The Gordon Mamon Casebook (2 page)

“Go on.”

“Anyway, Neil was very understanding. He wrote me a cheque, just today, one million credits, which is a lot of money even at my level … said that I should go through with the match, even if I didn’t do too well at it. He said that even if I made a right bollocks of it, it was better to be seen to compete than to pull out at the last minute. And he said that the payment was just to, like, keep me on side, ‘cos he had big plans for me.”

“Can you show me this cheque? Do you have it?”

O’Meara reached into his pocket and pulled out a dainty black wallet, from which in turn he extracted a neatly folded rectangle of paper. He handed this to Gordon.

The cheque looked authentic enough. Except—“Mr. O’Meara, do you realise that this is dated for three days’ time?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s for after the match, see. He told me he was post-dating it, just as insurance to make sure that I did compete in the match. That was fine with me.” He paused. “Don’t suppose I’ll be able to cash it now, him being so dead and all.”

* * *

The third guest, Trey Taybill, was the steward (and, it transpired, also astronavigator, baggage handler, customs officer and booking clerk) for a Chastity Cosmic passenger flight due to depart from the Plaza in four days’ time. Gordon observed to himself that Chastity, a budget starcruiser line seeking to undercut Andromeda Spaceways on the popular routes, appeared to have the same business model as the Skyward hotel chain …

Taybill, who was returning to space from a few days’ gravity leave, had the short, slim physique favoured by Chastity’s employment officers. The budget line was notorious for offering very low upfront fares while being ruthless on excess baggage charges, and its procurement policy was in line with its cut-throat attitude to inflight mass minimisation for reasons of fuel economy. As another symptom of the company’s drive to pare fuel costs, it was a prolific dumper of inflight waste: discarded Chastity meal wrappings, utensils, and used VR headsets were now rumored to be the main source of interstellar debris on the main space routes.

Gordon had done a quick background check on Taybill, as he had on the other guests. Taybill’s employment record was so clean you could eat off it, but he had a longstanding debt to the Plaza’s casino. Not a massive amount, but slowly growing despite regular payments. Gordon asked about the debt.

“Look, Mr. Mammogram,” (
Mamon
, Gordon breathed to himself. Was that so hard? Or maybe that dyslexia virus had compromised his name-badge again.) “It was a long time ago. I bet on a sure thing that turned out to be not so certain. I’m paying it off.”

“But the debt’s increasing.”

“So I like a little flutter now and then. Doesn’t everybody? Don’t you?”

“I’m not a bird, Mr. Taybill.”

The guest glowered. “Look, why you asking me about my debt? That’s old news. I’m a good employee … aren’t you supposed to be investigating a murder, or some such?”

“I’m just seeking to establish possible motives, Mr. Taybill. Anyway, who said anything about murder?”

“It’s all over the hotel. The walls have ears.”

This wasn’t strictly true, but Gordon thought that he could surmise the intended meaning.

Taybill continued. “Look, I’ve never met this Formey. I’ve never had anything to do with him, until now. Sure, I’ve seen his ugly mug in the newscasts, who hasn’t? And I guess I know him by reputation. But I’ve never seen him in person, never spoken to him. You can check that, any way you want to.”

Gordon proceeded to his next question. “Can you account for your movements between the altitudes of 2972 and 3605 kilometres this afternoon?”

Taybill wrinkled his brow. “Yeah, I was in the foyer most of that time. There were some irregularities with a guest’s baggage, and I was just completing the preflight formalities with her.”

“Which guest? And what kind of irregularities?”

“Ms. Hostij, I think her name is. Travelling to Barnard’s Star with us. And one of her bags was five grams over the stated value. Honestly, you’d think people would know better than to try to fiddle the system.” Taybill’s face registered disgust. “Anyway, once she’d stopped yapping and paid the two-fifty credits, I signed off on it. That was about … 3400 kilometres, I think. Then I went to my room to finish up the paperwork. As it happens, I was just about to call on Mr. Formey after that—he’s travelling with Chastity too—when all this happened.”

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts between 3400 and 3605 km?”

“Well, no, I was in my room alone, but—actually, yes, they should be able to. I filed a report from my desktop console right about that time. There’s a reply from our booking clerk. You can check my desktop, if you like.”

* * *

Gordon sealed off Formey’s suite and retired to the observation lounge to mull things over. This was normally his favourite part of the lifting cycle. Earth below was a huge haze-limned ball, sliding further into night; the visible stretch of the elevator tower still glinted in bright sunlight, even though the sun had set several hours ago at the tower’s anchorage point many thousands of kilometres below. Tonight, though, the spectacle held little appeal. He had to think through the interviews he’d just completed.

Hostij had seemed genuine, but could conceivably have had a motive if Formey had not, as she had claimed, sought to accompany her to Barnard’s Star. But she hadn’t, by all accounts, had any time alone with Formey during the critical time window. She had alibis supported by O’Meara, by Taybill, and finally by the hotel’s concierge / receptionist / cleaner / counsellor / gardener / childcare operator Belle Hopp, who’d been answering Hostij’s query about laundry service after the baggage issue had been settled. O’Meara
had
had some time alone with Formey, but was also in possession of a postdated cheque from Formey which was sizeable enough to constitute, in Gordon’s mind, negative motive. And Taybill appeared not to have made contact with Formey at all, with his whereabouts confirmed by first Hostij and then (electronically) by the Chastity booking clerk. Gordon had only Taybill’s word on the last, though—he’d need to check that console for himself, to verify that.

All of them seemed like honest, respectable types in their various fashions: Hostij the lovestruck hardened cop, O’Meara the sentimental but straightforward sumo wrestler, Taybill the overworked and earnest spaceline employee. None of them, when you looked at it, had a clear reason for wanting Formey dead. Of course, there could be some kind of conspiracy between them—O’Meara with either of the other guests, or Hostij with Taybill—but that didn’t go any way towards clarifying the motive, nor explaining how the deed was executed.

And, to top it off, no weapon, no fingerprints, and still no cause of death (the autopsy scanner seemed stumped, and still pronounced merely ‘
dead
’. Maybe it was indicating it needed its batteries changed.) Perhaps, against all of Gordon’s better judgement, it really was a natural-causes case after all.

Sometimes, he knew, the best way to set your mind on a problem was to give it a different problem. At least, it worked that way with puzzles and crosswords. He wasn’t sufficiently experienced to know if detection followed the same rules, but it sounded plausible. He pulled out his handheld and selected the ‘Riddle/Trivia’ function. He’d played this so often before that many of the items from its hundred-thousand-entry memory bank were familiar, but straight up he got a new one:

Can a dead horse travel as fast as a live horse?

Well, the answer seemed obvious—no—but he suspected there was a trick behind it. He couldn’t see, however, what the trick was. He paused the trivia program and selected a couple of crosswords, one easy and one a fairly challenging cryptic, to unwind a little further. Then, still none the wiser, he clicked for the answer to the riddle.

No. Under British law, a motorised horse transporter can travel at 30 miles an hour through urban areas, but if the horse dies the vehicle becomes a carrier of horseflesh and must immediately slow to 20 m.p.h.

Surprisingly, this sparked something. He thought, now, he could see a good and compelling motive …

* * *

He placed a call to the Chastity business counter at the Skytop Plaza. His call was answered by the receptionist / sales assistant / chaplain.

“Chastity, Helena Handbaskett speaking. Can I help you?”

Gordon gave his details. “I’m working on a murder investigation down here. I need to know the flight data and ticketing arrangments for four of your passengers.”

“I’m sorry, we’re not supposed to release that information, it’s confidential.” She paused and leaned conspiratorially into the mouthpiece to whisper to him. “Look, according to your record you have thirteen thousand frequent flier points with us. If you’re prepared to cash those in, I can give you the information you need. Just don’t tell my supervisor.”

“Who is your supervisor?”

“For the moment, me.”

“Uh, I’ll try not to. Also, while you’re at it, if you could send a full description of your passenger and freight handling policies and procedures, that would be very useful.”

“I’m sure we have that somewhere.” She adjusted her glasses. “Do you want all of that as a facsimile, an email, a direct download …”

He’d need a hard copy, for his records. He put on his best TV detective voice. “Just the fax, ma’am. Just give me the fax.”

He’d always wanted to say that.

* * *

The documentation, when it arrived, told him everything he wanted to know. Hostij was ticketed on the flight, four days’ time, to Barnard’s Star. O’Meara wasn’t booked on any outward flights. And Taybill was on the crew list for the departure, three days from now, for Proxima Centauri.

Most intriguingly, Formey had been booked on both the Barnard’s Star
and
Proxima Centauri flights. Now that was curious. Was Formey attempting some vainglorious application of quantum duality to the ticketing process? He couldn’t be on both flights … Gordon checked the time of purchase. They’d been booked only seconds apart, about a week ago. He’d purchased them, then, at the same time. This, to Gordon, suggested that he was seriously entertaining the idea of starting over with Hostij, but wanted an escape route if he changed his mind in the interim. And neither ticket had been cancelled …

He read further through the documentation. Yes,
this
was what he’d suspected. This was what tied it all together.

* * *

Gordon used the eyeball and thumb once more, to enter the guest’s room. He knew roughly what he was looking for, but wasn’t sure where to find it. Wardrobe … suitcase … bedside drawer … kitchenette cupboard … bathroom cabinet … all negative. It
had
to be here somewhere!

Wait a minute
. He looked again at the bedside digital clock.
That
didn’t look like Skyward’s usual model! He picked up the clock, turned it over, examined it. Yes, this confirmed his suspicions. Now, where was the activator on this thing?

He pressed three buttons before he found the one that gave the desired effect. Even though he’d been partially expecting it, the sudden apparent materialisation of Neil B. Formey, tyrannical multi-sesquillionaire, was startling. Not least because the animated tycoon was at least three metres tall. He twiddled the control surfaces on the ‘clock’ until he found the magnification controls, then reduced Formey’s image to a less gigantic size. Now … that looked more realistic.

The holographic projection was indeed remarkably lifelike. Presumably, some of the controls on the ‘clock’ would dictate motion, and perhaps the setup was also designed to convey sounds, simple phrases and such. However, he didn’t need to check that out right now. This should be enough to—

“Boy, you sure lucked out,” the voice at the doorway commented, with a nasty edge. “Ordinarily, I bet you couldn’t solve a two-piece jigsaw puzzle without looking at the picture on the box.”

Gordon turned to face the figure in the doorway. His attention was commanded by the weapon that was directed at him. This was only natural since, aside from the evident lethality of the piece, it was also the weapon that had spoken at him. He recognised it as one of the most feared items of portable weaponry in known space. A needle gun.

“Shoulda stuck at washing the dishes, lift-boy,” the gun jeered. “Your snooping has just got you into a whole plateful of trouble.”

Although the needle gun’s jeers and verbal jabs could induce apoplexy in the exceptionally weak-hearted, they weren’t usually fatal. Rather, they were a novelty feature designed to improve the weapon’s sales. It was the gun’s ‘sticks and stones’, rather than the names it called him, which would hurt Gordon. ‘Sticks and stones’ being in this case, he strongly suspected, the gun’s standard-issue ammunition: flechettes of cryocooled water ice which encapsulated a lethal neurotoxin. The hardened ice needles were of subcellular thickness (‘sharper than a thankless child,’ according to the sales tag), and capable of piercing skin and muscle without leaving any discernible mark. The neurotoxin was necrodegradable, so that the whole projectile had a lifetime, when fired, which was only slightly greater than that of its victim. A ruthless weapon, with a nasty sense of humour.

“For someone called Gordon, you ain’t exactly flash,” the gun commented sardonically.

Gordon managed to wrest his gaze from the gun and lifted his face towards his assailant’s.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he pleaded.

“
Regret
?” the gun scoffed. “What could anyone possibly regret about snuffing out your miserable existence? And what in hell’s name do you think you can do to protect yourself against a Deadly-Sirius 357 Needle Gun?”

“I have the law on my side,” Gordon responded. He had to admit, it sounded weak even to him. He’d have to do better than that. I will
not
go gentle into that good riddance, he told himself. “Go on,” he said. “Tell me why you did it.”