Murder in Space

5

That evening the six witnesses were summoned by Captain Larlavon to the cabin which had been occupied by the late Carrison Fane. They found the cabin untouched; it was exactly as they had left it the night before, except that naturally the corpse had been removed.

"We are going to reenact the events of last night," Hautley informed them, "with the Captain taking the place of Deacon Fane.

Please take the same seats as before, then join hands."

They did so, however gingerly. Quicksilver smiled.

"I assure you all that the murder will not be repeated," he said gravely. A servitor was summoned to switch off the illuminants and leave the cabin, locking the door from outside.

Silence ensued, disturbed only by rapid breathing from one or another of those present. Taurean Hakefield's little hand was cool and firm in Hadley's grasp; the Captain's hand, however, was sweating.

The black gloom was relieved only by the faintest glimmer of light from the ceiling illuminants in the 'fresher cubicle, whose door was ajar half an inch. In that feeble ghost of illumination, the silver insignia on the Captain's collar could faintly be glimpsed.

The suspense became all but unendurable: they sat motionlessly, waiting for something to happen. When it finally did, it took them by surprise—

A strangled gasp. The scraping of heels against the flooring.

"Lights—quickly!" cried Quicksilver. The linked handclasps were broken; figures lurched to their feet, bumping into one another in the dark. Then the lights came on.

Captain Larlavon was unharmed, pale but composed.

On the floor before him lay a gleaming skewer.

"Let us see if there are any fingerprints on the weapon," suggested Hautley. "Cn. Rapsallion, if you still have that kerchief about you, may I borrow it again?" Rapsallion produced the article; Quicksilver used it to pick up the skewer and examined the handle by means of a powerful lens.

"No fingerprints at all," he decided. "Not even a smudge."

"Ser Hautley, I presume you have some purpose behind this grisly mummery?" demanded the Matriarch impatiently.

"I have indeed, Great-Mother," replied Quicksilver. "We have exactly duplicated the events of yesterday evening with the sole exception that Captain Larson is unharmed. Now I will explain how the murder was committed. One of us at table purloined a skewer which was unobtrusively concealed on his or her person—probably slipped into the waistband of the murderer's garment. With our hands joined it was simply impossible for any of us to have wielded the sharp instrument, therefore the murder was not committed until after the cry for lights went up and our handclasps were broken."

"After?" murmured Taurean Hakefield, wrinkling her brow. "But we all heard—"

"A strangled gasp; the dragging of heels; yes," nodded Hautley Quicksilver. "But any one of us could have uttered that gasp and dragged his or her heels against the flooring. The moment our circle of linked hands was broken, it would be the act of an instant to whip out the skewer—holding it with a piece of cloth so as not to leave fingerprints—and plunge the instrument into Deacon Fane's throat. The target was hard to miss, even in the dark. The faintest glimmer of light from the 'fresher gleamed on the white winged collar Fane was wearing, Just as it picked out the silver rank insignia on the Captain's collar. The skewer was then deposited at Fane's feet, and the piece of cloth returned to pocket or waistband or wherever it had formerly reposed."

"Ingenious!" breathed Turgo Barnavelt. "But so completely simple!"

"Simplicity itself," agreed Hautley. "Merely a bit of misdirection, a stage magician's stock in trade. The whole idea was to make us assume the murder was committed before we broke our handclasp. And one does not have to be a ventriloquist to utter a strangled gasp. We were seated so close together that any one of us could have made the sound, without any of us guessing from whose mouth it came."

"This is all very clever," said Jarles Rapsallion. "Now we know how the murder was committed; a more significant question is, by whom?"

Hautley smiled. "An interesting question, Cn. Rapsallion: but as we both know, you, yourself, are the murderer."

A thunderclap could not have been more shocking. They stared at each other, and at Rapsallion; the entrepreneur himself seemed stunned.

"Surely, you jest!" he cried. "I? For what conceivable reason—from what possible motive—what evidence have you—?"

"I recently obtained from Computer Central a record of your financial transactions over the past year or so," said Hautley. "There were regular withdrawals of sizeable amounts; indeed, the size of the amount grew steadily—”

"My theatrical enterprises—"

"—are financed by private investors. No; you were being blackmailed by Deacon Fane," Hausey interposed. Rapsallion looked baffled.

"For what reason? How could anyone know anything about me to occasion blackmail? You are simply bluffing, Ser Hautley!"

"Nut at all. Hypnotic drugs are regularly imbibed at Psychist meetings. Under the influence of a stronger dose than usual you confided to Fane certain discrepancies in your finances; perhaps you pocketed some of the gate receipts, or padded your expenses in order to bilk your investors out of a considerable amount of cash. You were being blackmailed: the signs are unmistakable."

"Well ... even if I were, and I deny it, that is in itself no evidence of murder!" blustered Rapsallion.

"No, merely a link in the chain. I have no doubt that before you attained your present entrepreneurial prominence, you performed in less prestigious theatrical roIes. Perhaps as a stage magician, even a ventriloquist; if not, then you probably had the opportunity to observe such at close hand and to learn their skills."

"More flim-flam," stormed Rapsallion. "You yourself said not very many minutes past that the murderer did not need to know either the magician's trick of misdirection, or ventriloquism."

"Quite true; one more link in the chain, however. The scraping of heels is another such link: the sound was meant to suggest that Fane, upon being stabbed in the throat, thrust out his legs, which in fact he did, but that was moments later, and the sound he produced was masked behind the noise of several people jumping to their feet, the confusion of chairs being thrust back, as we tried to get the lights on. You scraped your own heels on the floor beneath your chair. See? The marks are still visible on the slick black flooring, as are those beneath my own chair, which I made a few moments ago, when simulating the crime."

All eyes traveled from the scrape marks beneath Hautley's chair to those beneath Rapsallion's.

"When I jumped to my feet—"

"You were naturally on your toes," said Wausaey smoothly. "Not on your heels. Try it and see ..."

Rapsallion sneered. "Any further links in the chain?" he demanded grumpily. Quicksilver nodded.

"You alone wore a silk kerchief prominently displayed and easy to hand, wherewith you whipped the purloined skewer either from the waistband of your slacks or from the breast pocket of your coat."

"Pfah! I have no doubt we all bear kerchiefs on our person."

"But none so readily to hand as yours ... moreover, if my auditors will try to recollect our conversation at table yestereve, they will recall that it was you—the glib, smooth-tongued theatrical promoter—who suggessed the seance and prodded Deacon Fane into agreeing to it."

"I—"

"Back on your home world, it would have been simplicity itself for you to have learned from Psychist circles of Fane's appointment as inspector General. You contrived to take passage on the same liner as Fane. You asked to be seated with him at dinner; the tables are set for seven, bus it made no difference to you whom else might be dining with yourself and your victim, so long as they could be coaxed to attend the seance. The more witnesses, the merrier."

"Conjecture; pure bluff and conjecture; not an atom of solid proof," wheezed Rapsallion red in the face and now perspiring.

At this point the Captain spoke up. "Sufficient, however, for me to order you detained under guard. Cn. Rapsallion, will you voluntarily agree to a mindprobe?"

"I will not," snapped the other.

The door opened, revealing a ship's officer and two brawny crewmen. All three were armed with stun guns.

"Bosun, place Cn. Rapsallion in close confinement. When we reach parking orbit tomorrow, a police gig from Paragon will match velocities; the officers will take the suspect into custody."

Rapsallion lurched clumsily to his feet, swaying.

"I'll have my day in court," he growled. Hautley smiled.

"Not necessarily ... I've no doubt the lawmen can obtain a court order for a mindprobe," he drawled. Rapsallion sagged like a punctured balloon.

"He was draining me dry, the swine," he breathed. "Ever more demands ... I would have gone bankrupt if I hadn't—hadn't—"

"Take the prisoner away, bosun," ordered the Captain.

As they left the cabin, Taurean Hakefield entwined her arm with Hautley's. "That was brilliant," she breathed. "Brilliant! Let me buy you a drink?"

"You may; I could certainly use one," confessed Quicksilver.

They repaired to the Starflite Lounge, where the silver-haired bartender gave Hautley his usual cocktail and served Cns. Hakefield a Cinnabar Moonrise. They clinked glasses and sipped their beverages. Hautley cleared his throat.

"I believe you are entitled to lay over at any given stop and wait for the next IVS liner," he said. "Why not spend two or three days on Paragon with me? I can offer you white beaches, emerald palms, warm lagoons . . .?"

"And what about the dusky maidens?" she inquired with a twinkle of mischief in her eye. He grinned.

"I will gladly pass them up for a slim girl with dark red hair, amethyst eyes and a lopsided smile," said Hautley gallantly.

She smiled and squeezed his hand.