I looked up from my examination of Zhao's neck. “How many people on board would you say are left handed?"
Miyamoto did not answer immediately, surprised by the apparent change of topic. “I am. I can't recall noticing anybody else. Why?"
"Take a look at the back of Zhao's neck. I am not a crime scene technician by any means, but it looks like this starts as a puncture wound, the knife jabbing pretty much straight in. Then it slices to the left.
"Now it is certainly possible to hold one of these knives with the sharpened edge pointing to the left and, having made the stab, to push it further in that direction. However, it would be awkward. The more natural action for a right-hander is to hold it with the edge facing right and then, after stabbing, to pull it in that direction."
I did not say it, but I had also noticed that the wound seemed to be directed down toward the chest. If Zhao had been standing at the time, the knife would have started above him. But there was no one even as tall as Zhao on board.
Miyamoto listened to this with increasingly wide eyes. “Why would I do such a thing?” he asked.
"I haven't said you did. But, to answer your question, for the same reason anyone else on the Outward Bound would have. Zhao was a master of irritation and provocation. His snit in the dining area was only the most recent example. For all I know, you all drew straws as soon as I left the room and you were the lucky guy chosen to do the deed."
"I tried to save his life,” Miyamoto said heatedly.
"Zhao's room was locked,” I said. “The only person who could get into that room is the person who did indeed get in: you. You had at least a minute before Zin came in behind you. Plenty of time to stab someone in the back. Taking along the first aid kit was inspired. Knifing someone can be messy. Attempting first aid, at least giving the appearance of doing so, would give you the perfect excuse to have blood on your hands and your fingerprints on the murder weapon."
Miyamoto was starting to sweat. I felt a bit sorry for him, especially since I did not really believe what I was saying.
"I was in the Control Room with Vice Captain Piper when we received Zhao's call,” Miyamoto said. “Piper was with me at the very moment Zhao was being murdered."
"We don't really know what Zhao said. You described him as ‘screaming incoherently.’ Maybe he was just upset that his bed had not been made up the way he liked."
I led Miyamoto out of the refrigerator to the circular third level corridor. Miyamoto stared at the floor.
"I'm not saying I would arrest you even if I had the authority,” I said. “But if these thoughts occur to me, they will certainly occur to the official investigators. You will want to have something convincing to say to them."
I decided to interview everyone else in his own cabin, on the off chance that I might pick up a clue, if not to method then perhaps to motivation. Zin's room, located right next to Zhao's, gave absolutely no clue to her personality. We had been on board for almost two days, yet no pictures or books had been placed on the small writing table. If she had family, a boyfriend, any sort of personal life, there was no indication of it. It also seemed at least five degrees cooler than any place else on the Outward Bound.
She sat on the fold-down cot, seemingly immersed in her own thoughts, as I entered. Then she saw what I was carrying on my hip.
"What is that?” she asked in surprise.
"What it looks like,” I said. “It's a .32-caliber semiautomatic pistol."
"You would use that in here?” she asked incredulously. She gave a quick glance to her shuttered window. “You could kill us all."
I shook my head. “It's loaded with safety slugs. Thin-walled jackets filled with number twelve shot. They fragment on impact so as not to go through walls or people. ‘Stopping power maximized by complete dispersal of bullet energy into the intended target with immediate shock and trauma,'” I said, quoting the ad copy. “Air marshals have used them for forty years."
Zin turned her head away. “I think there has been enough shock and trauma—and blood. Do you really believe you need that protection?"
"There are two schools of thought about that,” I said. “One is that the murderer is a member of one of the nut cults that never wanted the Beanstalk built, that it's an affront to Mother Gaia or will be used to pollute the rest of the solar system or whatever. If so, we may all be at risk.
"On the other hand, it may be that the murderer had a personal reason to kill Mr. Zhao. In that case, I may be the only one in danger simply because I am asking questions. My hope is that packing a .32 will make me an unattractive target."
I gave her the self-deprecating smile that had been so charming when I was chef and waiter. No reaction. Her head was still turned away. Time to take charge of the conversation.
"Where did you go after lunch?"
"I came right back here. I had papers that still had to be prepared and checked before the Laputa signing ceremony."
"Did you hear anything unusual?"
"No, not at first. I was concentrating on my work. Then, there was a sort of thumping coming from his room. I thought he must have been throwing something at a wall.” She looked at me apologetically. “Mr. Zhao was under a great deal of stress. He would kick or throw things sometimes. He meant nothing by it."
"Then what?” I prompted.
"There was a scream.” Zin drew a deep breath and shuddered. “I could not make out any words, but I could hear the fear and pain. I ran out to the corridor. Mr. Miyamoto was just opening the door. I looked in and saw on the floor...” She put her fist to her mouth, blinking away tears.
"Can it be true?” she asked.
"Can what be true?"
"The rumors. The stories you see on obscure telezines about creatures living in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, or even in space itself. There are pictures taken by satellites from a distance. Sometimes they look like flying saucers. Other times, more like huge, celestial jellyfish.
"Some say they aren't material at all, that they are energy beings. Walls and doors would mean nothing to them. They would be able come through just like light."
Her voice was getting higher, her breathing faster. She would work herself into hysteria if I did not do something quickly.
"I don't know anything about space-dwelling creatures,” I said. “However, I am reasonably certain that if they exist, even if they were hostile, they would not choose my steak knives as the means to show their displeasure."
This time, I did get the smile. “Forgive me, I'm babbling. That was an absurd suggestion. The strain, you understand, has made me behave as if I have altitude sickness."
"Given how high we are, a little altitude sickness is forgivable. Just let me know if you remember any more details, no matter how insignificant."
* * * *
Vice Captain Norm Piper seemed distracted during our interview. He kept his face pointed in my direction, and he would nod encouragingly from time to time, but his almost colorless eyes never really focused on me. Blond crew cut and overly regular features made him look almost like a store mannequin.
"Captain Miyamoto says you were with him in the control room when Zhao's call came in."
"Yeah. That's right."
"What time did Miyamoto come into the room?"
Piper frowned, as if it took extra effort to pull his mind away from wherever it was to attend to my questions. “About 12:50. Earlier than I expected. He was in a bad mood. Zhao had been even more irritating than usual at lunch."
"He stayed in the control room with you until Zhao's call came in?"
"Yeah."
"There is some question about what Zhao said. Miyamoto doesn't understand Chinese—"
"I do,” Piper interrupted. “He said that he had been stabbed and he needed help."
I must have looked surprised. “Mr. Fetterman wants every one of his executive staff fluent in either Japanese or Chinese.” For the first time, his eyes met mine. “So you're a security operative, huh? Internal or contrac
t?"
"I can't really go into that."
"Right. But you're the one responsible for keeping things like this from happening."
"People tell me that."
Piper smiled and seemed to relax. “That's what I thought. I was telling Miyamoto not to worry."
It might be a murder to most of us, but to Piper it was a potential blot on his resume, one that might impede his advancement in Fetterman Associates. It was a great relief to him to discover that I was the designated fall guy.
* * * *
Narayan Singh's room was almost the opposite of Zin's. Overly warm where hers was cold, littered with personal touches where hers was almost sterile. He offered me tea, which I declined, as I sat down to begin the interview.
"Can you tell me where you were in the half hour between the end of lunch and Miyamoto's discovery of Mr. Zhao's body."
"I was in this room, reading Faulkner. Primitive societies fascinate me. Then I took a nap. As I am sure you remember, Mr. Zhao had been quite tiresome."
"Was your assistant, Bachi, with you any part of this time?"
"No. I understand he was with Jackson's assistant, being defeated in a game of ping-pong. So you see, I have absolutely no alibi."
"What do you think of Zhao's murder?"
"Really, Mr. Rassendyll, if that absurd name is truly yours, this is a time when I can be especially grateful that I am businessman instead of a diplomat. You saw how the man behaved, so it should not surprise you to hear me say that with Zhao's death the air is sweeter, the Sun shines more brightly, and children everywhere play more happily."
The old man was having entirely too much fun with this. He was throwing my questions back in my face and making me like it.
"Mr. Zhao was a tall man and appeared to be fairly strong,” I said. “I imagine it would have taken someone nearly as strong to kill him."
"You note my excellent physical condition despite my advanced age. It is true. Until three years ago, I played polo. Last year, I bowled for the cricket team that won the Punjabi Cup."
"A suspicious man would note that you are the only one of our passengers who is always armed,” I said.
He pulled the dagger from its sheath on his belt. “My kirpan. As a Sikh I wear this always as a matter of religious obligation.” He brushed his thumb lightly across the edge. “I keep it sharp as a matter of personal preference.
"More importantly, this is the knife with which Zhao was not killed. That was a kitchen knife purportedly under your control."
I had been scanning the room as he talked. My eye was caught by a particularly ugly figurine of a four-armed woman with a necklace of skulls. She seemed to be sticking her tongue out at me.
"The goddess Kali,” Singh said, following my gaze. “Not venerated by Sikhs, of course. A peace offering from my daughter after an argument during which we were both overly vehement."
"She looks rather bloodthirsty,” I commented.
"Occidentals tend to think so. ‘Kill for the love of killing! Kill for the love of Kali! Kill! Kill! Kill!’ Most Westerners know of her only through two overly flamboyant films, the first far better than the second."
"Undoubtedly a misunderstanding caused by a paternalistic colonialism,” I suggested.
"Not at all,” Singh said. “The Thuggee were a murderous sect who had to be put down. You should read George Bruce's book; old, but it strikes the balance between research and readability.” He leaned closer. “If you do, you will learn that their weapon of choice was not a knife, but a yellow scarf which they used to throttle their victims."
I considered for a moment. “Mr. Singh, I understand your lack of regret at Zhao's death. But being a son of a bitch does not excuse murder. If it did, which of us would be safe? In fact, none of us is safe until the murderer is caught. That is why I am sure you will tell me if you remember anything further that might shed light on his identity."
* * * *
"Horrible,” Annie Jackson said. “Just horrible. I mean, I didn't like him any more than anyone else, but the worst he deserved was a slap in the face. Or maybe a punch in the nose."
"How do you know?” I asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Do any of us really know anything about Zhao?” The question, far from being rhetorical, was born of my own frustration. Sphinx could access some of the best intelligence sources on the planet, but had been able to provide me with precious little about Zhao. “We have the officially tailored biography released to the press, and if we Google his name, we can see how that biography has been retroactively adjusted as he has climbed in the hierarchy. What we don't know is whether a single word of it has ever been true. China is the one country that has been able to completely control the internet."
"Hmm,” Jackson said doubtfully. “I suppose that is right, but he never impressed me as a man hiding great secrets. Just a bureaucrat trying to make everyone acknowledge that he was actually as important as he wished to be."
"Did you see him at any time between the end of lunch and the time he died?"
She shook her head. “I was in the game room for fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes watching my aide, Elaine Evans, playing ping-pong with Bachi Bedi, Singh's aide. Nether of them was very good. The ball kept bouncing into high slanted arcs. Whenever Elaine aced him, Bachi lamented as if it were grand opera. They both got to laughing so hard they could hardly stand."
She was quiet for a moment. “It is almost as if those were our last few minutes of innocence. Then, to add to the horror of the murder itself, the fact that it seems to be an impossible crime."
I said, “You were chosen to sign the articles of agreement because of your position in Great Southern Dynamics."
Jackson sat up a little straighter. “Absolutely. We are the largest aerospace and defense contractor in the southern hemisphere. It only makes sense that we should be one of the signatories."
"Your stock value went up twenty points six weeks ago on the rumor that you had perfected an invisibility cloak."
Nervous laughter showed that she immediately saw where I was going. “Much exaggerated rumors, I assure you. Of course, we have been working on such a device, but we have quite a ways to go. I can't let you have classified details, but the truth is that for now it works on only the lower part of the spectrum."
"According to Jane's Defence On Line, the Australian Government issued a classified contract to your company for twenty million dollars right around the time of the stock increase. The interesting thing is that is was funded with procurement rather than research funds."
"Well, that could be anything."
"Of course."
"Look, Rassendyll, I know you have to find the killer, and I can understand why you might grasp at an invisibility cloak, if one actually existed. But if you have followed developments as closely as you appear to have, you know that there are serious difficulties with your theory. Wearing the cloak is like walking inside a small tent. The operator is nearly blind. Any holes for vision make the operator's eyes visible."
"Infrared,” I said.
"And then you need special lenses sewn into the fabric. You carry a power pack for both the cloak and the IR goggles. As efficient as you make it, it gives off heat. You install a fan to pump the heat out. The fan cannot be completely silent, and the heat coming out of the cloak looks like a fire to anyone with his own IR gear.
"You are thinking that the killer knocked on Zhao's door and was admitted, knifed Zhao, then slipped out when Miyamoto broke in. Look around this room! It's the same size as Zhao's. You have to step out to the corridor to change your mind. Do you really think someone in a cloak could step around Miyamoto and Zin without brushing up against them, without someone hearing the fan or feeling the heat?"
"Not impossible,” I said.
"Just bloody damned unlikely,” Jackson replied.
"Would you object if I searched your room?"
"I most certainly would! But go ahead. You find nothing and will then be able to put th
is silly idea out of your mind."
It took less than fifteen minutes to prove her right.
* * * *
Elaine Evans and Bachi Bedi were the only two people on board who had complete alibis for the time in question. By the logic of fiction, that should make them the guilty parties. The logic of reality pointed in the opposite direction. Elaine gave the impression of being tightly focused on mission, in some ways like Piper but with a personality. She might destroy me on the tennis court, and I could well imagine that the man who laid an unwelcome hand on her would find himself with a broken wrist, but there would be nothing covert about her motives or actions.
Bachi was an equally unlikely suspect, if for different reasons. Jokes and humorous asides did little to conceal a deep uneasiness about personal safety with a murderer on board, about whether there would be a signing on Laputa with one of the representatives dead. He could hardly keep his eyes off the holster of my .32. From his vegetarian eating habits (with which I had become intimately acquainted while acting as chef) and his conversation, he seemed to be at base a very serious Hindu. I had a feeling he had a crisis of conscience every time he used disinfectant on a cut.
"You don't believe in the Celestials,” he said, almost reproachfully. It was toward the end of the interview.
"The what?” I asked.
"Celestials. Creatures of the upper reaches. They travel on magnetic lines of force and feed upon the radiation of the Van Allen belts. In their larval stages, they may appear from a distance to be spacecraft, but in mature form, they have been mistaken for aurora."
It took me a moment to realize that this was a more poetic version of what Zin had been talking about earlier. “You're right. I don't. If they did exist, why would they care about us?"
"Because we have invaded their space,” Bachi said. He was painfully earnest. “Not temporarily with our spacecraft, but with a permanent structure that leeches away their power.
"What sort of relationship did you have with Zhao?” It was a question I asked both of them. Their answers were the same: no relationship. They were mere assistants. This tracked with my experience as chef. As far we could tell, he had never known any of our names.
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