The Delta Star (26 page)

Finally the Peruvian chemist stopped pacing and said, “Why did you not tell the truth from the first? Why all the bull-
chee
t?”

“Doctor Mendoza, I didn’t know how to tell it. I didn’t have any evidence. I still don’t. I figured that the president of the university might throw me out if I told the truth.”

“You suggest that a member of the faculty has murdered a private investigator by using our six-hundred-thousand-dollar spectrometer? And then murdered a prostitute by throwing her off a roof? And
ee
s stalking a fairy to murder
hee
m also? You have no motive whatsoever, and the identity of the professor remains a mystery?”

“That’s about it,” Mario Villalobos nodded.

“Correct. He would throw you out of the office.”

“Are you gonna throw us out, Nacho?” The Bad Czech asked.

“That
ee
s what I am contemplating,” Ignacio Mendoza said, beginning his pacing again. Three steps to and fro, cockatoo topknot fluttering crazily.

“Is there a bathroom down here, Nacho?” The Bad Czech asked.

“We are below the water table. The johns don’t work. Use a beaker,” he waved in the general direction of a pile of glass tubes and beakers on a table.

“Just hold it for a while,” Mario Villalobos said.

“If I held it last time you wouldn’t a met Nacho here!” The Bad Czech said grumpily, “and he’s your only chance a gettin somewheres.” Then to the chemist he said, “Nacho, sometimes a person shouldn’t know the whole truth. The whole truth can make ya sick. And that’s the truth.”

“
Ee
n the final analysis, you are correct, Czech.” Ignacio Mendoza pointed one finger heavenward while he addressed the seated cops. “There are two things which
ee
nterest me here. First, that our meeting was no more part of a grand design than the collision of two small stars
ee
n the galaxy.”

“Because I took a pee on the tree,” The Bad Czech noted.

“Exactly. I know precisely that there
ee
s no prime mover
e
en the universe. No mysterium tremendum. And I am always looking for ways to prove
ee
t. Secondly, I don’t like Meeckey Mouse people, so my choice of friends
ee
s limited
ee
n the bourgeois world where-
ee
n I function. Therefore, I find a worthy friend perhaps once every ten years.” Ignacio Mendoza pulled something out of his pocket and put it in his mouth. He loosened his yellow flowered bow tie and took half a pint of Scotch from a drawer. He swallowed whatever he had put in his mouth, washing it down with booze. He didn’t offer the cops any and put the bottle back in the drawer.

“Are you saying that you won’t help me?” Mario Villalobos asked.

“Don’t tell me what I am saying!” Ignacio Mendoza shouted, his pouting lip glistening in the lamplight. “Only Ignacio Mendoza knows what he
ee
s saying!”

“Sorry, Professor,” Mario Villalobos sighed, glancing wearily at The Bad Czech, who was only looking at the drawer that held the bottle of booze.

“Czech,” Ignacio Mendoza said, “I believe that you possess a philosopher’s heart. Ignac-io Mendoza selects you as a friend!” With that the Peruvian chemist marched to the seated cop and placed a hand on one of The Bad Czech’s monster shoulders. “You are a poet, Czech. I sense
ee
t.” Then he turned to Mario Villalobos and announced, “Sergeant, for the sake of my new friend, Ignacio Mendoza
ee
s at your service!”

Mario Villalobos tried not to show visibly his relief at receiving help-and at having the speech concluded-while the Peruvian posed like II Duce and smiled down at his big new friend, who only looked at the drawer containing the booze.

“Whadda you think we should do first, Professor?” Mario Villalobos asked.

The scientist resumed his three-step pacing and wheeling, and said, “During the Martian probe we were called to Jet Propulsion Laboratory as consultants when a very strange event occurred that could not be readily explained. You see, they
ee
njected food from the space vehicle onto the surface of Mars.
Ee
t was converted
ee
nto products
ee
n a manner that suggested metabolism of the substance with
ee
n a few seconds.
Ee
n other words, metabolic processes and oxidation and carbon dioxide release. What organisms must be present! Super life! Everybody was very excited.
Ee
t reminds me of your position, Sergeant. You are looking for the same thing that these scientists were looking for. You are looking for the mouse who ate the cheese.”

“So, did the Martian mouse eat the cheese?” Mario Villalobos asked.

“Of course not! The only rational chemical theory
ee
s that Mars
ee
s bombarded by ultraviolet radiation from the sun. Radiation we do not get on earth because of the ozone layer. The food was oxidized instantly by a combination of ultraviolet radiation and the special nature of the planet’s surface which
ee
s highly oxidizing because of the bombardment. Can I prove my theory? Of course not. Perhaps some physicists or astronomers or engineers or biologists are walking around today preferring to believe that the Martian mouse ate the cheese. But I ask you,
ee
s
ee
t rational?”

“So where does that leave me?”

“You have no rational theory on your side.
Ee
t
ee
s preposterous to think that one of our own people would seek to compromise a visiting Soviet scientist. For what? To get the scientist on the staff? The best chemistry
ee
n the world
ee
s done
ee
n America, and
ee
n West Germany and Britain. As a matter of fact, we chemists at Caltech are even accused of being elitist by our colleagues
ee
n other divisions. Do you suppose we need the Soviets? There
ee
s no mouse for you here, my friend.”

“I Iow do you know my mouse, my theoretical mouse, would have to be in the chemistry division, aside from the telephone number in the hooker’s book?”

“The NMR spectrometer,” he said. “
Ee
t
ee
s primarily a tool of chemists. Others usually know the structure of molecules they work with. When a structure
ee
s already determined, they wouldn’t need it.”

“Let’s forget the motive,” Mario Villalobos said. “Pretend that one night an old private eye with a pacemaker kept a date with someone down in that laboratory, and they sat and talked, and the magnetic field played a cha cha on his heart machine and he expired. The person then carried the body up the elevator, put it into a car and dumped it in a motel where maybe the meeting was originally to have taken place. Is any of this implausible? All you people have keys. You can get in at night. In fact, people work in these labs every night.”

“But why would he do such a thing?”

“He’s being blackmailed by the private eye and the hooker. They have pictures of him. The badger game.”

“Someone commits murders for being caught
ee
n a menage?”

Now it was Mario Villalobos up and pacing. Ignacio Mendoza finally noticed The Bad Czech staring sadly at the desk drawer, so he opened it and took out the bottle of Scotch and a small glass beaker. He handed it to the smiling giant, who poured four ounces into the beaker and was about to put it to his lips, but stopped abruptly.

“
Ee
s okay, Czech, I don’t pee in that one,” Ignacio Mendoza promised, and The Bad Czech happily guzzled.

“The Russian part’s a problem,” Mario Villalobos said. “There had to be a Russian here last month when Missy and Dagmar had their date with the foreigner.”

“When Russians come, we know
ee
t,” Ignacio Mendoza said, shaking his head.

“Well, what the hell was going on that could have attracted Soviet agents?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

“Jesus Christ!” Mario Villalobos said. “It’s hopeless.”

“Jesus Christ was just a gifted confidence man,” Ignacio Mendoza said to The Bad Czech, who was amusing himself by playing with tubes and beakers, pouring Scotch back and forth into them.

“Okay, Professor, what happened of any consequence in the chemistry division that brought in one or more foreigners who might have stayed at a downtown hotel rather than a Pasadena hotel?”

“The Pasadena hotels are not much. Lousy dining rooms. The Biltmore downtown has a very good dining room. But then, scientists are not necessarily gourmets.”

“Last month,” Mario Villalobos pleaded.

“
Ee
s possible that the members of the Nobel Committee have gastronomical requirements which may persuade them to stay
ee
n downtown Los Angeles.”

“What committee?”

“A very important member of the chemistry committee was here for an address on the chemistry of explosives.
Ee
t didn’t tell anything new, but of course,
ee
t was a very popular lecture. Though hardly worth attracting Soviet spies.”

“What’s the Nobel Prize worth?”

“Worth?”

“In money.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars, depending on the value of the Swedish krona.”

“Now we’re cooking,” Mario Villalobos said.

“Lot a guys’d knock ya off for a lot less than that, Mario,” The Bad Czech observed.

“How many get Nobel science prizes each year?” Mario Villalobos asked.

“Three to nine, depending on whether
ee
t
ee
s shared. A prize can be shared.”

“Is it like winning … Wimbledon?” Mario Villalobos asked. “I mean, you don’t get television commercials, but can it be turned into more money?”

That jiggled the cockatoo topknot. “Money! Just like a cop! Bourgeois mentality!”

“Money is the motive in badger games, Professor, at least in my experience. Can it be turned into more money? How about lectures? Could a winner command a big fee?”

Whatever Ignacio Mendoza had downed with his Scotch was taking effect. His pupils were clearly dilated and he was standing mannequin-stiff, rocking on heels and toes, his hands behind his back. He looked as if he might go straight up in the air like a hummingbird.

“All right!” he said with overwhelming disgust. “We shall be bourgeois for a moment, like cops.” He pulled open another drawer, withdrew another half pint, cracked it open and handed the bottle to The Bad Czech, who was ecstatic. “A man gets the Nobel Prize and decides to make money. A man who has been doing fine work for a long time and getting lecture expenses when he was lucky. Now with the prize he can command three to five thousand dollars a lecture. He does four lectures a week, yet th
ee
s
ee
s merely mad money. He
ee
s a celebrity with total peer recognition. Now he can set up a multinational company. Venture capital people come to him. Raising money
ee
s trivial for a Nobel laureate. There
ee
s a man from Harvard, for example, who now heads a fifty-million-dollar company. Does that supply for you the bourgeois motive that you need?”

“That’s definitely worth killing for!” Mario Villalobos said.

“That
ee
s not worth killing for and not worth dying for!” Ignacio Mendoza bellowed, kneading his fingers, his eyes popping.

“The Russian connection,” Mario Villalobos said. “Give me the names of a few professors of chemistry who’re hot right now.”

“Hot?”

“Hot candidates for big casino. For the Nobel Prize. Do you have one here at Caltech?”

“Only one. He
ee
s working on actinide photochemistry and …”

“What’s he look like?”

“Your friend was talking to him.”

“The pinstripe suit?” The Bad Czech cried.

“That one,” Ignacio Mendoza nodded. “H
ee
s name
ee
s Feldman. And he has done some famous work on the chemistry of electronically excited organoactinide molecules.”

“And what’s the practical application of that?” Mario Villalobos asked.

“Separating isotopes for nuclear chemistry and many other applications.”

“Nuclear applications?” Mario Villalobos noted.

“You are back to the Russians!” Ignacio Mendoza shouted. “You are making Ignacio Mendoza angry!”

The Bad Czech, who was leaning his head back against the wall, opened one eye and said, “Have a drink, Nacho. Don’t get mad.”