The demolished man (9 page)
hold on the old man. The girl stopped short, backed away, then darted to the
left around Reich screaming. Reich pivoted and cut viciously at her with the
stiletto. She eluded him but was driven back on the couch. Reich thrust the
point of the stiletto between the old man's teeth and forced his jaws open.
"No!" she cried. "No! For the love of Christ! Father!"
She stumbled around the couch and ran toward her father again. Reich thrust the
gun muzzle into D'Courtney's mouth and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled
explosion and a gout of blood spurted from the back of D'Courtney's head. Reich
let the body drop and leaped for the girl. He caught her while she fought and
screamed.
Reich and the girl were screaming together. Reich shook with galvanic spasms
that forced him to release the girl. The girl fell forward to her knees and
crawled to the body. She moaned in pain as she snatched the gun from the mouth
where it still hung. Then she crouched over the twitching body, silent, fixed,
staring into the waxen face.
Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully. When the
roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward the girl, trying to
arrange his thoughts and make split second alterations in his plans. He had
never counted on a witness. No one mentioned a daughter. God damn Tate! He would
have to kill the girl. He---
She turned again and shot a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder. Again that
lightning flash of yellow hair, dark eyes, dark brows, wild beauty. She leaped
to her feet, darted out of his sodden grasp, ran to the jewelled door, flung it
open and ran into the anteroom. As the door slowly closed, Reich had a glimpse
of the guards still slumped on the bench and the girl running silently down the
stairs with the gun in her hands... with Demolition in her hands.
Reich started. The clogged blood began pounding through his veins again. He
reached the door in three strides, ran through and tore down the steps to the
picture gallery. It was empty but the door to the overpass was just closing. And
still no sound from her. Still no alarm. How long before she started screaming
the house down?
He raced down the gallery and entered the overpass. It was still pitch dark. He
blundered through, reached the head of the stairs that led down to the music
room and paused again. Still no sound. No alarm.
He went down the steps. The dark silence was terrifying. Why didn't she scream?
Where was she? Reich crossed toward the west arch and knew he was at the edge of
the main hall by the quiet splash of the fountains. Where was the girl? In all
that black silence, where was she? And the gun! Christ! The tricked gun!
A hand touched his arm. Reich jerked in alarm. Tate whispered: "I've been
standing by. It took you exactly---"
"You son of a bitch!" Reich burst out. "There was a daughter. Why didn't you---"
"Be quiet," Tate snapped. "Let me peep it." After fifteen seconds of burning
silence, he began to tremble. In a terrified voice he whined: "My God. Oh, my
God..."
His terror was the catalyst. Reich's control returned. He began thinking again.
"Shut up," he growled. "It isn't Demolition yet."
"You'll have to kill her too, Reich. You'll---"
"Shut up. Find her, first. Cover the house. You got her pattern from me. Locate
her. I'll be waiting at the fountain. Jet!"
He flung Tate from him and staggered to the fountain. At the jasper rim he bent
and bathed his burning face. It was burgundy. Reich wiped his face and ignored
the muffled sounds that came from the other side of the basin. Evidently some
other person or persons unknown were bathing in wine.
He considered swiftly. The girl must be located and killed. If she still had the
gun when Tate found her, the gun would be used. If she didn't? What? Strangle
her? No... The fountain. She was naked under that silk gown. It could be
stripped off. She could be found drowned in the fountain... just another guest
who had bathed in the wine too long. But it had to be soon... soon... soon...
Before this damned Sardine game was ended. Where was Tate? Where was the girl?
Tate came blundering up through the darkness, his breath wheezing.
"Well?"
"She's gone."
"You weren't gone long enough to find a louse. If this is a double-cross---"
"Who could I cross? I'm on the same road you are. I tell you her pattern's
nowhere in the house. She's gone."
"Anyone notice her leave?"
"No."
"Christ! Out of the house!"
"We'd better leave too."
"Yes, but we can't run. Once we get out of here, we'll have the rest of the
night to find her, but we've got to leave as though nothing's happened. Where's
The Guilt Corpse?"
"In the projection room."
"Watching a show?"
"No. Still playing Sardine. They're packed in there like fish in a can. We're
almost the last out here in the house."
"Wandering alone in the dark, eh? Come on."
He gripped Tate's shaking elbow and marched him toward the projection room. As
he walked he called plaintively: "Hey... Where is everybody? Maria! Ma-ri-aaa!
Where's everybody?"
Tate emitted a hysterical sob. Reich shook him roughly. "Play up! We'll be out
of here in five minutes. Then you can start worrying."..
"But if we're trapped in here, we won't be able to get the girl.We'll--- "..
"We won't be trapped. ABC, Gus. Audacious, brave, and confident." Reich pushed
open the door of the projection room. There was darkness in here, too, but the
heat of many bodies. "Hey," he called. "Where is everybody? I'm all alone."
No answer.
"Maria. I'm all alone in the dark."
A muffled sputter, then a burst of laughter.
"Darling, darling, darling!" Maria called. "You've missed all the fun, poor
dear." '
"Where are you, Maria? I've come to say good night."
"Oh, you can't be leaving..."
"Sorry, dear. It's late. I've got to swindle a friend tomorrow. Where are you
Maria?"
"Come up on the stage, darling."
Reich walked down the aisle, felt for the steps and mounted the stage. He felt
the cool perimeter of the projection globe behind him. A voice called: "All
right. Now we've got him. Lights!"
White light flooded the globe and blinded Reich. The guests seated in the chairs
around the stage started to whoop with laughter, then howled in disappointment.
"Oh Ben, you cheat," Maria screeched. "You're still dressed. That isn't fair.
We've been catching everybody divinely flagrante."
"Some other time, Maria dear." Reich extended his hand before him and began the
graceful bow of farewell. "Respectfully, Madame. I give you my thanks for---" He
broke off in amazement. On the gloaming white lace of his cuff an angry red spot
appeared.
In stunned silence, Reich saw a second, then a third red splotch appear on the
lace. He snatched his hand back and a red drop spattered on the stage before
him, to be followed by a slow, inexorable stream of gleaming crimson droplets.
"That's blood!" Maria screamed. "That's blood! There's someone upstairs
bleeding. For God's sake, Ben... You can't leave me now. Lights! Lights!
Lights!"
6
At 12:30 A.M., the Emergency Patrol arrived at Beaumont House in response to
precinct notification: "GZ. Beaumont. YLP-R" which, translated, meant: "An Act
or Omission, forbidden by law has been reported at Beaumont House, 9 Park
South."
At 12:40, the Park precinct Captain arrived in response to Patrol report:
"Criminal Act possible Felony-AAA."
At 1:00 A.M„ Lincoln Powell arrived at Beaumont House in response to a frantic
call from a deputy inspector: "I tell you, Powell, it's Felony Triple-A. I'll
swear it is. The wind's been knocked out of me. I don't know whether to be
grateful or scared; but I know none of us is equipped to handle it."
"What can't you handle?"
"Look here, Powell. Murder's abnormal. Only a distorted TP pattern can produce
death by violence. Right?"
"Yes."
"Which is why there hasn't been a successful Triple-A in over seventy years. A
man can't walk around with a distorted pattern, maturing murder, and go
unnoticed these days. He'd have as much chance of going unnoticed as a man with
three heads. You peepers always pick 'em up before they go into action."
"We try to... when we contact them."
"And there are too many peeper screens to pass in normal living these days for
you to be avoided. A man would have to be a hermit to do that. How can a hermit
kill?"
"How indeed?"
"Now here's a killing that must have been carefully planned... and the killer
was never noticed. Never reported. Even by Maria Beaumont's peeper secretaries.
That means there couldn't have been anything to notice. He must have a passable
pattern and yet be abnormal enough to murder. How the hell can we resolve a
paradox like that?"
"I see. Any prospects?"
"We've got a pay-load of inconsistencies to iron out. One, we don't know what
killed D'Courtney. Two, his daughter's disappeared. Three, somebody robbed
D'Courtney's guards of one hour and we can't figure how. Four---"
"Don't count any higher. I'll be right over."
The great hall of Beaumont House blazed with harsh white light. Uniformed police
were everywhere. The white-smocked technicians from Lab were scurrying like
beetles. In the center of the hall, the party guests (dressed) were assembled in
a rough corral, milling like a herd of terrified steers at a slaughter house.
As Powell came down the east ramp, tall and slender, black and white, he felt
the wave of hostility that greeted him. He reached out quickly to Jackson Beck,
police Inspector 2: "What's the situation Jax?"
"Scramble."
Switching to their informal police code of scrambled images, reversed meanings
and personal symbols, Beck continued: "Peepers here. Play it safe." In a
microsecond he brought Powell up to date.
"I see. Nasty. What's everybody doing lumped out on the floor? You staging
something?"
"The villain-friend act."
"Necessary?"
"It's a rotten crowd. Pampered. Corrupt. They'll never cooperate. You'll have to
do some tricky coaxing to get anything out of them; and this case is going to
need it. I'll be the villain. You be their friend."
"Right. Good work. Start recording."
Halfway down the ramp, Powell halted. The humor departed from his mouth. The
friendliness disappeared from his deep dark eyes. An expression of shocked
indignation appeared on his face.
"Beck," he snapped. His voice cracked through the echoing hall. There was dead
silence. Every eye turned in his direction.
Inspector Beck faced Powell. In a brutal voice, he said: "Here, sir."
"Are you in charge. Beck?"
"I am, sir."
"And is this your concept of the proper conduct of an investigation? To herd a
group of innocent people together like cattle?"
"They're not innocent," Beck growled. "A man's been killed."
"All in this house are innocent, Beck. They will be presumed to be innocent and
treated with every courtesy until the truth is uncovered."
"What?" Beck sneered. "This gang of liars? Treated with courtesy? This rotten,
lousy, high-society pack of hyenas..."
"How dare you! Apologize at once."
Beck took a deep breath and clenched his fists angrily.
"Inspector Beck, did you hear me? Apologize to these ladies and gentlemen at
once."
Beck glared at Powell, then turned to the staring guests. "My apologies," he
mumbled.
"And I'm warning you, Beck," Powell snapped. "If anything like this happens
again, I'll break you. I'll send you straight back to the gutter you came from.
Now get out of my sight."
Powell descended to the floor of the hall and smiled at the guests. Suddenly he
was again transformed. His bearing conveyed the subtle suggestion that he was at
heart one of them. There was even a tinge of fashionable corruption in his
diction.
"Ladies and gentlemen: Of course I know you all by sight. I'm not that famous so
let me introduce myself. Lincoln Powell, Prefect of the Psychotic Division.
Prefect and Psychotic. Two antiquated titles, eh? We won't let them bother us."
He advanced toward Maria Beaumont with hand outstretched. "Dear Madame Maria,
what an exciting climax for your wonderful party. I envy all of you. You'll make
history."
A pleased rustle ran through the guests. The lowering hostility began to fade.
Maria took Powell's hand dazedly, mechanically beginning to preen herself.
"Madame..." He confused and delighted her by kissing her brow with paternal
warmth. "You've had a trying time, I know. These boors in uniform."
"Dear Prefect..." She was a little girl, clinging to his arm. "I've been so
terrified."
"Is there a quiet room where we can all be comfortable and endure this
exasperating experience?"
"Yes. The study, dear Prefect Powell." She was actually beginning to lisp.
Powell snapped his fingers behind him. To the Captain who stepped forward, he
said: "Conduct Madame and her guests to the study. No guards. The ladies and