“That would be Graydex.” Lieutenant Caquer looked relieved. “Theoretical stuff is all Graydex. The Blackdex books are the ones with dangerous practical information.”
“Such as?” The inventor was staring intently at Caquer.
“Instructions how to make outlawed things,” explained Caquer. “Like Lethite, for instance. Lethite is a poison gas that’s tremendously dangerous. A few pounds of it could wipe out a city, so the council outlawed its manufacture, and any book telling people how to make it for themselves would go on the Blackdex. Some nitwit might get hold of a book like that and wipe out his whole home town.”
“But why would anyone?”
“He might be warped mentally, and have a grudge,” explained Caquer. “Or he might want to use it on a lesser scale for criminal reason. Or—by Earth, he might be the head of a government with designs on neighboring states. Knowledge of a thing like that might upset the peace of the Solar System.” Perry Peters nodded thoughtfully. “I get your point,” he said. “Well, I still don’t see what it could have to do with the murder, but I thought I’d tell you about Willem’s sideline. You’ll probably want to check over his stock before whoever takes over the shop reopens.”
“We shall,” said Caquer. “Thanks a lot, Perry. If you don’t mind, I’ll use your phone to get that search started right away. If there are any Blackdex books there, we’ll take care of them all right.”
When he got his secretary on the screen, she looked both frightened and relieved at seeing him.
“Mr. Caquer,” she said, “I’ve been trying to reach you. Something awful’s happened. Another death.”
“Murder again?” gasped Caquer.
“Nobody knows what it was,” said the secretary. “A dozen people saw him jump out of a window only twenty feet up. And in this gravity that couldn’t have killed him, but he was dead when they got there. And four of them that saw him knew him. It was—”
“Well, for Earth’s sake, who?”
“I don’t—Lieutenant Caquer, they said, all four of them, that it was Willem Deem!”
With a nightmarish feeling of unreality Lieutenant Rod Caquer peered down over the shoulder of the Medico-in-Chief at the body that already lay on the stretcher of the utility men, who stood by impatiently.
“You better hurry, Doc,” one of them said. “He won’t last much longer and it takes us five minutes to get there.”
Dr. Skidder nodded impatiently without looking up, and went on with his examination. “Not a mark, Rod,” he said. “Not a sign of poison. Not a sign of anything. He’s just dead.”
“The fall couldn’t have caused it?”
“There isn’t even a bruise from the fall. Only verdict I can give is heart failure. Okay, boys, you can take it away.”
“You through too, Lieutenant?”
“I’m through,” said Caquer. “Go ahead. Skidder, which of them was Willem Deem?”
The medico’s eyes followed the white-sheeted burden of the utility men as they carried it toward the truck, and he shrugged helplessly.
“Lieutenant, I guess that’s your pigeon,” he said. “All I can do is certify the cause of death.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Caquer wailed. “Sector Three City isn’t so big that he could have had a double living here without people knowing about it. But one of them had to be a double. Off the record, which looked to you like the original?”
Dr. Skidder shook his head grimly.
“Willem Deem had a peculiarly shaped wart on his nose,” he said. “So did both of his corpses, Rod. And neither one was artificial, or make-up. I’ll stake my professional reputation on that. But come on back to the office with me, and I’ll tell you which one of them is the real Willem Deem.”
“Huh? How?”
“His thumbprint’s on file at the tax department, like everybody’s is. And it’s part of routine to fingerprint a corpse on Callisto, because it has to be destroyed so quickly.”
“You have thumbprints of both corpses?” inquired Caquer.
“Of course. Took them before you reached the scene, both times. I have the one for Willem—I mean the other corpse—back in my office. Tell you what—you pick up the print on file at the tax office and meet me there.”
Caquer sighed with relief as he agreed. At least one point would be cleared up—which corpse was which.
And in that comparatively blissful state of mind he remained until half an hour later when he and Dr. Skidder compared the three prints—the one Rod Caquer had secured from the tax office, and one from each of the corpses. They were identical, all three of them.
“Um,” said Caquer. “You’re sure you didn’t get mixed up on those prints, Dr. Skidder?”
“How could I? I took only one copy from each body, Rod. If I had shuffled them just now while we were looking at them, the results would be the same. All three prints are alike.”
“But they can’t be.”
Skidder shrugged.
“I think we should lay this before the Regent, direct,” he said. “I’ll call him and arrange an audience. Okay?”
Half an hour later, he was giving the whole story to Regent Barr Maxon, with Dr. Skidder corroborating the main points. The expression on Regent Maxon’s face made Lieutenant Rod Caquer glad, very glad, that he had that corroboration.
“You agree,” Maxon asked, “that this should be taken up with the Sector Coordinator, and that a special investigator should be sent here to take over?” A bit reluctantly, Caquer nodded. “I hate to admit that I’m incompetent, Regent, or that I seem to be,” Caquer said. “But this isn’t an ordinary crime. Whatever goes on it’s way over my head. And there may be something even more sinister than murder behind it.”
“You’re right, Lieutenant. I’ll see that a qualified man leaves headquarters today and he’ll get in touch with you.”
“Regent,” Caquer asked, “has any machine or process ever been invented that will—uh—duplicate a human body, with or without the mind being carried over?”
Maxon seemed puzzled by the question.
“You think Deem might have been playing around with something that bit him? No, to my knowledge a discovery like that has never been approached. Nobody has ever duplicated, except by constructive imitation, even an inanimate object. You haven’t heard of such a thing, have you, Skidder?”
“No,” said the Medical Examiner. “I don’t think even your friend Perry Peters could do that, Rod.”
From Regent Maxon’s office, Caquer went to Deems shop. Brager was in charge there, and Brager helped him search the place thoroughly. It was a long and laborious task, because each book and reel had to be examined minutely.
The printers of illicit books, Caquer knew, were clever at disguising their product. Usually, forbidden books bore the cover and title page, often even the opening chapters, of some popular work of fiction, and the projection reels were similarly disguised.
Jupiter-lighted darkness was falling outside when they finished, but Rod Caquer knew they had done a thorough job. There wasn’t an indexed book anywhere in the shop, and every reel had been run off on the projector.
Other men, at Rod Caquer’s orders, had been searching Deem’s apartment with equal thoroughness. He phoned there, and got a report, completely negative.
“Not so much as a Venusian pamphlet,” said the man in charge at the apartment, with what Caquer thought was a touch of regret in his voice.
“Did you come across a lathe, a small one for delicate work?” Rod asked.
“Um—no, we didn’t see anything like that. One room’s turned into a workshop, but there’s no lathe in it. Is it important?”
Caquer grunted noncommittally. What was one more mystery, and a minor one at that, to a case like this?
“Well, Lieutenant,” Brager said when the screen had gone blank, “What do we do now?”
Caquer sighed.
“You can go off duty, Brager,” he said. “But first arrange to leave men on guard here a
nd at the apartment. I’ll stay until whoever you send comes to relieve me.”
When Brager had left, Caquer sank wearily into the nearest chair. He felt terrible, physically, and his mind just did not seem to be working. He let his eyes run again around the orderly shelves of the shop and their orderliness oppressed him.
If there was only a clue of some sort. Wilder Williams had never had a case like this in which the only leads were two identical corpses, one of which had been killed five different ways and the other did not have a mark or sign of violence. What a mess, and where did he go from here?
Well, he still had the list of people he was going to interview, and there was time to see at least one of them this evening.
Should he look up Perry Peters again, and see what, if anything, the lanky inventor could make of the disappearance of the lathe? Perhaps he might be able to suggest what had happened to it. But then again, what could a lathe have to do with a mess like this? One cannot turn out a duplicate corpse on a lathe.
Or should he look up Professor Gordon? He decided to do just that.
He called the Gordon apartment on the visiphone, and Jane appeared in the screen.
“How’s your father, Jane?” asked Caquer. “Will he be able to talk to me for a while this evening?”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl. “He’s feeling much better, and thinks he’ll go back to his classes tomorrow. But get here early if you’re coming. Rod, you look terrible; what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, except I feel goofy. But I’m all right, I guess.”
“You have a gaunt, starved look. When did you eat last?”
Caquer’s eyes widened. “Earth! I forgot all about eating. I slept late and didn’t even have breakfast!”
Jane Gordon laughed.
“You dope! Well, hurry around and I’ll have something ready for you when you get here.”
“But—”
“But nothing. How soon can you start?”
A minute after he had clicked off the visiphone, Lieutenant Caquer went to answer a knock on the shuttered door of the shop.
He opened it. “Oh, hullo, Reese,” he said. “Did Brager send you?”
The policeman nodded.
“He said I was to stay here in case. In case what?”
“Routine guard duty, that’s all,” explained Caquer. “Say, I’ve been stuck here all afternoon Anything going on?”
“A little excitement. We been pulling in soap-box orators off and on all day. Screwballs. There’s an epidemic of them.”
“The devil you say! What are they hepped about?”
“Sector Two, for some reason I can’t make out. They’re trying to incite people to get mad at Sector Two and do something about it. The arguments they use are plain nutty.”
Something stirred uneasily in Rod Caquer’s memory—but he could not quite remember what it was. Sector Two? Who’d been telling him things about Sector Two recently—usury, unfairness, tainted blood, something silly. Although of course a lot of the people over there did have Martian blood in them…
“How many of the orators were arrested?” he asked.
“We got seven. Two more slipped away from us, but we’ll pick them up if they start spouting again.”
Lieutenant Caquer walked slowly, thoughtfully, to the Gordon apartment, trying his level best to remember where, recently, he heard anti-Sector Two propaganda. There must be something back of the simultaneous appearance of nine soap-box radicals, all preaching the same doctrine.
A sub-rosa political organization? But none such had existed for almost a century now. Under a perfectly democratic government, component part of a stable system-wide organization of planets, there was no need for such activity. Of course an occasional crackpot was dissatisfied, but a group in that state of mind struck him as fantastic.
It sounded as crazy as the Willem Deem case. That did not make sense either. Things happened meaninglessly, as in a dream. Dream? What was he trying to remember about a dream? Hadn’t he had an odd sort of dream last night—what was it?
But, as dreams usually do, it eluded his conscious mind.
Anyway, tomorrow he would question—or help question—those radicals who were under arrest. Put men on the job of tracing them back, and undoubtedly a common background somewhere, a tie-up, would be found.
It could not be accidental that they should all pop on the same day. It was screwy, just as screwy as the two inexplicable corpses of a book-and-reel shop proprietor. Maybe because the cases were both screwy, his mind tended to couple the two sets of events. But taken together, they were no more digestible than taken separately. They made even less sense.
Confound it, why hadn’t he taken that post on Ganymede when it was offered to him? Ganymede was a nice orderly moon. Persons there did not get murdered twice on consecutive days. But Jane Gordon did not live on Ganymede; she lived right here in Sector Three and he was on his way to see her.
And everything was wonderful except that he felt so tired he could not think straight, and Jane Gordon insisted on looking on him as a brother instead of a suitor, and he was probably going to lose his job. He would be the laughing stock of Callisto if the special investigator from headquarters found some simple explanation of things that he had overlooked…
Jane Gordon, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her, met him at the door. She was smiling, but the smile changed to a look of concern as he stepped into light.
“Rod!” she exclaimed. “You do look ill, really ill. What have you been doing to yourself besides forgetting to eat?”
Rod Caquer managed a grin.
“Chasing vicious circles up blind alleys, Icicle. May I use your visiphone?”
“Of course. I’ve some food ready for you; I’ll put it on the table while you’re calling. Dad’s taking a nap. He said to wake him when you got here, but I’ll hold off until you’re fed.”
She hurried out to the kitchen. Caquer almost fell into the chair before the visiscreen, and called the police station. The red, beefy face of Borgesen, the night lieutenant, flashed into view.
“Hi, Borg,” said Caquer. “Listen, about those seven screwballs you picked up. Have you—”
“Nine,” Borgesen interrupted. “We got the other two, and I wish we hadn’t. We’re going nuts down here.”
“You mean the other two tried it again?”
“No. Suffering Asteroids, they came in and gave themselves up, and we can’t kick them out, because there’s a charge against them. But they’re confessing all over the place. And do you know what they’re confessing?”
“I’ll bite,” said Caquer.
“That you hired them, and offered one hundred credits apiece to them.”
“Huh?”
Borgesen laughed, a little wildly. “The two that came in voluntarily said that, and the other seven—Mars, why did I ever become a policeman? I had a chance to study for fireman on a spacer once, and I end up doing this.”
“Look—maybe I better come around and see if they make that accusation to my face.”
“They probably would, but it doesn’t mean anything, Rod. They say you hired them this afternoon, and you were at Deem’s with Brager all afternoon. Rod, this moon is going nuts. And so am I. Walther Johnson has disappeared. Hasn’t been seen since this morning.”
“What? The Regent’s confidential secretary? You’re kidding me, Borg.”
“Wish I was. You ought to be glad you’re off duty. Maxon’s been raising seven brands of thunder for us to find his secretary for him. He doesn’t like the Deem business, either. Seems to blame us for it; thinks it’s bad enough for the department to let a man get killed once. Say, which was Deem, Rod? Got any idea?”
Caquer grinned weakly.
“Let’s call them Deem and Redeem till we find out,” he suggested. “I think they were both Deem.”
“But how could one man be two?”
“How could one man be killed five ways?” countered Caquer. “Tell me that and I�
��ll tell you the answer to yours.”
“Nuts,” said Borgesen, and followed it with a masterpiece of understatement. “There’s something funny about that case.”
Caquer was laughing so hard that there were tears in his eyes, when Jane Gordon came to tell him food was ready. She frowned at him, but there was concern behind the frown.
Caquer followed her meekly, and discovered he was ravenous. When he’d put himself outside enough food for three ordinary meals, he felt almost human again. His headache was still there, but it was something that throbbed dimly in the distance.
Frail Professor Gordon was waiting in the living room when they went there from the kitchen. “Rod, you look like something the cat dragged in,” he said. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Caquer grinned. “Overeating did it. Jane’s a cook in a million.”
He sank into a chair facing Gordon. Jane Gordon had sat on the arm of her father’s chair and Caquer’s eyes feasted on her. How could a girl with lips as soft and kissable as hers insist on regarding marriage only as an academic subject? How could a girl with—
“I don’t see offhand how it could be a cause of his death, Rod, but Willem Deem rented out political books,” said Gordon. “There’s no harm in my telling that, since the poor chap is dead.”
Almost the same words, Caquer remembered, that Perry Peters had used in telling him the same thing.
Caquer nodded.
“We’ve searched his shop and his apartment and haven’t found any, Professor,” he said. “You wouldn’t know, of course, what kind—”
Professor Gordon smiled. “I’m afraid I would, Rod. Off the record—and I take it you haven’t a recorder on our conversation—I’ve read quite a few of them.”
“You?” There was frank surprise in Caquer’s voice.
“Never underestimate the curiosity of an educator, my boy. I fear the reading of Graydex books is a more prevalent vice among the instructors in universities than among any other class. Oh, I know it’s wrong to encourage the trade, but the reading of such books can’t possibly harm a balanced, judicious mind.”
The Second Fredric Brown Megapack: 27 Classic Science Fiction Stories Page 29