The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  “Grimwood isn’t buying that garbage, for God’s sake?”

  “Not he. He smells a rat. He has a hunch that Kielty’s

  after Hanson, and—though he didn’t come right out and say so—I feel that he mistrusts Hemmet’s motives.”

  “He’d better.” Pete was on his feet. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “I am coming with you,” proclaimed Liselotte. “You promised you would introduce me to your doctor and his Penny Anne. No, do not argue. He will fall in love with me at once. Perhaps he will even use me for a model for one of his creations, and she will sing lovely arias to amaze the world.”

  Timuroff, who could deny her nothing, looked at Pete. Pete shrugged. “Well, he invited you, Tim, so it’s unofficial. There’s no real reason why Lise can’t come too. It’s not as if Olivia came along—we’ll have to drop her off at home on the way out.”

  “I never get to go anywhere interesting,” complained Olivia. “Lise, don’t say I didn’t warn you—when old Grimwood makes your Doppelganger, he’d probably cram her full of tapes of Joan Sutherland and Anna Moffo, and then you’ll wish you’d stayed at home with me.”

  “Heck’s such a completist,” chuckled Timuroff. “You’d find your sittings with him rather disconcerting.”

  But Liselotte already had her purse, her hat, her coat, and was heading for the door. She chattered gaily all the way to the house on Kemble Street, oohed! and aahed! at her first glimpse of its jewel-box facade, and exclaimed with delight when she was introduced to the doctor and his Penny Anne.

  Mrs. Short won her over instantly by crying out how simply wonderful she’d been as the Queen of the Night at the Sydney Opera House ten years before. The doctor, though obviously distraught, expressed his pride and pleasure, and his wild gray-green eyes looked her up and down, taking her measurements with a connoisseur’s eagerness.

  “See, I told you!” she whispered to Timuroff as they were escorted to the library. “I shall be the most beautiful of all his dolls!”

  “And at midnight,” Timuroff whispered back, “you’ll turn into a clockwork pumpkin.”

  In the library, like a cold dark shadow, Judson Hemmet was awaiting them. He was standing next to Eric’s suit of armor, and as they entered, he smiled mirthlessly at Timuroff and raised the visor to show the grinning skull.

  “‘Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!’” cried Eric, moving his lower jaw gruesomely.

  Liselotte squealed and clung to Penny Anne. Timuroff glared. Pete grunted contemptuously. And Timuroff, again, felt the sudden, absolute conviction that, against all logic, Amos Ledenthal had been right.

  Still smiling, Hemmet dropped the visor. “Well,” he remarked, “our little party grows.”

  “Inspector Cominazzo’s here to examine Muriel,” explained Hector Grimwood, “and I invited Mr. Timuroff. Have you met Madame Cantelou?”

  With an impatient inclination of his head, Hemmet indicated that he had. “Hector, I don’t think you understand how serious this thing is. Lieutenant Kielty has a warrant, and judges do not issue them without impressive evidence. Hadn’t you better concentrate on how we’re going to handle it?”

  “No, Hemmet.” Dr. Grimwood was visibly annoyed. “I do not think I should. You tell me you don’t know whom the lieutenant is going to arrest. If even you don’t know, what can we accomplish before he gets here?”

  “Somebody,” replied Hemmet coldly and politely, “is going to need legal representation, and need it badly. That’s partly why I’m here—after all, I’ve been a guest in your house more than once. But, frankly, I’ve another reason. Whatever happens now, even if it’s a police mistake, eventually may lead us to Errol’s murderer.”

  Hector Grimwood stood silent for a moment, appraising his uninvited guest. “Let’s hope it does,” he said, his voice just as controlled as Hemmet’s. “However, I have full confidence in the inspector here. If anybody’s going to catch that murderer, he will. But your assistance certainly is welcome. I’m afraid we’re facing a rather painful scene, whichever way the wind blows—a scene our ladies should not be forced to undergo.” He turned. “Penny dear, why don’t you take Madame Cantelou and introduce her to Evangeline? There’s a policeman just outside the poker parlor, so you won’t feel too lonely there. Later on, when this is over, we can all visit Muriel Fawzi.”

  There was a swift exchange of glances between Timuroff and Liselotte, between Timuroff and Pete. Obviously, at least for the moment, the doctor was once again on top of things. Timuroff nodded imperceptibly.

  Liselotte did not argue with him; and when Mrs. Short showed signs of apprehension and reluctance, she took her arm and whispered that the doctor and her Timmy and Inspector Cominazzo could handle anything. Penny Anne was persuaded, and Liselotte waved gaily as they took their leave. A moment later, the doorbell pealed through the house.

  “Well, here’s the boarding party,” said Dr. Grimwood. He sat down at his desk and pushed a button. “I have a feeling we’d best get Hanson up here.”

  There was an uproar in the hall, and Mrs. Hanson burst into the room. “Oh, Doctor, Doctor!” she cried out. “They’re simply pouring in—the police and other people—and…and, oh, everybody!”

  Hard on her heels strode Kielty, and he was not alone. Two patrolmen flanked him, a pair of sergeants followed him, and behind them, resplendent in his full-dress uniform, came the chief of police of San Francisco. Behind him there surged an eager, motley crowd of newsmen.

  “Tim, would you look at that!” Pete whispered. “Chiefy must figure it’s St. Patrick’s Day.”

  Seen from any distance, Chief Otterson appeared a splendid figure of a man, well over six feet tall. His tailor had made him massive in the shoulders, drawing attention from his more massive midriff; his barber had cut his thick iron-gray hair so that one saw his noble forehead rather than the irresolution of his mouth and jaw. The press admired him, stating repeatedly that he had a warm human touch uncommon among policemen.

  Dr. Grimwood, less impressionable, ignored him completely. He fixed Kielty with an angry eye, and demanded bluntly the reason for this intrusion.

  Woodenly, Kielty started to reply that he held a warrant for the arrest of one Warren Gamaliel Hanson, charged with the murder of—

  But the chief of police was not to be so easily set aside. Assuming his celebrated warm human smile, he ploughed between sergeants and patrolmen, quelled Kielty with a glance, and addressed the doctor.

  “I am Chief of Police Otterson,” he announced in a deep, rather fruity voice. “My business with you, Dr. Grimwood, may not make me welcome, but it’s important to us all. We have come primarily to arrest Mr. Hanson, charged with the murder of the man van Zaam—”

  There was an anguished gasp from Mrs. Hanson.

  “—but I have other news which should—I repeat, should—please us all.” He beamed. “I’m glad that you are here, Mr. Hemmet, for I know that no one was as deeply shocked by Mayor Munrooney’s death as you. And you too, Mr. Timuroff, who have been so helpful to the police from time to time. And I’m not surprised to see you, Inspector Cominazzo, right on the job as usual. Well, well! Our news is this: The case is solved! We have identified the murderer beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

  There was a tumult of conflicting questions from the press.

  Otterson held up a hand. “The murderer of the mayor was van Zaam, an evil man out of a dubious past. Physical evidence has proved his guilt. What dark forces were behind this terrible act we do not know. Nor do we know why he himself was killed. But, thanks to Lieutenant Kielty’s brilliant work, we now believe we know who killed him, and we are here to take the culprit into custody. Who knows, perhaps protective custody?” He paused portentously. “I shall be available for an in-depth conference as soon as we have carried out our mission here.”

  He stopped. T
he room was still. Dr. Grimwood, elbows on his desk, was staring at him fixedly over steepled fingers. “I have made several mechanical women,” he remarked conversationally. “But I have never thought of making a mechanical police officer. Perhaps”—he smiled—“r should.”

  Pete Cominazzo snorted; the two sergeants struggled to keep their faces straight; there was a surge of laughter from the press. From a dramatic standpoint, the chief had had the rug pulled out from under him.

  “Watch this,” Pete said, sotto voce. “He’ll not just land on all four feet—he’ll make a profit out of it.”

  And suddenly, as he was speaking, the chief reacted. His eyes crinkled. He grinned. He threw his head back, laughing with a deep, Santa Clausish hoi ho! ho! “You do that, Doctor. Believe me, I’ll be grateful. He can hold my chair down while I go fishing. My cops won’t even know the difference.”

  “And that’s God’s truth!” Pete grunted. But now the room was laughing with the chief; the rug was firmly under him again.

  At once, the grin dissolved; Santa Claus disappeared. Chiefy’s voice rang with regained authority. “It’s too bad, Dr. Grimwood, but we just can’t play that little game for a while. We have our serious business first.”

  And abruptly Hector Grimwood was once again only an old eccentric at whom the forces of the law looked askance.

  He had no chance to offer a riposte. The back door of the library opened, and Hanson entered. He stopped, blinking at the crowded room—a man as broad as his employer, but much shorter and many years younger. He looked immensely solid and ominously powerful, the sort of squarehead who, in the days of sail, served perilously before the mast so that occasionally he could come ashore to indulge the simple pleasure of tearing apart a waterfront saloon or whorehouse. His hairy tattooed hands echoed his Seabee background, and made his white waiter’s jacket and black bow tie seem even more incongruous.

  “Yessir?” He looked inquiringly at Dr. Grimwood. Instantly, Mrs. Hanson was upon him, arms around his neck, sobbing, ‘Tell them you didn’t do it, Gammy! You, named after a President and all! And we’ve been so h-h-happy since you stopped your drinking, and—” Hanson shook her, gently but decisively. “Hey, honey-bunch, what is all this? Tell ’em I didn’t do what?”

  “T-t-tell them you didn’t murder anybody! Th-they’re going to arrest you, and t-take you off to j-j-jail, and I’U—I’ll never, never, never see you anymore!”

  A freshet of tears quenched her momentarily. “Easy does it, chickie,” Hanson soothed her. “Quit blubberin’. Now, who’s going to arrest me?” He jerked a thumb at Kielty. “That?”

  Kielty gestured apprehensively to his sergeants and patrolmen.

  “Look,” said Hanson to the room, “if this funny monkey thinks I killed the goddamn mayor, he’s out of his effing head! I ain’t killed nobody—not since the war, that is.”

  “That’s right!” his wife put in. “Mr. Hanson w-wouldn’t even k-k-kill a mouse!”

  Kielty, protected by his squad, stepped forward. “Warren Gamaliel Hanson—” he began formally.

  “Get lost, squirt!” growled Hanson, beetling his brows. He advanced a step. Kielty retreated half a step, remembered he was not alone, and came back bristling.

  Hector Grimwood broke up the confrontation. “Hanson!” he called out, rising to his feet.

  Hanson turned his head. “Yessir?”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do to prevent your being arrested, Hanson. They’ve charged you with the murder of the man van Zaam, and a proper warrant has been issued.”

  “Anybody killed that creep deserves a medal,” snorted Hanson, “but it wasn’t me.”

  “I’m sure of that, and you’re going to have the best legal assistance I can get. Mr. Hemmet’s going to help us.” The doctor walked around and put his arm around Hanson’s shoulders. “And don’t you worry, Mrs. Hanson—they won’t be able to hold him very long.”

  Hanson looked dubiously at Kielty. He looked back at Dr. Grimwood. “Well, if you say so, sir,” he said reluctantly.

  Then, while Mrs. Hanson moaned softly in the background, Kielty completed his arrest. He did it with a politeness that was itself offensive, observing every legal nicety, but even his handcuffs, when they clicked, seemed to click gloatingly. Press strobes flashed. Mrs. Hanson kissed her husband a wet good-bye, and the door closed behind him and his escort. Silently, without a word, Judson Hemmet followed them.

  The chief of police stepped into the center of the room. “Well, that’s that,” he announced. “Now if you people have your questions ready, I’ll be glad to answer them.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Otterson!” Hector Grimwood strode up to him, fire in his eye. “You have completed your legitimate business here, and my house has no room for anything so deep as your proposed in-depth interview. Leave and conduct it elsewhere!”

  The newsmen glanced at Otterson, who shrugged and made the sort of gesture a sane man makes when he is being patient with a lunatic. They started filing out.

  “My business here isn’t completely finished,” the chief declared. “I have a feeling that it won’t be for some time. However, as the murder of our mayor has been solved, there’s no real reason to keep men on duty here.” He addressed the sole remaining officer. “Sergeant, we’ll pull off everyone. I want you to seal up the actual room where the mayor was killed, but all the other seals can be removed. You can go now and give the orders.”

  “Yes sir, right away,” the sergeant said, and left the room.

  Timuroff had been aware of Pete’s gathering anger, and now Pete spoke up suddenly. “Hey, wait a minute! Chief, this case hasn’t been solved by a long shot. Van Zaam’s whole history shows someone must’ve hired him. How can I tie up that end of it when you’re lifting all security? Any new evidence we find is going to be worthless unless we keep things buttoned up a few more days!”

  Chief Otterson did his best to stare Pete down. “There won’t be any new evidence,” he stated, for the first time letting ill temper sour his voice. “The lab men have already picked up everything. As for van Zaam, the federal people have confirmed his long involvement with reactionary forces. As the papers have suggested, he may have hated Mayor Munrooney for his fearless stand against these elements. In any case”—he shifted his stare from Pete to Dr. Grimwood—“if he was hired, we’ll learn who hired him when we find out why he was killed.”

  He waited an instant for this to take effect. Then, abruptly, his voice and manner became unctuously paternal. “Cominazzo,” he declared, “believe me, I’m aware of the great work you’ve been doing. It’s not your fault Lieutenant Kielty cracked the case before you had a chance to. But the fact that he has cracked it changes things. From here on, it’s just a matter of routine. So you’re relieved of your assignment as of now.”

  Pete took a deep breath—and Timuroffs hand gripped his elbow. It was a fencer’s hand and, like a pianist’s or violinist’s, could be felt. Pete exhaled.

  “Cominazzo,” the chief continued heartily, “a couple of months back you asked for three weeks’ leave. Why don’t you take it now? Kielty tells me we can find people to fill in for you. Take your wife down to Disneyland. You’ve earned it, son. When you come back, you’ll be a different man. Mr. Timuroff, don’t you agree?” Timuroff’s hand clamped vise-tight. “Absolutely, Chief Otterson,” he answered. “Pete’s long overdue.”

  He ignored the deadly looks Pete was giving him; and the chief apparently didn’t notice them. Otterson’s expression now was that of one who, by a single master stroke, has settled everything. “That’s right,” he said. “Work hard, but never overdo—that’s how to be efficient and stay efficient.” He regarded them benevolently. “Well, I’ll make sure my men get rounded up. Good night, Doctor. And good night, Mr. Timuroff. Have a nice trip, Cominazzo, and don’t forget to have your wife send a postcar
d from down south to Wifey. She sure loves getting pretty ones. Good night.”

  The library door closed mercifully, and he was gone. Pete Cominazzo let his breath out with a whoof. He disengaged Timuroffs fingers, and confronted him. “Okay, Tim,” he demanded. “I was all set to give that silly bastard an earful! I was all ready to resign! Instead, I took the hint. Okay, what gives?”

  “It’s very simple, Pete,” said Timuroff. “If you’d blown up and been suspended, or resigned, you wouldn’t have a chance to solve this case. But with a three-week leave, you can still have a crack at it. You have more friends in the Department than Kielty and the chief put together, and a lot fewer enemies. If anything interesting occurs, somebody’s going to pass the word along to you.”

  Pete relaxed a little. “You may be right at that,” he answered grudgingly. “Anything I can’t find out here, Joe Thieme up in Sacramento will get for me. I only hope you’ve got a real live line on the murders. I haven’t.”

  “As I said before,” replied Timuroff. “I think I have a glimmering.”

  Dr. Grimwood had gone to comfort Mrs. Hanson, who was still whiffling quietly in a corner. Now he returned to them.

  “The man’s incredible!” he said. “He turns himself on and off so readily that I caught myself wondering whether I might not have made him after all. But then I realized that of course I never could’ve programmed him with Wifey!” He became serious. “But what do we do now?”

  “Who is your lawyer?” asked Timuroff.

  “My lawyer? Why, usually nowadays it’s young Tommy Coulter. Their firm has always represented me—Primrose, Eisenstein, and Coulter. I started years ago with Tommy’s father.”

  “Well, you’d better get Tommy down to Hanson right away. They do handle criminal cases, don’t they?”

  “I’m sure they will, under the circumstances. I’m not happy about Hemmet, but I was too upset to think of how to turn him down without offending Mario Baltesar.”