was up from the table and behind the door, remembering too late that I’d left my knife lying next to the bread loaf. A man in a tuxedo descended quickly into the kitchen and began randomly opening cupboard doors.

  I stepped out. “Howard Hornsby, I presume.”

  He swung around.

  “Who are you?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “A friend of Mr. Turpin’s.”

  “Oh, yeah? Tell me where he’s at then.”

  “You haven’t heard? I’m afraid to say he’s passed on.”

  “Poppycock. He’s here. I can smell his wig glue.”

  He sniffed around the stove and the spice racks.

  “Might I inquire as to the reason for your visit?” I asked, as I casually began to maneuver myself toward the knife rack at the other end of the counter.

  “Oh, you know, just wanted to catch up, is all.”

  “You mean on the local gossip and such?”

  “Precisely. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “Not at all. It’s only, I’m having a difficult time reconciling that with the fact that my knife is clutched ever so firmly in your hand.”

  He looked down with an expression of genuine surprise. “Hello, where did this come from?”

  “You picked it up off the table as you flew past.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Perhaps so you could run at me like you are right now.”

  I leaped nimbly to the side as he made a rather unsuccessful (and might I add, poorly balanced) lunge at me. A hapless rack of ladles were scattered across the floor instead.

  “I suppose,” he said, “there is a certain logic to what you say. But why would I rush at you with a knife?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” I said, as he continued to make various jabs at my person. “Although I’d venture a guess—and I grant that it is mere speculation on my part—that you might be attempting to kill me.”

  He pinned me against the counter but I managed to grab his knife hand at the last second, the blade mere inches from my chest.

  “The evidence would seem to be pointing in that direction,” he agreed.

  I did a quick reverse and jerked him forward, allowing his own weight to drive the knife home. He staggered back, blood soaking his shirt, the knife hilt now protruding neatly from his own chest.

  He looked up at me. “That was… rather… impressive,” he gurgled.

  “Yes, it’s a little trick I learned in school called ‘not dying’.”

  He slumped to the floor, dead as the proverbial doornail. And let me add that that was my professional assessment. None of this dead person with no body business. This one was absolutely certified.

  More footsteps echoed from the staircase, so I quickly dumped the body into a nearby broom cupboard (mostly out of habit) and ducked behind the door again.

  “Hello? What’s all this mess?” said a strangely familiar voice.

  I peeke
d out and found myself staring at none other than one very much living and breathing Howard Hornsby, now wielding a cricket bat.

  I stepped forward once more. “I say, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded, raising the bat tentatively.

  “Forgive my lack of manners, but I could have sworn I just killed you and stuffed you in this cupboard.”

  “Well, am I in there?”

  I cracked open the door and peeked in. Sure enough, Hornsby’s body was still there.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Perhaps it slipped my mind then.”

  I shrugged. A single karate chop to the neck rectified the oversight before he could get a swing in. The fit in the cupboard was considerably tighter this time. They’re not designed for bodies, of course, but I find you can stuff a corpse into just about any available space with a little imagination. And, if necessary, a chainsaw.

  “Can I assist you, madam?”

  I turned around to find Hornsby once again staring me dead in the eye—or, in fact, not so much dead. Another swift survey of the cupboard confirmed the first two Hornsby bodies were still very much present and accounted for.

  “By any chance did your mother have quadruplets?” I asked.

  “Die, troll witch!” he screamed as he brought up a pistol and fired wildly in my direction.

  Now a hotheaded assassin is usually a dead assassin, and I was not, generally speaking, one to lose my temper. Nevertheless the evening’s activities were beginning to wear severely on my patience. When I kill a man I usually prefer he stay that way, and quite frankly I’d had one too many Hornsbys take a run at me. And all that on a still mostly empty stomach.

  Once he’d emptied the clip—to no avail, I should add, otherwise this tale would be ending more or less right here—dispatching him was a simple matter of beating him to death with the breadboard.

  Once more into the broom cupboard I went, and after some fair bit of pushing (and not a little snapping) I finally managed to shut and latch the door. I did a quick survey of the connecting rooms and gave a hard listen up the staircase to ensure there were no other Hornsbys lurking about.

  A few minutes later Humbert appeared, and while rearming myself more properly from the pack, I caught him up to date on the Hornsby family reunion.