The Dogtown Tourist Agency (17 page)

“Byrrhis was ready to supply a commodity equally valuable,” said Hetzel. “Virility hormone—
chir
. He brought down a cargo of chemical, which now is stored in Kanitze castle, unless I am much mistaken. The Kzyk would work without cessation for this material;
chir
is the stuff they value most. Indeed, Byrrhis imported such a remarkable quantity of the material, I suspect that he planned to establish a whole chain of Istagams across the various continents. A year or two of such enterprise, and Vv. Byrrhis could retire a very wealthy man indeed.”

Sir Estevan turned away. “I don’t care to hear any more.”

“From sheer curiosity—what will you do with Zaressa Lurling?”

“I will ask her to leave Maz on the next ship and never return. The crime was not committed against a Gaean, and I can do no more, even if I wanted to do so.”

Hetzel returned across the glimmering gray plaza to the Beyranion Hotel. He had achieved his goals; he had earned an adequate fee, but the circumstances provided him no great satisfaction. For the hundredth time he wondered about the quality of his profession. Were greed, hate, lust, and cruelty to disappear, there would be little work for effectuators…Maz was by no means a cheerful world. He would be relieved to see it dwindle astern.

In the Beyranion dining room he took an early lunch, then went to his rooms and telephoned the spaceport. The
Xanthine
, a packet of the Argo Navis Line, departed Axistil on the morrow; Hetzel made reservations for passage.

He poured himself a goblet of Baltranck cordial, added a splash of soda. Dirby, so he noted, had made valiant inroads upon the flask during his sojourn. Well, why not? A surly fellow, Gidion Dirby, who had learned neither wisdom nor tolerance nor generosity from his vicissitudes: the usual order of things. Tragedy was not necessarily ennobling; travail weakened the soul more often than it
gave strength. On the whole, Dirby might be considered an average human being. Hetzel decided that he bore Dirby no ill will. Casimir Wuldfache/Byrrhis? Hetzel felt emotion neither one way nor the other. His mood, he thought, was extraordinarily flat. Since the confrontation at the Triskelion he had done nothing but brood. The explanation, of course, was obvious: fatigue and numbness after the events at Black Cliff Inn, in the Shimkish Mountains, on the Steppe of Long Bones. As he sat sipping the cordial, the circumstances seemed fragile and unreal, dreams.

A chime at the door announced a visitor. Hetzel slid to the sideboard, took up his weapon, and looked around at the windows. Visits in the aftermath of cases often presaged dire happenings. He went sidling and wary to the door, touched the viewplate, to reveal the face of Sir Estevan Tristo.

Hetzel slid the door aside. Sir Estevan came slowly into the room. He presented, thought Hetzel, a most untypical and dispirited appearance. His skin showed the color of putty; his yellow hair seemed wilted. Without waiting for an invitation, Sir Estevan lowered himself into a chair. Hetzel poured a second goblet of Baltranck and soda and handed it to Sir Estevan.

“Thank you.” Sir Estevan swirled the liquid around the glass and stared down into the cusps of reflected light. He looked up at Hetzel. “You wonder why I am here.”

“Not at all. You want to talk to me.”

Sir Estevan showed a wan smile and tasted the cordial. “Quite true. As you divined, I took an extraordinary interest in Zaressa, and now I find myself in a rather maudlin state. Life now seems very grim, very grim indeed.”

“I can appreciate this,” said Hetzel. “Zaressa was a most charming creature.”

Sir Estevan set the goblet upon the table. “Byrrhis encountered her at Twisselbane on Tamar, apparently under rather sordid circumstances. He sent her out here and recommended that I give her a job. I became enamored; I transferred Vvs. Felius to the reception desk and installed Zaressa as my secretary, and she quickly made herself indispensable. Meanwhile, of course, she was plotting with the unspeakable Byrrhis.” Sir Estevan picked up the goblet and drank. “But now, poor thing, I forgive her everything; she is paying very dearly for her offense.”

“Indeed? I thought you had merely instructed her to leave Maz.”

“So I did; this was her intention. I mentioned to you that Liss and Olefract both are able to eavesdrop on my offices. They knew as soon as we that Zaressa was involved in the assassinations. Zaressa went to her rooms to pack. She was accosted by two men, taken to a vehicle, and delivered to the Liss. Her roommate communicated with me; I made an urgent protest, but to no avail. They sent her away in a Liss ship. She’ll never see another human being in whatever span of life remains to her.”

Hetzel made a small grimace. Both men sat quiet, watching colors shift and change in their goblets.

Sir Estevan had departed. Hetzel sat for a period in silent reflection. Then he telephoned the Roseland Residence. Janika was not in her rooms. Hetzel wondered as to where she might be.

Five minutes later she rang the chime at his door. Hetzel let her in. Her eyes were red, her face was swollen with tears. “Have you heard what happened to Zaressa?”

Hetzel put his arm around her shoulder and stroked her hair. “Sir Estevan told me.”

“I want to leave Maz; I never want to come back.”

“There’s a packet leaving tomorrow. I reserved passage for you.”

“Thank you. Where does it take us?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“That can easily be arranged.” Hetzel lifted the flask which once had contained Baltranck and which now was dry. “Do you care for an aperitif? We can sit out in the garden and have the waiter bring us something refreshing.”

“That sounds pleasant. Let me go wash my face. I’m sure I look ridiculous. But when I think of Zaressa, I go to pieces.”

They sat at a table where they could watch the glittering flakelet of a sun drift down the sky. Across the plaza the Triskelion loomed through the murk. “This is a terrible world,” said Janika. “I’ll never forget it; I’ll never be gay and careless again. Do you know, it might as easily have been me as Zaressa; I might easily have done just what she did. How would she know that Casimir Wuldfache planned to shoot the Triarchs?”

“So…Vv. Byrrhis wasn’t guilty after all.”

Janika gave a scornful laugh. “He’d never have taken the risk. And Zaressa would never have opened the door for him. For Casimir Wuldfache she’d do anything. Even in Twisselbane she yearned for him. He preferred me; I couldn’t tolerate him, and so both Casimir and Zaressa hated me.”

“Casimir Wuldfache, oddly enough, is responsible for my being here now.”

“Oh? How so?”

“At first I thought it a coincidence, but now—”

Footsteps sounded; Gidion Dirby sauntered up the path. He gave an astounded gasp and stopped short, staring at Janika with eyes bulging from his face. “What are you doing here?”

As before, Sir Ivon Hacaway received Hetzel on the terrace of Harth Manor. Hetzel had already presented a brief report by telephone, and Sir Ivon’s manner was far more affable than on the previous occasion.

Hetzel described his activities in detail and rendered his expense account, in regard to which Sir Ivon gave a rueful smile. “My honor, but you do yourself well!”

“I saw no need to stint,” said Hetzel. “I do high-quality work under high-quality conditions. There remains a single matter to discuss—the bonus which you offered for decisive effectuation. Istagam is no longer in existence, and nothing could be more definite than this.”

Sir Ivon’s face clouded. “I hardly see the need for any larger outlay.”

“As you wish. I can earn a rather smaller sum by writing an article for the micronics trade journal, describing the possibilities for a new, better-organized Istagam. After all, it never was and is not now illegal to employ Gomaz labor, and
chir
is cheap.”

Sir Ivon gave a weary sigh and brought out his checkbook. “A thousand SLU will be sufficient, and I will make it my business to see that
chir
is declared contraband.”

“Two thousand would better convey your appreciation. However, I’ll settle for fifteen hundred, and I believe that Sir Estevan Tristo has already placed an embargo on
chir
. Still…”

Sir Ivon glumly wrote the check. Hetzel expressed gratitude, wished Sir Ivon good health, and took his leave. He went to the front of the manor, rang the chime, and when the footman opened the
door, requested a word with Lady Bonvenuta. He was conducted into the library, where Lady Bonvenuta shortly appeared. At the sight of Hetzel she halted, raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I am Miro Hetzel, to whom a friend of yours, a certain Madame X, entrusted a trifle of confidential business.”

Lady Bonvenuta touched her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’m afraid I know of no such Madame X.”

“She was anxious to locate a gentleman by the name of Casimir Wuldfache, and I am pleased to report that I have details on his present whereabouts.”

“Indeed?” Her voice was more frosty than ever.

“First, I must inform you that Casimir Wuldfache took advantage of Madame X and her friendship with you and rifled Sir Ivon’s file of private papers. This will come as a great shock to you.”

“Why, yes. Of course. But, then…well, I think I know the Madame X to whom you refer. She will want to learn where this Casimir Wuldfache can be found.”

“The information reached me as an incidental to another effectuation, and I will not require payment, especially as Casimir Wuldfache is dead.”

“Dead!” Lady Bonvenuta blinked and clutched at a chair with bejeweled fingers.

“Dead as a doornail. I myself saw his corpse on the Steppe of Long Bones, north of Axistil, on the planet Maz, where he had been engaged in business. May I ask you a question?”

“This is shocking news! What is your question?”

“A rather trivial matter. Did you recommend me to Sir Ivon, or did he remark to you that I was an efficient and dependable effectuator?”

“I heard him discuss you with one of his friends, and I passed the recommendation on to Madame X.”

“Thank you,” said Hetzel. “The chain of circumstances is now complete. My best regards to Madame X, and I hope that the news regarding Vv. Wuldfache will not distress her.”

“I hardly think so. It was a matter of business. I will telephone her at this minute. Good day, Vv. Hetzel.”

“Good day, Lady Bonvenuta. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”

Arriving at Cassander on the world Thesse, Hetzel lodged himself at the Hotel of the Worlds, using a fictitious name. After a bath and a meal he seated himself at the communicator, called for and secured a certified channel, guaranteed safe from interference. He touched buttons, spoke a code word, and the screen displayed his personal emblem: a skull with the Tree of Life growing up from one of the eye sockets. His own voice spoke: “Office of Miro Hetzel, Effectuator.”

“I will consult anyone on the premises,” Hetzel replied, though the premises, as he well knew, included no more than a few circuits at Cassander Communications Center.

“The premises are vacant,” stated the familiar voice. “Miro Hetzel is not immediately available. Please leave a message.”

“Two six two six. Miro Hetzel here. Transmit messages.”

Assured by code and voice analysis that Hetzel himself had issued the demand, the reception system yielded its file of messages, dating from Hetzel’s previous departure from Cassander. Much of the matter was trivial. There were two threats, three warnings, four demands for money. A few, spoken in guarded or disguised voices, or in rambling, only half-coherent sentences, fit no pattern, but to these Hetzel listened with careful attention: they contained intimations too troubling to be articulated clearly. Hetzel heard nothing which he considered of urgent importance.

The remainder of the messages, seven in all, solicited Hetzel’s services. None supplied informative detail. Three made use of the phrase: “Money is of no object,” or “Expense is secondary to results.” Hetzel suspected that several applicants wished to be delivered from blackmail, an operation at which he had been notably successful in the past. Other offers could not so readily be classified. To all the reception system, after extracting all possible information, delivered the message: “Miro Hetzel is presently off-world. If you fail to receive a response within three days, we recommend the Extran Effectuation Service, whose integrity and skill are of a high order.”

The last message in the system’s memory had been received three days previously almost to the minute; and this message also was that which aroused in Hetzel the keenest interest. He listened to it a second time: “You do not know me; my name is Clent—Conwit Clent. My address is Dandyl Villa, Tangent Road, Junis. I am faced with a most troublesome problem—at least it seems troublesome to me. You may find it ludicrous. I might not have called you except that the affair concerns a certain Faurence Dacre, and your name happens to enter the case. Only at the periphery, I hasten to say. I repeat that the matter is most important and expense, within reason, is no object. I know your reputation and I hope you will be able to consult with me as soon as possible.”

Hetzel immediately put through a call to Conwit Clent, at Dandyl Villa in the pleasant hillside suburb of Junis.

The face of Conwit Clent almost instantly appeared on the screen: a face which ordinarily must have seemed easy and generous, with curly blond hair, a well-shaped, if heavy nose, and a square block of a chin. The features now were drawn and pinched; the ruddy skin showed an unhealthy gray undertone.

Hetzel introduced himself. “Sorry for the delay. I arrived in town only an hour ago.”

Clent’s face sagged in relief. “Excellent! Can you come out to my home? Or would you prefer that I meet you in town?”

“Just a moment,” said Hetzel. “Can you tell me something about your case?”

Clent cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder. He muttered uncomfortably: “It’s something difficult to discuss under any circumstances. You remember Faurence Dacre?”