Transmigration (9 page)

 

 

"I won it! It was mine!"

 

 

She laughed with genuine scom. "Ross, you're a spoiled kid. I didn't
know it at first. But I know it now. Your secret is out."

 

 

He took a step toward her, murder in his eyes.

 

 

"Now don't try that," she said softly. "Never try to be a tough guy with
me, Ross. I'm not rotten like you, and I'm certainly not vindictive,
but if anyone ever really annoyed me, really made me loathe him, I think
I'd hound him to his grave."

 

 

It was then that a tiny youth in a white coat, who must be at least
sixteen but didn't look it, appeared at Ross's shoulder and said
breathlessly: "Are you Ian Ross?"

 

 

Ross recovered instantly. "I have that honor, infant."

 

 

"Mr. Baudaker wants you."

 

 

"But I don't want him."

 

 

The youth shrugged indifferently. "Anyway, I've told you. Can you tell
me where to find a girl called Anita Somerset?"

 

 

Ross leered. "I could, if you were to make it worth my while."

 

 

"Where is she, then?"

 

 

"Right here, infant, inflaming us both to fiery passion with her
presence."

 

 

"Oh . . . are you Anita Somerset?"

 

 

The girl smiled at him to compensate for Ross. "Yes."

 

 

"Mr. Baudaker wants you too."

 

 

He turned on his heel and ran off, whistling.

 

 

"Come and have a pint of wallop with me," said Ross.

 

 

"But Baudaker -- "

 

 

"You don't imagine I come running when bald little elderly lab office-boys
summon me?"

 

 

"No, I don't," said Anita, suddenly amused. "You couldn't go and see
Baudaker now, could you, Ross? It wouldn't be in your part. You only took
part in that session the night before last because nobody wanted you,
yet you did behave, you did work, because nobody expected you to, and you
didn't sneer over the results because we were all waiting for it. Don't
you realize, Ross, you're ten times more predictable than anybody else?"

 

 

"Nobody's predictable. Let's go and see what Baudaker wants."

 

 

"That's what I mean," said Anita tranquilly.

 

 

 

 

"Dead?" said Anita blankly. "Already?"

 

 

"She's a clever girl," said Ross dispassionately. "She knew he was going
to die. So did we all. He carried it around with him."

 

 

"Be quiet," said Anita impatiently. "How did it happen?"

 

 

Baudaker had a copy of the first edition of the evening paper. A paragraph
low on the front page, headed DEATH FALL, was marked:

 

 

John Fletcher (43), 24 Beechview Gardens, has
been found dead in a disused basement well at his
lodgings. According to the police statement, an iron
gate leading to the basement well had given way as
Fletcher leaned on it, and he pitched over the edge,
missing the steps, landing on his head. There are no
suspicious circumstances.

 

 

"I'm going there to find out about it," said Anita.

 

 

"Find out what, Miss Somerset?" Baudaker asked.

 

 

"I'm going to that house. What's the address? -- 24 Beechview
Gardens. That's not far from here."

 

 

"Such a tragedy," Baudaker sighed. "His ESP rating, under controlled
conditions, was phenomenal. If only he had cooperated in a really
exhaustive series of tests . . . "

 

 

"I know," said Anita. "Now please excuse me."

 

 

"If you're really going there," said Ross, "I'll come with you."

 

 

"Please don't bother."

 

 

"It's no bother, Maiden."

 

 

As they walked, he spoke less provocatively than usual. His interest
had been caught and he did not want the episode to close, as so many
episodes in his life had closed, because of something said by someone
else or himself that made it impossible to go on.

 

 

"Except for about five minutes with you, Maiden, he had a totally negative
score. That must mean something."

 

 

"Of course it means something. It means he had to be wrong. Consciously
or unconsciously, he made all his answers wrong. And he could do that
only by knowing the right answers."

 

 

"I don't know about that . . . "

 

 

"It's the only way. You understand mathematics, don't you?"

 

 

"Through a glass, darkly."

 

 

"Well, don't argue about this. Obviously, if a man can manage to be
always wrong, it can't be due to chance."

 

 

"Obviously."

 

 

"All right, then . . . just don't argue about obvious things. And then,
suddenly, Fletcher was able to score fantastic positive results with
me alone."

 

 

"Of course," said Ross, "we only have your word for that."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"By arrangement, there was no tape recorder, no spyhole, no outside check.
You took down the figures . . . "

 

 

She said coldly: "If you think I'd falsify results . . . "

 

 

"I don't. Did anyone suggest anything of the sort? But remember,
if anything has to be proved, seven people spent umpteen hours with
Fletcher and demonstrated beyond doubt that he could score zero per cent
with unfailing regularity. Only in a private test with you, carried out
and scored by you, were there positive results."

 

 

"I see what you mean," Anita said.

 

 

They found the house and looked at the iron gate. A new padlock had been
fitted on it. Anita peered over reluctantly, aware that Fletcher's body
would no longer be there, yet a little scared it might be.

 

 

As she rang the bell, Anita said: "Let me do the talking."

 

 

"Certainly, Maiden. Next to your pale white body, the thing I love best
about you is your seductive voice."

 

 

"Oh, shut up."

 

 

The door was opened by a pretty girl who might have been sixteen, but
was not.

 

 

"We're friends of John Fletcher," said Anlta.

 

 

"Oh? I didn't think he had any friends, but I'm glad to know I was
wrong. Do come in."

 

 

Fletcher took immense pleasure in sight and sound of Judy. First, she
had not fallen from the balcony to her death. Second, her composure,
her intelligent elegance in a plain print dress, no makeup and no
nylons showed that she had acquired discrimination quite beyond the
Judy of old. Third, what she said indicated she was at least a normal
thirteen-year-old if not a precocious thirteen-year-old.

 

 

"The police have gone," said Judy. "But they asked us to let them know
if anybody inquired about Mr. Fletcher. It seems hardly anything is
known about him . . . are you relatives, by any chance?"

 

 

"No . . . I'm Anita Somerset and this is Ian Ross. We met Mr. Fletcher
through experiments at the university."

 

 

"Experiments?" Judy, leading them upstairs to Fletcher's room, paused
on the stairs to look back.

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

She recollected herself. "Oh, I'm Judy MacDonald. My mother is the
landlady. She had to go to the police station again."

 

 

"Yes, of course."

 

 

Ross, who had restrained himself so far, started to say something,
but Anita, suspicious in advance of anything he might choose to say,
dug him in the ribs with her elbow.

 

 

Perhaps, Fletcher thought wonderingly, he had achieved something
worth-while after all, in death if not in life. How it was possible by
briefly inhabiting Judy's mind to effect such a transformation he had
no idea, but then he had no idea either how he managed to jump from mind
to mind.

 

 

They entered Fletcher's room. It was much as he had left it. The police
had put everything back as they found it.

 

 

"This is where he lived, said Judy. "The furniture isn't his, but everything
else is. There's a gold watch, typewriter, radio, clothes. Do you know
anyone who should get them?"

 

 

"I'm afraid not," said. Anita. She stood irresolute, not knowing how to
go on. Then she said: "Fletcher's definitely dead, I suppose? I mean,
there's no doubt?"

 

 

The quizzical glance Judy shot at her meant more to Fletcher than it
did to Anita or Ross. To them it only indicated her surprise that people
who had read of a man's death in the newspaper should doubt that he was
dead. To Fletcher it indicated speculation if Anita suspected what she
knew -- that Fletcher had not died when his body did.

 

 

"Well, in the fall his brain was smashed, his neck was broken and his
back was broken, all instantly," Judy said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I don't know how anyone can be much deader than that."

 

 

Anita shuddered. But she went on steadily: "That's part of what I
mean. He must have been pretty badly smashed up. Could there be any
mistake in identification?"

 

 

"No," said Judy firmly. "His face wasn't injured."

 

 

"There's no question of suicide, I suppose?" said Ross casually.

 

 

Again that quizzical glance. "Why should there be? Mr. Fletcher apparently
leaned on the gate, and for some reason it had been unfastened --
probably by children. The police at first hinted my mother should have
done something about that gate, but then they looked around and merely
suggested it should be padlocked, since it's never used now. Every
building in the street has a basement well like ours, some in use, some
not. There are stone steps leading down, with a railing on the street side
and not on the other. Some have gates like ours, some have none. Children
play on the stairs, and sometimes fall. My mother said she never heard
of anyone being seriously hurt before. This is old property . . . "

 

 

"But the gate was normally shut," Ross persisted.

 

 

"Yes, with a bolt. No padlock. It couldn't open by itself. And there's
a spring to shut the gate if it's opened. This morning the gate was shut
but not bolted."

 

 

"Who found the body?"

 

 

"I did. About seven. I was thirsty and went down for the milk."

 

 

Judy was perfectly composed. The night before she must have felt Fletcher
leave her. To discover the body on her return to the house would have
prompted many awkward questions. So she had sensibly waited until a
reasonable opportunity of finding the body presented itself.

 

 

"You can't tell me anyone who should know about Mr. Fletcher?" she said.

 

 

"No," said Anita. "I knew he was rather solitary . . . There's nothing
here that might help to trace relatives?"

 

 

"There may not be any relatives."

 

 

"Oh? Surely . . . "

 

 

"Surely everyone has relatives? Not necessarily. The police found
Mr. Fletcher's birth certificate. I'd never seen one like it before
. . . He was a foundling."

 

 

"Foundling?"

 

 

"Exact date of birth unknown, presumed to be about August, 1926. Place of
birth unknown, unregistered, presumed to be in the Edinburgh district.
Parents unknown. He was given the name Fletcher at his first children's
Home."

 

 

Anita and Ross exchanged glances.

 

 

"And there's this." Judy turned and opened a drawer. "The police took
the birth certificate, but they left this." She brought out a parchment
in a cardboard cylinder. "This is a degree from Edinburgh University,"
she said.

 

 

"First class honors in French and German."

 

 

"Oh?" said Ross, interested. "That's my course."

 

 

"Dated 1948," said Judy. "That's quite a while ago, but Edinburgh
University must still have some details. The police are checking that."

 

 

There was a pause. Anita and Ross had no reasonable excuse to stay any
longer. They could not help Judy; they certainly couldn't help Fletcher;
and she had told them all they had any right to know.

 

 

"Thank you, Miss MacDonald," Anita said automatically. "You've been
very helpful."

 

 

Judy laughed her old gurgle of amusement. "Call me Judy," she said. "I'm
not old enough to be Miss MacDonald."

 

 

"Well, Judy, then. Thank you anyway."

 

 

"Before you go, the police asked us to take a note of the names and
addresses of anyone who inquired about Mr. Fletcher."

 

 

"Of course. I'm Anita Somerset, 74 Old . . . "

 

 

"Would you write it down, please?" Judy gave Ross a piece of paper and
a pencil, since he was nearer.

 

 

"Why don't you write it yourself?" he asked.

 

 

"Because I can't write."

 

 

He laughed incredulously. "Now, really, you don't expect me to swallow
that, do you?"

 

 

"Why not? Can't you swallow? I had a sore throat last week, and I
couldn't swallow."

 

 

"You're pulling my leg, Miss MacDonald."

 

 

She frowned at him. She didn't like him much and made no secret of
it. "And you're trying to pull mine, but you can't because I'm too
ignorant. All the same, it isn't very, nice of you. How would you like
it if somebody pulled your leg became you couldn't write?"