Throy (30 page)

“What can I say? Everything is known to you!”

“Not everything! You are withholding facts - even though you do not realize this yourself.”

Selious blinked. “I will cite these facts if you tell me what they are.”

“The question is this, and it is of the highest importance. Namour ordered you to drown the lady - but who gave Namour his orders?”

“That is unknown to me, sir.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. I will explain this seeming sophistry. Your brain is like a great warehouse, containing a million parcels of memory or more. Each parcel is catalogued, and arranged according to the rules established by your individual retrieval system. We shall call this system your ‘clerk.’ When you need to recall a fact, the clerk glances into an index and instantly knows where the fact is filed and fetches it up for your attention. The clerk’s efficiency is marvelous. Still, each day new parcels enter the warehouse, to be indexed and cross-indexed. Inevitably the brain becomes cluttered or crowded. Sometimes the clerk discards old parcels, or even tears out whole pages in the index. More often it simply pushes the old parcels back into the cobwebs. As time goes  by the clerk reorganizes the index. Sometimes the clerk becomes lazy or fastidious and pretends that these dirty old parcels are better left ignored, and gives back a false report. And at last heaps of trash pile up at the back of your brain. Is all this clear?”

“You speak with authority! I must accept your concepts.”

“Just so. Now: to the point! I will ask a question. You must send your clerk out hot-foot to find the answer. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My question is this: who ordered you to drown the lady Marya?”

“It was Namour.”

“Ha ha! The clerk has done its job smartly and well. Now, another question: who gave Namour his orders in this regard?”

“I do not know!”

Bodwyn Wook scowled. “The clerk has scamped his duty. Send it out again with fresh instructions. Tell it to check its index with special care.”

Selious threw his hands to the side. “I can tell you nothing. Now, if you please, I will go.”

“Not just yet; in fact, we have only started.”

“Ay caray! What next?”

“It is no great matter. We have discovered a way to help the clerk. First we search the index thoroughly; we must look here and there, prodding in odd places, startling up all sorts of lost memories. Your brain in effect is like a wilderness of lost regions and secret landscapes, which we must explore, venturing into the most inaccessible regions. Perhaps sooner, perhaps later, we will find the parcel we are looking for, but it is a tedious job. We learn more about you than we want to know.”

          Selious spoke in a subdued voice: “It seems a pointless task, especially when the parcel you seek may be utterly lost.”

“That is a chance we must take,” said Bodwyn Wook. “We will start the search at once; there is no reason to delay.”

          In the Bureau B laboratory a pair of specialists anaesthetized Selious, then fitted instruments of exquisite delicacy to his neural apparatus. The analytical process was set in motion. In the end the episode under investigation was brought into focus and explored.

          The facts were as Selious had stated, with a filigree of detail. They revealed a chilling lack of emotion incident to the drowning.

Among the details was a wry joke made by Namour, coupled to a name and a glance over his shoulder.

The allusion was clear; the name was definite.

There was now nothing more required of Selious and he was restored to consciousness. A pair of Bureau B constables took him to the old jail across the River Wan, where he was housed in a cell with Catterline, pending a final adjudication.

Scharde and Bodwyn Wook conferred in the superintendent’s office. Hilda served tea and biscuits. “Finally,” said Bodwyn Wook, “we come to a resolution of the case.”

“It has weighed on me for twenty years.”

“And now what will you do? The decision is yours to make.”

“I will resolve the case as it must be resolved. There is no other way.”

Bodwyn Wook heaved a deep sigh. “That is my viewpoint. What of Glawen?”

“He must know that his mother was drowned. Call him here now, and we will put the facts before him.”

“As you say.” Bodwyn Wook spoke into the communicator mesh. Ten minutes passed, while dusk came to Araminta Station. Glawen appeared in the doorway. He looked from one man to the other, then came forward and at Bodwyn Wook’s gesture seated himself.

Bodwyn Wook in dry terse phrases acquainted him with the information gleaned from Selious and Catterline.

Bodwyn Wook finished the recital and leaned back in his chair. Glawen looked at his father. “So what do we do now?”

“We will pursue the investigation in the morning.”

Chapter 8, Part V

At dawn a rain squall blew in from the sea, then fleeted away over the hills to the west. Two hours later the sun broke through the clouds and Araminta Station seemed to glisten.

Six persons approached Clattuc House. They entered the foyer, and Scharde Clattuc spoke to the doorman. He heard what he wished to hear, then the six climbed the stairs to the second floor: Scharde, Glawen, Bodwyn Wook, a pair of Bureau B underlings and a matron. They trooped down the hall and stopped before the door giving upon Spanchetta’s apartments. Scharde pressed the bell button. There was a long pause, during which Spanchetta presumably inspected them on her guardian screen.

The door remained closed; Spanchetta had decided to receive no visitors on this particular morning. Polite convention now required that the rebuffed visitors depart, interpreting Spanchetta’s coolness in any way they chose. Scharde, however, pushed the button again, and then again.

At last Spanchetta’s voice sounded peevishly through the annunciator. “I am not receiving this morning. You must call at another time, but not today, nor tomorrow.”

Scharde spoke into the mesh. “Open the door, Spanchetta. This is not a social call.”

“What do you want?”

“We must consult with you on an important matter.”

“I am not in the mood for consultations; indeed, I find myself indisposed. You must come back some other time.”

“That is not convenient; we must, see you now. Open the door, or we will send for the master key.”

Another minute passed, then the door was snatched open, revealing Spanchetta’s imposing person, dressed in a sweeping gown of cerise velvet, with a black embroidered vest and incongruously small pointed dancer’s slippers. Her lustrous dark hair as always was twisted into coils and piled into a pyramid of unlikely proportions above her broad white brow. Her bosom was magnificent; her hips were grand; as always, she seemed charged with a coarse heavy-blooded vitality. She stepped back angrily as Scharde pushed the door open wide, and entered the sumptuous marble reception chamber.

Spanchetta cried out in a poignant contralto: “What boorish behavior! But then, you have never acted otherwise! You shame the House of Clattuc!”

The remaining five members of the group entered the room; Spanchetta inspected them with revulsion. “What is this all about? Tell me and leave; I will attend to it later. At the moment I lack the patience to deal with you.”

Bodwyn Wook said: “Spanchetta, you may now cease your sputtering. We are about to perform the usual routine.” He spoke to the matron. “Search her well, in every fold and crevice; she is a sly one.”

“Just a moment!” bawled Spanchetta. “Did I hear you correctly? Are you bereft of your senses? What is the charge?”

“Don’t you know?” asked Scharde. “Your crime is murder.”

Spanchetta became very still. “Murder? Of whom?”

“Marya.”

Spanchetta threw back her head and laughed - in relief? - and the monumental pillar of dark curls swayed dangerously. “Surely you joke? Where are your indications? In fact, how can there be evidence for a non-existent crime?”

“You will find out in due course. Matron, search the prisoner. Hold quiet, Spanchetta, if you value your dignity.”

“This is an abominable persecution! I shall take all legal action against you!”

“That is at your option.”

The matron made a perfunctory search, finding nothing.

“Very well, then,” said Bodwyn Wook. “We will take you to my offices, where you will be formally arraigned. Do you care to change your garments or put on a cloak?”

“This is detestable nonsense!” stormed Spanchetta. “I believe that you are insane, and I will not go with you!”

Bodwyn Wook said: “You may walk, Spanchetta, or you will be trussed hand and foot and ride in a barrow. Still, you must come. The matron will help you into serviceable garments.”

“Bah! What an inconvenience,” muttered Spanchetta. “I will put on my cloak.” She started from the room. At a sign from Bodwyn Wook, the matron and the two sergeants followed. Spanchetta halted, and made an irascible gesture. “I shall get my own cloak! Stay where you are!”

“That would be irregular,” explained Bodwyn Wook. “It would not be proper procedure. You may not go unattended.”

“I will do as I choose!” Spanchetta thrust the matron aside. “You must wait here!” She turned toward the hall.

“I am obliged to obey orders,” said the matron. “I will accompany you.”

“You may not do so! It is unreasonable and I will not have it!”

Scharde and Bodwyn Wook looked at each other, puzzled and suddenly alert. Spanchetta’s conduct had become false and unnatural.

“Just a moment,” said Bodwyn Wook. “You are distrait. Sit in this chair and regain your composure. We will procure your cloak.”

Spanchetta would not listen and tried to run from the room. The sergeants conducted her to a chair and forced her to sit. She was handcuffed to the chair and left in the charge of the matron. The others cautiously explored the apartment. In Arles’ old bedroom they found Smonny, drowsing on the bed. In the adjoining study Namour sat reading a book. He looked up with no surprise. “Gentlemen? What is it this time?”

“It is the end of the line,” said Bodwyn Wook.

Namour nodded thoughtfully and closed the book. He reached to place the book on a nearby table; Glawen jumped forward and seized his wrist, and pulled it away from a small weapon which would have dazed them with an explosion of light, enabling Namour to kill them. Scharde folded Namour’s arms together and constrained them with tape. He searched Namour, found and removed a gun, a dagger and a dart ejector. “Namour is a walking arsenal,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Have you truly made him meek?”

          “I hope so,” said Scharde. “With Namour nothing is certain. He might have a poison squirt under his tongue, so don’t peer too directly into his face.”

Namour gave a weary laugh. “I am not the maniacal warrior you take me for.”

Scharde showed a thin smile. “One way or another, the corpses accumulate behind you.”

Bodwyn Wook asked Namour with clinical interest: “Have you ever kept count?”

“No sir.” Namour seemed bored by the question. He asked Scharde: “So now, which is it to be: Bureau B or Schedule D?”

“Schedule D, of course,” said Scharde. “Otherwise we must expend our efforts and give up our time at three separate trials. Schedule D is indicated.”

Chapter 8, Part VI

The prisoners were quietly removed from Clattuc House by a back entrance, and taken to where Chilke waited in a tourist air omnibus.  They were loaded aboard and shackled to their sears, despite strong objections from both Smonny and Spanchetta. Namour had nothing to say.

Chilke took the omnibus into the  sky and set the autopilot; the craft flew to the west, with Scharde, Bodwyn Wook and Glawen aboard, along with the three prisoners. Bodwyn Wook told them: ”Make yourselves comfortable; we have far to go.”

Smonny demanded: “Where are you taking us?”

“You will see. It is a place you know well.”

Spanchetta cried out: “This is a farrago and a scandal, quite illegal!”

Bodwyn Wook spoke in a kindly voice: “So it might be, if we were acting on behalf of Bureau B. That is not the case. We are wearing our IPCC hats, and the rules are different/”

“It is a farce! You are a strutting little weasel! I fail to understand.”

Bodwyn Wook’s voice was somewhat less tolerant. “In essence, the doctrine is simple. The IPCC Mode Manual describes four levels of reactive conduct appropriate to four levels of venality. Schedule D is the most drastic. When an offense transcends the ordinary, such as the destruction of Stroma, Schedule D is the approved response.”

Spanchetta cried out: “I had nothing to do with Stroma! Still you are dragging me out in this dirty car!”

“In the case of Stroma, you are an accessory after the fact.”

Scharde said somberly: “Additionally, you are twenty years a murderess. You induced Namour to drown Marya, which he did, using Catterline and Selious as his instruments. They have confessed; the crime is certain, and you both must pay the penalty.”

Spanchetta turned to Namour. “Tell them that it is not so, that I never gave you any such orders! You must do so; there is no reason for me to be dragged away!”

Namour said: “Spanchetta, I am tired. An inexorable current is carrying us to remote places, and I have no will to resist it. The truth is as we have heard. I will not deny it, and you too must drift on the current.”

Spanchetta gave an inarticulate cry and turned to look out across the wonderful landscapes which she would never see again.

The omnibus flew through the night, over the Great Western Ocean, and at dawn arrived at the equatorial continent Ecce. Over black slime and carpets of rotting jungle flew the omnibus. Halfway into the morning the gray cone of the dead volcano Shattorak lifted above the horizon: an island in an ocean of festering swamp. The summit of Shattorak was now deserted; at one time it had served Smonny as a jail for the detention and torment of her enemies, which had included both Chilke and Scharde Clattuc.

The omnibus landed; the prisoners reluctantly alighted, and stood looking around the area. The old structures had now decayed, except for a small concrete box which had served as a communication cubicle.