by E. C. Tubb
"God!"
The accomplice cringed as blood fountained from a severed throat, a ruby flood which fell like rain, dying as Dumarest turned, knife stabbing, the point reaching the heart. Blood dripped from the steel as it swung toward the other man. Dumarest recognized the man just as the blade took his life.
"Scum." Sagoo Moyna looked down at the man Dumarest had rescued from the storm. "He sold you out. That's the thanks you get for saving his life."
"The other one?"
"Jud Amnytor. I've had trouble with him before. Most don't complain when they've been robbed. Too scared to, I guess. Well, to hell with them." His foot spurned the dead. "How do you want to handle this?"
"Quietly."
"That's what I figured. I should report it to the guards but they must be busy and who wants to buy trouble? What's it worth for you to stay out of it?" He blinked at Dumarest's answer. "That all?"
"Report it and the guards will ask questions. One might be how Amnytor managed to operate so long. Another might be why no one's complained. They might think you and he were working together." Dumarest met the other's eyes. "I might even begin to think you set me up."
"No!" Sagoo glanced at the dead. "It wasn't like that."
"Then we have a deal?" Dumarest added, as he looked at his cloak now thick with drying blood, "Call it the price of a change."
It was dawn when he left the shelter, the windswept streets empty, bleak. Mounds of frozen snow had piled in corners and hung thick from the eaves. Brilliant white which hid the dirt and stains of poverty, the bodies, the debris of the day. Like a cleansing tide the wind swept clean the place men had made their own.
As he neared his hotel he heard a man call and slowed to a halt as Arken ran to join him.
"I'm glad you're early." Arken gasped, beating his hands as he fought for breath. "This damned cold tears at the lungs. I tried to wait for you in the hotel but they wouldn't let me in."
"News?"
He gave it in a small cafe sitting at a table over a mug of steaming tisane. A place catering to those who had finished their term of duty or were about to start work.
"I didn't find the man you want but I met someone who sold me something he owned. A book. I paid fifty for it."
The price Dumarest had paid to dispose of two bodies but, if it was what he hoped, the book was worth a hundred times as much. He took it from Arken's hand. A small, stained volume the covers a dull, mottled green. The pages were brown with age, thick with faded writing. Beneath the cover, printed on an attached insert, he saw the lines and curves of a neat calligraphy.
"Celto Loffredo," said Arken. "That's a bookplate. He put it in to prove the book was his."
Or someone had done it to make that exact point. Arken? It was possible, his time had run out and it was his last hope of earning a reward. Or it could be genuine. Coincidences happened and it would be wrong to be over-suspicious.
Dumarest said, "Is this all? Was there anything else? Clothing," he explained. "Jewelry; rings, bracelets, medallions." Personal items on which figures could have been stamped. Garments which could hold secrets within their seams. "No?"
"Clothing doesn't hang around. It's used, worn, ripped up to make patches. As for the rest-" Arken shrugged and sipped his tisane. "Anything that can buy food or shelter gets sold."
As books got burned but this one had survived. Luck, perhaps. It happened.
Dumarest fingered the volume, wanting to open it, read and examine it, but this was the wrong place and the wrong time. Fatigue would dull the sharpness of his mind and he could miss essential information; a scrap of data which could lead to the answer. He needed to rest, to get rid of the stench of the shelter, the sweat of recent action. The cloak he wore was slimed with dirt and he remembered the lice he had seen.
Arken said, "I'll keep looking if you want. There could be other things, papers, maps, old stuff like the book." He lingered on the word. "Was I right to buy it?"
"Yes."
"Should I buy more if I find them?"
"Not until I've seen what it is. Fifty, you said?"
An inflated price; Arken would be a fool not to have made a profit. His eyes widened as Dumarest thrust coins across the table.
"A hundred! But-"
"This closes our deal. If you find anything new let me know. Here." He dumped the cloak on the table. "A bonus."
"Thanks. It'll pay for some steam. Why don't you join me?"
"No need. I've got my own."
The bath and shower in his room which he yearned to use. The hotel admitted him without hesitation and he climbed the stairs too impatient to wait for the elevator. The corridor was empty aside from a woman busy with a broom who smiled then returned to her duties as he headed for his room. The door swung open to reveal the compartment with its window, furnishings, carpeted floor. The bathroom lay to one side and Dumarest headed toward it, jerking to a halt as he saw the bed.
The bed and the woman sprawled across it. Claire Hashein, naked, lying on her back, arms lifted, legs asprawl, a glint of metal in one hand.
Behind him the cleaner screamed as she saw the blood.
A ruby tide stained the sheets and painted the torso with carmine smears from the gash which marred the throat.
Chapter Three
Prisons held a universal sameness but the one on Erkalt was better than others Dumarest had known. His cell was a box containing a bunk, toilet facilities and nothing else. One wall was made of bars. But there was warmth and light and he was alone. They had taken his clothes and possessions, giving him a pajama-like garb of soft yellow fabric, but had allowed him to retain the book. A selfish act of charity; prisoners who were engrossed did not scream, yell their innocence, shout abuse. Noises Dumarest ignored as, lying on the bunk, he studied what Arken had found.
The book looked old, but age could be simulated. Acids could have browned the pages and faded the ink. Mechanical friction could have fretted the covers. Dyes could have added the stains. Celto Loffredo had dealt in antiquities and he would have wanted to maintain a supply of saleable items. If not found they could have been made.
Would it have been worth his while?
Collectors were willing to pay high for items they wanted and desire of possession would blind them to the possibility of forgery. Even on Erkalt such collectors could be found. Would a man, cold, hungry, living on the brink, have hung on to something of worth?
Or had the book meant more to its owner than the comfort its sale could have provided?
The pages made small whisperings as Dumarest turned them, frowning as he tried to decipher the crabbed, faded script. A journal, he guessed. A diary relating the important events of a man's life. A trader; many pages bore figures which could have been a record of profits and losses.
On one page, soiled by a stain which could have been caused by water or wine, he read barely discernible words.
* * *
"… loaded three bales of ossum… will try and get… passage on the Gillaus to… Blackheart ill and I sat with him. Fever, I think; he rambled on about… Crazy but some of it made an odd kind of sense. Will try___If true then___"
* * *
The light was too poor, the writing too faded for Dumarest to make out more. He turned the pages, tried to read another, his eyes moving over a column of figures, the last heavily underlined. As he frowned at it the bars rattled, the door sliding open beneath the hand of a guard.
"A visitor," he said. "Your advocate."
Shanti Vellani was small, neat, his face sharp, his eyes like those of a bird. Clear, brown, always on the move. He remained silent until the guard had locked him within the cell and had moved away.
"You're looking well, Earl. I'm pleased to see it. There's no sense in anyone beating their head against a wall."
"You've news?"
"Of course, but first a small matter of business." Vellani took a slip of paper from an inside pocket. "Your account to date. It includes expenses. If you'd like to authorize payme
nt?"
Dumarest took it and studied the amount. It was high but the best did not come cheap and he needed the best. He rolled the ball of his thumb over the sensitized portion.
Handing it back he said, dryly, "I take it the news is bad."
"It could be better." Vellani tucked the slip into his pocket then sat down beside Dumarest on the bunk. "I'll be frank with you. On the basis of available evidence you haven't a chance. The prosecution has a watertight case."
"I didn't kill her."
"So you say." Vellani lifted a hand as if to still any protest. "But look at it from the other side. You and the victim were lovers. She was close to another, Carl Indart, and you could have wanted her to break with him. She refused, you lost your temper, there was a brief struggle and-" His shrug was expressive.
"That's assumption, not proof."
"The cleaner saw you enter the room."
"Which is proof that I wasn't in it. Hell, I wasn't even in the hotel that night. I told you that."
"Your alibi." Vellani pursed his lips. "As regards the hotel you could have left it anytime after killing the woman. All the porter can swear to is that you demanded entry shortly after dawn."
"So?"
"Claire Hashein was killed approximately three hours before sunrise. You could have sneaked out just before dawn and returned to establish your innocence. I merely relate the possibility."
"I've a witness."
"Brad Arken. All he can swear to is that he met you close to the hotel that morning."
"We met the previous night."
"And parted." Vellani shook his head. "It would have been easy for you to have returned to the hotel after leaving him. The public rooms were still open and, in the crowd, you wouldn't have been noticed. Then to your room, the rendezvous with the victim, the argument, the act, the attempt to establish your absence. It's speculation, true, and I could argue it out of court, but there's more. The report made by the examining investigator, for example. The victim was lying supine on the bed. She was naked. Her hands and arms were upraised. Bruises were found on her cheeks as if she'd been slapped. The fingers of the right hand clutched a key which fitted the lock of your room."
"I didn't give it to her."
"Can you suggest how she got it?"
"Borrowed a spare from the desk. Had a copy made-your guess is as good as mine." Dumarest added, bitterly, "Does it matter? The key didn't kill her."
But it may have led to her death. Dumarest imagined the scene, Claire, in love, wanting to surprise him. Entering his room, stripping, bathing, lying on the bed waiting for him to join her. Not knowing he was absent from the hotel. Falling asleep, perhaps, to wake and meet her death.
Who would have wanted to kill her?
Why?
Vellani said, "The collar of your tunic was scarred as if by a metal instrument. It could have been the key."
"It could have been many things. Assumption isn't evidence."
"Medical testimony is. The bed was soaked with blood. It must have sprayed from the severed arteries of her throat and traces were found on the carpet and far walls. The medical conclusion is that such a violent and sudden release of blood would have given the murderer no chance to have escaped contact." Pausing, the advocate added, "Tests revealed flecks of blood on your clothing. They are of the same group as the victim's. More blood was found on your knife and, it too, belongs to the same group. As far as the prosecution is concerned that's all they need."
Motive, means and opportunity-and the damning evidence of the blood. A coincidence; the blood spraying from the thief he had killed had been of the same group as Claire's.
Dumarest said, "If the murderer was stained he'd have to have washed off the blood. Were traces found in the bathroom?"
"Yes. Smears around the edge of the shower drainpipe." Vellani added, "It doesn't help. You- he-could have washed down but missed the traces later found."
"My alibi?"
"It doesn't stand up. Sagoo Moyna denies he's ever seen you."
"He's lying!" Dumarest looked down at his hand where it rested on his knee. It was doubled into a fist. Deliberately he forced himself to relax. As the hand opened he said, "Others must have seen me. There was a man serving the food, and plenty used the shelter that night. They couldn't all have been asleep."
"They weren't."
"Then-"
"Listen to me, Earl, and follow what I say." Vellani edged a little closer, his voice lowering as if he were afraid of being overheard. "I'm not a fool. Scum like Sagoo Moyna will lie for the sake of it but he had a reason. I sent men to find out what it was. You killed that night. I'm not arguing how or why but it happened. Two men dead and Sagoo was paid by you to dispose of them. Do you honestly believe he's going to stand up in court and admit to that?"
"As long as he admits I was there."
"It's too late for that. The prosecution will want to know why he's changed his story. They'll probe, use devices to check his veracity. Use them on you, too, once they are introduced. The truth will come out-but will it do you any good?"
He had killed an armed thief who had tried to rob him. Self-defense and so justified on the majority of worlds. Even on Erkalt where to kill was to commit the most heinous of crimes. But the other one? The old man?
Dumarest had struck out in unthinking reflex, killing before he had seen the face, recognized a deadly threat. To have delayed could have cost him his life-an assumption he was not permitted to make.
"You're in a bind," said Vellani. "If I get you off one hook you'll be stuck on another and the end will be the same. Twenty years' slave-bondage-need I tell you what that means?"
Locked in a collar which could tear at his nerves or blow off his head at the whim of the controller. One which would detonate if he tried to break it free. A life of helpless obedience.
"You'd be sold to a low-temperature laboratory," said the advocate. "If you manage to serve your time you'll be the first. The record is five years." Pausing Vellani added, "I've spoken to the prosecutor. He's willing to give you an out."
"Such as?"
"You can volunteer for quarry."
* * *
The games had started as fun, developed into a sport and were now a bloody slaughter. An attraction which brought tourists flocking to Erkalt during the season. Their money stimulated the economy and fed the parasites that fattened on the ritual; people like Meister and Travante who supplied gear for the hunters; Yegorovich and Mickhailovich who dealt in miniatures, souvenirs, mementos of the ritual; Pincho and Barrass and Valence with their tapes and stills and tips as to where the quarry could be found.
Entrepreneurs like Hagen.
Murderers like herself.
Karlene moved through the crowd like a silver ghost, tall, impassive, acknowledging greeting with a twitch of her lips, a gesture of a hand. Always it was like this before a hunt; the crowd gathered to discuss the prospects, assess chances, probable routes, odds, the time the quarry would be able to remain free, the moment when he would be run down and his blood sent to stain the snow.
But, more than the rest, they had come to see the man himself.
"Hard." She heard the comment as she passed a man talking to a companion. "I know the type. A killer, too, from what I hear. He'll make a run for it. It'll be good sport. You in for a place?"
"Who isn't?"
The initial raffle. A score would win and be charged extra for the privilege of taking part. Half their fees would be placed within the trophy; the prize for the hunter who won. Given to the quarry together with his freedom should he be lucky enough to make it. Some had gone free-a few spread over the years; enough to maintain the conviction that the quarry had a chance, though that was almost eradicated now by her talent.
"Karlene!"
Hagen waved to her from where he stood with a bunch of others. Hunters from their clothing and interest. She waved back, expecting him to join her, but he was too engrossed in conversation. Business, she guessed, he rarely wast
ed a moment in his determination to be the best. Alone she moved on to where a wide pane of clear glass almost filled one wall.
Behind it was the quarry.
She had seen them before, Hagen insisting, thinking it helped to refine her talent. Men who stood and looked defiantly at those who had come to gape. Others who paced like restless beasts; nerves too tense to rest. Some had huddled in corners defeated before they had even begun.
Dumarest sat, apparently asleep.
The chair was large, ornate, bolted to the floor so as to face the window. Its arms and high back were covered with scarlet fabric, emphasizing the plain neutrality of his garb. A book, closed, lay on his lap, held by the weight of one hand. His head was supported by the high back of the chair, his face like a mask carved from stone.
Hard, the man had said, and she could see why. The face, the shape of the body, the hand on the book-all gave the impression of strength. Then she realized that he wasn't asleep at all but merely resting. A man conserving his energy, waiting, wrapping himself in a web of isolation. A disappointment to those who had come to stare.
"A killer!" The woman at her side hissed to her companion, voice low as if afraid the quarry would hear. "He was charged with murder-I had it from a friend in the prosecutor's office. A woman. His mistress. He cut her throat."
"There was doubt."
"But-"
"The evidence was against him, true, but still there was doubt." The man was emphatic. "That's why he was given the chance to volunteer for quarry."
"He could escape!"
"I doubt it. A score of the best will be after him. Nitscke, Sparkissian, Ivanova-Indart has offered ten thousand for a place should he lose out on the draw. You're looking at a dead man, my dear. He hasn't a chance."
That prophecy she would help make come true.
Karlene stepped closer to the glass, curious as to the book, the reason why he should have chosen to read. A religious work of some kind, she guessed, one filled with messages of comfort. As her hand touched the pane Dumarest opened his eyes. Looking at her, he smiled.