“I see. Well, to continue, we have Srafen’s social ties to examine—”
“Precisely, and there, I believe, you can be of enormous assistance. I suggest you go home, change, and spend the rest of the day chatting with your friends.”
"What?"
“Just so, for Srafen’s death is bound to be the topic of much conversation, and if you are clever—and not too obvious—I’m sure that you can find out much about rher social life that I cannot, and a little about rher family, who, I suspect, travel in the same circles as your own.”
That much was possible. In the meantime, Mav would take up the remainder of the list; we would arrange some place to meet in the evening. I bade farewell to him and to Niitood, who was still completing paperwork and expressed the heartsfelt wish that we had left him in his cell below-stairs.
The sky was a beautiful golden yellow—indeed, the day had reached the very pinnacle of loveliness as I walked back to my flat in Gamlo Road upon the lower edge of North Hedgerow. To my surprise and delight, it was not my mother but another of my parents who greeted me with a positively wonderful-smelling clutch of cactus pears simmering in oil, which, over the objections of my hired girl, rhe had personally prepared for our luncheon.
“How very splendid, Sasa. As you well know, they’re my very favorite! But tell me, why is Mama not here, and what is it brings you in her place?”
My surfather crinkled rher fur fondly at me as rhe lit the kood and placed the cover on its holder. “Your dear mother, I’m afraid, has taken ill again—no, there is nothing you should worry about; indeed, if she had not reacted so dramatically to the news we had this morning, I should have been far more alarmed.” Rhe swept a finger along the tabletop, examining some crumbs of something-or-other that had found refuge among the weavings of its cover. “That girl of yours is an indolent watun; I shall have to speak to your father about her.”
“Speak to Mother, then—these pears are delicious, did you use my oil or bring your own?—she’s Mother’s eyes and ears in my affairs, and perhaps inclined on that account to regard any housekeeping she does as an additional imposition. But don’t keep me in suspense. What is ailing Mother?”
“In general, your choice of vocation—as always. Bad enough a child of hers should seek some productive activity rather than marry the son and daughter of some useless, idle families, but the Bucketeers? And now, according to a crudely lettered message we received unsigned, you’re abandoning paracautery to involve yourself with criminals. I confess that even I felt a trifle disappointed in that, if it is true, but before we speak further on the matter, be reassured in one respect at least: it is your life you are leading, my very dear; you must allow no one, not your mother or your father, no, nor even myself, to determine how it is to be led.”
There are several dozen parents I know of, including two of mine, from whom this speech would have had precisely the opposite meaning than its words conveyed. Not so from Mymysiir Viimede (nee Kedsat) Woom, one of the Empire’s greatest surgeons—its first and only surmale one— and, I am extremely proud and happy to say, my own sur-father.
“I can’t imagine who might have sent such a message, Sasa. An anonymous tattler, really! But I have not abandoned paracautery or my ambitions to follow in your profession. On the contrary, they are precisely what has gotten me into the investigation of Professor Srafen’s murder, of which I am certain you have heard or read by now. Permit me to explain. . . .” Thus for the next two hours, rhe and I discussed the events of the last twenty-seven. I found myself (as I have always done) telling rher everything, including the reasons I was home now and about to change out of the uniform I love.
“I see,” rhe said at length, “and I approve entirely. This fellow Mav seems quite the most dashing you have ever—”
“Oh, Sasa, that has nothing at all to do with it!” With no small effort, I regained control of the texture of my fur. “Well, very little, anyway.”
Rhe crinkled rher fur again. "As you say. Whatever the case, I do believe that I may save you some steps today. But wait— Oh, Zoobon, there’s a good girl, do be a mefiik and pop over to the Cactus Rose.” Rhe handed her a few coins. “We’ll want the afternoon papers and a twist of that new Femean kood Mymy likes so much.”
No sooner had the door shut behind the maidservant than my surfather rippled rher fur conspiratorially. “Now if I read your girl correctly, the extra change I gave her should afford us privacy for another hour. I was about to say that much of what young Mav has asked for in the way of information about Srafen’s family I believe I can provide. He’s quite right, ©f course; his Professor’s death has stimulated every sort of tale imaginable. Also, I’d be pleased to have you carry my bag this evening when you go to meet him, so that people will take you for a civilian physician.”
“What will you do for a bag, then, Sasa?”
“Why, I’ll simply trade the contents of mine into yours—I have another at my offices—and send yours back by messenger tomorrow.”
“Oh, Sasa, you are too kind, really, and you think of everything!”
“Not at all, my dear. I simply find all of this intrigue quite fascinating, and I’m very pleased to be of some help. Now let me tell you what I know—within the bounds of medical ethics, naturally—and you may compare it later with what you learn from others.”
I do not believe I’ve ever had quite as much kood in one day as I was compelled to take that afternoon. At the time, I thought I’d be quite happy if I never smelt another burning wick again. My surfather bade farewell only after a lengthy conversation ending with rher assurances that my mother would eventually recover from the shock of having offspring who wished to live rher own life. Afterward I paid a number of not terribly exciting calls upon what seemed an endless parade of uncles, aunts, and eits, cousins of every variety, nieces, nephews, and nerries, all of whom my mother would have heartily approved in their useless idleness. These were distributed broadly from the palatially wealthy Upper (Most) Hedgerow—the parenthetical being added only as a gibe by those not living there—to the genteelly improverished neighborhoods of Brassie, populated mostly by Navy pensioners and pantsleeve relatives of the rich.
I also thought it wise to visit the Royal Mail office in
Empire Point, where I was informed it would require some three months to have a telephone installed in my apartments—until I gave my family name, whereupon this estimate, like Pah’s alleged creation of lamviin, was instantly and miraculously reduced to “tomorrow afternoon.”
While at the counter, I amused myself watching the telephonic operators shouting numbers out and dancing back and forth before the huge display of switches and connections. There might have been a thousand filaments woven in some arcane pattern across the great board at any given time, and I recall thinking that, were it not for proper Fod-duan ethics, this might be an excellent place to overhear the sort of conversation that might be of use to a detective. The operators had to listen, at least part of the time, so that they might introduce speakers to one another, disconnect the wires at conversation’s end, and plug them in again where they were next wanted. I made a mental note to speak of this to Mav.
That thought, in turn, led me to another, so that, before I paid the clerk his usurious deposit, I insisted upon a demonstration with the instrument reserved for convincing balky potential subscribers. It took me quite two-thirds of an hour to locate Mav, by which time the several operators were hopelessly entangled in a weaving of arms and legs and electrical connections, the sales clerk’s impatience held in check only by frequent mention of my father’s patronymic.
“Ahoy, Mav! Is it really you?”
“Ahoy, yourself, good paracauterist. There isn’t really any need to shout. I can hear you as plainly as if you were in the next room."
It was awkward manipulating the instrument so that its receiver was next to the ear on my shoulder and the speaking tube properly before a nostril. My bag kept slipping off onto the floor, which made
the clerk suppress a snigger-. Additionally, I found I was embarrassed even speaking to the place of Mav’s whereabouts, for it seemed that he was at Vyssu’s . . . establishment, and who knows what went on there at this hour of the afternoon?
“Now that you have found me, Mymy, what was it you wished to tell me?"
“Well, I . . . that is, I have some information, which I can’t imagine passing along in this manner, since I am standing in the post office with at least a dozen persons listening. Where was it you wished to meet me later?” I twined my arms in a childish wishing gesture, but his next words disappointed me:
“Why, here at Vyssu’s, if you do not find it inconvenient. I’ve been discussing matters with her, and / believe you’ll find she has some fascinating notions to share with us.”
“With us?” Merciful Pah, a male like Mav, a surmale like myself, and that person, Vyssu, alone together in the Kiiden? This career of mine was beginning to demand too much. However, we are strongly constituted in my family, so I continued, “Very well, I believe I’ll take a cab, as it is getting dark, and—”
“And the Kiiden isn’t any place to be alone on hand? I quite agree, my dear, but . . . what’s that? A capital ideal Mymy, Vyssu will send her carriage. Did you say you were at the post office? What on Sodde Lydfe are you doing there?”
“Speaking to you by telephone. The Royal Mail office in Empire Point. Shall we say good-bye, then?”
“Say good-bye. We’ll see you in a third of an hour, not more.”
I handed the instrument back to the clerk, paid the deposit, and went out to stand at the curbing. Shortly a stylish rig drew up and an imposing, darkly furred fellow with a scar cut deeply in his carapace and a patch over one eye asked if I were not Missur Mymysiir, to which I replied (not without some thought of denying it) in the affirmative. He assisted me aboard the machine, and it was, if you’ll believe it, only then that I noticed there were no watun fastened to the front!
“Wull jiss bee a meenut, Missur,” he said in a sinister and unknown accent; I began to think about the many warnings my mother had taken pains to convey before I knew what sex I’d be. “Gotta drann th’ rotor houseeng.” He reached beneath the chassis of the contraption, manipulated something, and stepped back abruptly. There was a hissss, and as I watched, confused and frightened, a considerable volume of abominable aqueous fluid fell, splattering obscenely in the street. When he was satisfied with whatever measure this accomplished, the mysterious and ugly creature reached beneath the machine once again, made another adjustment, then hopped lightly onto the driver’s bench, and we were off!
The pace was something unbelievable, perhaps as much as twelve or fifteen fymon per hour, and I was surprised that I was not crushed by the velocity. Then I realized that we were doing nothing, actually, compared to the magnificent Tesret Hurrier by which my surfather used to take me on holidays to North Wyohfats. I relaxed and looked about me in the carriage (which was much preferable to watching streets and citizens and frightened watun stream past in an incoherent blur).
As one might expect, the vehicle was well done up in perfumed satins, silks, and velvets of the most expensive and . . . well . . . lascivious cut. Upon the glass were painted and engraved no small number of elegant flowers and birds. Pulling a tassel that bobbed up and down suggestively, I unfolded a cunningly contrived table in which nestled a kood holder and, beside it, both a gold-framed lacquered treewood juicing box and matching receptacle for several inhaling tubes. There were many such tassels flouncing up and down upon the other two walls within the carriage, but my imagination shuddered to think of what they might conceal, so I refrained from pulling on them, and devoted the remaining minutes of the ride to vainly attempting to fold the little kood table back into place.
Vyssu kept herself (in a manner of speaking) in Fadet Road near the comer of Fadyedsu Street, as sinister and gaudy a neighborhood as the city offers this side of the river. Nonetheless, the little lave was nearly as quiet and undisturbed as that in which my parents made their home—if one could disregard the uncouth music blaring up over the housetops from the theatrical district.
I alighted from the amazing watuless carriage, and Vys-su’s driver led me to the door, took my cloak and hat, and tried to carry off my bag, which I would not permit. After ward I was conducted into a sitting room where Mav was puffing on his pipe, the very picture of domestic tranquility, and a female, rather more handsome than pretty, and younger than I had imagined, was, of all things, sitting opposite him doing needlepoint.
“Good evening, Mymy,” said Mav, rising as I entered through the archway. “I don’t believe you’ve met Vyssu before, except by reputation.”
That person turned upon her settee, crinkled her fur in an unreservedly friendly expression that left me no alternative but to reply, “Good evening, Mav. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss, er . . .”
“Vyssu will do nicely, if I’m permitted to call you My-mysiir. Will you have some kood? We’ve just finished a wick, but I can call for—”
“Please, I have had kood and more kood all afternoon. Nothing will suit me quite nicely, at least for a while. Mav, I’ve so much to tell you, I scarcely know where to begin.”
“Then begin by sitting down, dear Mymy, for I have much to tell you, also, after which we’ll hear from Vyssu on the same subject. Here, you can put your bag beside the door.”
Vyssu patted the settee beside her so that, in courtesy, I could not refuse to join her.
“Thank you. Vyssu, I must thank you, also, for inviting me and for sending your driver round. I have never ridden in a watuless vehicle before; it’s rather exciting, isn’t it? And speedy.”
“You must forgive Fatpa, my dear. He used to be a highway lam of sorts in Old Niimebye before the Podfetiin moved in. Sometimes he lets a little of it seep into his driving.”
“A highwaylam? How, er, fascinating. In any event, Mav, I’ve learned from several sources that, were motive alone sufficient for conviction, we’d now have solved the mystery. I know of two, at least, who might wish Srafen ill health.”
He nodded. “Rher wife and husband? Oh, I’m sorry to have spoiled your surprise, for it appears your news has been purchased through a lot of effort. Do not forget I knew Srafen well—but tell us what you have learned in any event.”
I hope that I did not betray my disappointment. As bravely as I could, I began: “I hesitate to pass on news as personal as this. It is only because the principal is deceased, and rher mates such transparent villains, that I do so now. That, and the fact that everyone from Brassie to Riverside seems to know anyway.
“Srafen has been twice widowed, mates of rher own age and a marriage of long standing. In recent years rhe unaccountably wed two of rher students, upper class, and considerably younger than rhe. The first—”
“Tobymme Toodhagomm Law, a foppish spendthrift and scientifical dabbler,” supplied Mav, Vyssu twitching a hair or two in recognition of the name. “Indeed, he might well make a good suspect, given the understanding he no doubt possesses of things mechanical. And his possible motive?’ “Another chance, perhaps, to marry well—or at least the liberty to carry on the many indiscreet relationships with which gossip credits him.”
“And his considerable gambling debts,” offered Vyssu. “I shouldn’t speak of a client in so freely a manner, either, except that he is no longer welcome here.”
“Indeed?” inquired Mav, the motions of his fur exactly imitiating those of Vyssu’s upon first hearing Law’s name mentioned. “For any other reaso-ns besides the reckoning he owed?”
“None,” acknowledged Vyssu. “The romantic side of his life he seemed quite capable of providing for himself. He was unskilled as a gambler, the reckless type, inclined to play even when the odds were obviously too steep to justify it And likely to accuse the winner of cheating.”
“I see,” said Mav. “And what of Srafen’s other mate, Mymy?”
“Liimevi Myssmo (nee Kysz) Law. Given to seances, palmistry, lunolo
gy—and lunologists. One in particular, and his surmale assistant. It’s really quite the talk of Hedgerow, all that holding hands around a table and so forth. But you know, there isn’t any seance planned for Srafen: perhaps Myssmo is afraid of what the Professor’s spirit might reveal.”
“Indeed. Know anything about Miss Myssmo, Vyssu, my dear?”
“Nothing more than common gossip. This lunologist Mymy, he wouldn’t, by any chance, be a Doctor Ensda, would he? He has come up in the world—I have it that he used to operate a carnival around Kodpiimeth until the local Bucketeers asked him politely if he wouldn’t prefer to leave.”
“Good heavens! You two, just sitting here, have discovered quite as much as I have, running my hands off all over town. I feel quite futile and redundant, and I believe I’d like that kood now, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Not at all,” answered Vyssu with a surprising kindness. “Nor should you feel your effort has been wasted.”
“Indeed not,” echoed Mav, “for you have confirmed much that I have heard—and from an elevated viewpoint I have neglected to cultivate for some years. Omit desiivn tion, if this information is spread roundabout, as you Miy, Law and Myssmo would be idiots to do old Srafen in. 1'hcn again, people are often idiots.”
“Moreover,” I suggested, “it seems to me their separate romantic interests militate against their guilt. I mean, if they were still enamored of one another and seeking a new surmale for their trine, that would be different.”
“Unless they conspired from the beginning to do in Srafen for rher money,” suggested Vyssu, accepting the kood from the servant. “Thank you, Fatpa, that will be all for now.”
“If that’s the case”—Mav chuckled and crinkled his fur—“they will be sorely disappointed, for Srafen left rher fortune—that amount rhe had not depleted in scientific ventures—to the Museum for the furtherance of Ascen-sionism.”
“Oh, dear. All that trouble for nothing. I do hope Law and Myssmo weren’t the culprits, Mav. It would be so sad, in a horrible sort of way.”
L Neil Smith - [North American Confederacy 03] Page 7