Araminta Station (16 page)

Bodwyn Wook coughed. “I suppose you are right. I’ll take care of the matter a bit later . . . No, don’t go yet; I am not quite done with you. In this statement, you claim that during the time which was specified to you, roughly from the end of the Phantasmagoria to the start of the Grand Masque, you did not leave the kitchen.”

“Naturally not, sir! I had my important duties which were entrusted to me. How could I do them, and do them well, if I were somewhere else, such as down near the beach, or walking by the river? I am surprised that you ask this question, since you know that the duties were done expertly.”

Bodwyn Wook raised a handful of other papers. “These are statements which assert that you left the kitchen on several occasions in order to hide bags of stolen food. What of that?”

Zamian gave his head a rueful sidewise shake. “As you well know, sir, there is always scandal in the kitchen. One hears constantly a dozen or more stories. This one sweats too freely; that one breaks wind every time he bends over to peep into the oven. I pay no heed to such talk. Usually it is not true.”

“But in this particular case, the reports are accurate?”

Zamian glanced up toward the ceiling. “Sir, I barely remember.”

Bodwyn Wook spoke to Scharde. “Take Zamian to a very quiet dark room where he will be able to think without distraction. I want him to remember everything in complete detail.”

Zamian raised his hand, his smile now somewhat tremulous. “Why make such trouble for yourselves? Now that I gather my thoughts, I find that I remember quite well!”

“That is good news! The mind is a wonderful organ! What happened that evening?”

“Now I remember! I went out into the pantry a time or two; to stretch my legs. And then - but I can’t be sure.”

“Tell us anyway.”

Zamian spoke with great earnestness. “Truly, sir, it is wrong to make reports when one is not sure. An injustice might be done, and I would not want the weight upon my soul unless for at least a large sum of money.”

Scharde told Bodwyn Wook: “He wants to know how much we’ll pay.”

Bodwyn Wook threw himself back into his chair. “I think we should take Zamian to where he can think quietly in the dark until he is sure of his facts. He will be saved worry; we will be saved expense, and it will be best for all of us.”

“Quite right, sir: sound thinking.”

Bodwyn Wook added: “Before you leave him explain how accessories after the fact are punished, just as the criminal is punished.”

Zamian spoke with dignity: “Such talk is not in good taste when people are eagerly trying to help. I would never withhold knowledge of crime. Still I think we agree that a little gift is always nice and shows good faith and happy feelings on all sides.”

“If we were faithful and happy we would never catch criminals,” said Bodwyn Wook. “That is why we are cruel and merciless. Tell us what you know and be quick about it.”

Zamian gave a forlorn shrug. “As I mentioned, I stepped into the pantry to rest and think. While there, I thought I heard a voice cry out. It stopped quickly. I listened and heard talking, and I thought: ‘Ah, then, all is well.’ Then the voice cried again. This time it said: ‘You’re breaking my wings!”‘

“And then?”

“l went to the door and looked out. I saw no one. The truck from the winery had come in earlier with wine for the banquet; it was backed up to the dock with the curtain down. I decided that someone was in the back of the truck. But of course such things are not my affair.”

“Then what?”

“That is all. At midnight, after the unmasking, old Nion came for his truck, but it was unoccupied then.”

“How do you know?.”

“He put an empty cask into the back.”

“And you cannot identify the persons who were in the truck?”

“I know nothing.”

Scharde approached Zamian and spoke quietly, almost into his ear: “If, by chance, money were offered, would you remember more?”

Zamian spoke in anguish: “As always, I am the sport of malicious fate! When my great chance finally arrived, instead of looking  through the curtain and writing down names, I sat daydreaming in the pantry. I could have gathered gold by the handful; instead I have none.”

“Yes, very sad,” said Bodwyn Wook. “Still, you overestimate the money you could have earned from us. As for blackmail, of course we can only speculate.”

Zamian departed. Bodwyn Wook and Scharde immediately located and studied the statement made by Nion co-Offaw, master vintner at the Joint Winery. Nion stated that he had brought three casks of wine down from the winery, unloaded them to the dock; then, arrayed in a makeshift clown costume, he had gone to the Quadrangle to dine with friends, watch the Phantasmagoria and enjoy a modest carouse until half an hour after the midnight unmasking, when he had returned to the winery in his truck. He had noticed nothing particularly unusual and had remained ignorant of the horrid circumstances until the next morning.

Bodwyn Wook threw the statement aside. “Well, we have advanced a trifle or two. The attacker apparently took the girl into the truck and assaulted her there. What is your thinking on this?”

“Not much more. Apparently he knew of the route she would take, and planned to waylay her – though those plans were probably made on short notice.”

“That’s the way it feels to me. So then, our attention turns to the truck.”

“It certainly should be carefully examined.”

“That is a good job for you.”

Chapter II, Part 6

The week after Parilia was somber and quiet. The wine buyers were gone, their purchases choking the holds of every departing ship. Tourists had also moved on, including the Clattuc houseguests: some home to far worlds, others to the wilderness lodges, still others by ferry across three hundred miles of ocean to Yipton: a destination as exotic as any. Here they would test the semibarbaric appointments of Arkady Inn, or explore the labyrinthine bazaars, or ride by gondola along the surprising canals, or look from a balcony across the Stewery. And others still might test the options available at the Pussycat Palace.

At Bureau B inquiries into the disappearance of Sessily Veder continued without cessation, taking precedence over all but the sea patrols along the Marmion littoral.

Surveillance of the Yip compound was delegated to special squads of the militia. Kirdy Wook was reassigned to Bureau B; Arles, however, was still required to trudge a nightly stint, to his intense dissatisfaction.

Glawen had become obsessed with the investigation, and could think of nothing else. Even his interest in food was lost and only Scharde’s concerned insistence prompted him to eat.

Glawen had clung to the hope that Sessily might still be alive, that for some inscrutable reason she had changed from butterfly wings into a new costume; then, so disguised, had taken herself off to a secret place from which, sooner or later, she would either return or send news of herself - until Scharde reported Zamian’s testimony.

Zamian’s account shattered all such hope; there could be little doubt but what Sessily had come to a violent end, and Glawen’s viscera crawled with hatred for the person responsible.

What had happened to the body?

The question had not lacked answers, including immersion in river, lagoon, ocean; destruction by chemical, fire; maceration, implosion, ionic disassociation; levitation by balloon, tornado or the clutch of a giant night-flying gambril down from the Maughrim Mountains. In each hypothesis one or more flaws had been discovered and the problem still hung in the air.

Upon hearing of Zamian’s disclosures, Glawen immediately asked: “What of the truck? Has anyone gone to look at it?”

I’m on my way now,” said Scharde. I thought you might like to join me.”

“Yes. I would indeed.”

“Come along, then.”

The time was middle afternoon of a blustery cool day; from the northeast came a keen wind to chase shreds and tatters of a broken overcast out to sea. Scharde and Glawen drove to the end of Wansey Way, around the Orpheum and inland along a dirt road leading eastward, first across garden plots, paddies, orchards and fields, then into a region of gentle slopes and swales planted to vineyards. Something less than a mile from the Station, the Joint Winery occupied the top of a low rise: a group of gray-brown concrete structures, inconspicuous in the context of the landscape, and of little distinction otherwise.

At the Joint Winery, secondary yields from the six wineries were blended by Master Oenologist Nion co-Offaw, to produce wines of good character, suitable both for home consumption and for export.

Where the garden plots gave way to the vineyards Scharde stopped the car. “This ground has been examined foot by foot, not once but twice, out to a quarter mile from the road. That’s considered double the maximum distance a man could carry a body, perform a burial and return to the road within the time strictures. In my opinion it exceeds the maximum by a factor of four, rather than two.”

“That’s only a bit more than a hundred yards.”

“A hundred yards in the dark, carrying a body and tools, leaving no tracks or marks? I’d call that incredible in itself.”

“The whole affair is incredible,” muttered Glawen. “How could anyone destroy poor little Sessily?”

“Aha! But when she was destroyed she was glorious wonderful Sessily, too beautiful for her own good, and someone felt impelled to pluck the highest fruit from the Tree of Life. I suspect that he regrets nothing”

“Not until we catch him, at any rate.”

“He’ll regret getting caught,” said Scharde. “No doubt as to that.”

“The winery has been searched, of course?”

“I searched it myself. She’s not there: not in any closet, bin, vat, cubbyhole, on the roof or under the foundations. Nion is a crusty old devil, so don’t expect cordiality. Also, just to be difficult, he pretends to be deaf.”

Scharde put the car into motion; the two continued along the road, which presently veered, climbed a gentle slope and ended in front of the winery.

Scharde halted the car; the two alighted and took stock of the surroundings. The front façade of the winery rose in front of them. A tall door stood open, allowing a glimpse of the shadowed interior: a row of tall vats, oddments of machinery, the gleam of piping. About fifty feet to the side, Nion’s truck was parked under a tree.

Scharde and Glawen went to the open door and looked into the winery, to discover Nion in the seat of a mobile lift, loading wine casks into a modular shipping case. The two came forward and stood politely waiting until Nion should choose to take note of them.

Nion flicked a sidewise glance toward them, but worked until he came to an optimally convenient opportunity to stop. Then he swung around in the seat, appraised his visitors, and at last grudgingly stepped down to the floor: a man well into middle age, stocky of frame, ruddy of face, with coarse russet-gray hair, narrow red-brown eyes under bristling eyebrows. He asked in a barely courteous voice: “What is it this time? I have nothing to do with your mysteries.”

“We have had some new information,” said Scharde. “It now appears that the criminal used the winery truck during your absence, probably to transport the girl’s body.”

Nion started to utter an automatic snort of derision, stopped short, scowled and reflected a moment, then gave a heavy shrug, jerked his head back. “As to that, I can tell you nothing. If it’s true, they have a great audacity, using my truck for their dirty business.”

Glawen started to speak, then, at a glance from Scharde, held his tongue. Scharde asked: “Earlier that evening you brought three casks of wine down from the winery?”

“That I did, at the specific request of the wine steward. He is the man to question on that score, and if that’s all you’re wanting know, I’ll get back to my work.”

Scharde paid no heed. “You backed the truck against the dock to unload the casks?”

Nion stared at Scharde in astonishment. “Surely, man, you can’t be so dense as all that! Would there be any other way?”

Scharde smiled grimly. “Very well. I take it, then, that you backed the truck against the dock. When you returned, which according to your statement was after midnight, did you find the truck as you left it?”

Nion blinked. “Now as I think on it, some sky-larking fool had jockeyed it about, and finished off his prank by nosing it in against the dock. I would have taught him tricks if I had caught him at it.”

Scharde smiled once again. “Did you find any indication as to who might have played the trick? Any oddment or piece of property in the truck?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you used the truck since that night?”

“Indeed I have! Every day I deliver a module - that’s four casks in a shipping case, mind you - down to the spaceport. Sometimes more when there’s a ship to be laden. Now, then, is there more you want to know?”

“We’ll have a look at the truck.”

“As you like.”

Scharde and Glawen returned outside and went to the truck. Scharde glanced briefly into the control compartment, which was discouragingly stark and clean. “We’ll find nothing here.”

Glawen had pulled aside the canvas curtain at the back, allowing light to play into the empty cargo space. An inch-thick carpet of elastic sponge covered the bed, with a pair of planks four feet apart running the length of the bed, apparently to accommodate the wheels of a loading dolly.

Scharde jumped up into the cargo space and looked about. Almost immediately he noticed stains at the center of the bed, halfway between the two lengthwise planks. Scharde bent his head and examined the stains. They were dark red in color and might be blood. Without comment he went to the forward end of the bed; dropping to his hands and knees, he examined the floor area inch by inch. Glawen also noticed the stains, but held his tongue. With nothing better to do, he looked about the control cab but found nothing of interest, and returned around to the rear, just in time to see Scharde pluck some sort of object from where it had caught on the splintered inner edge of the left-hand plank. He asked: “What have you found?”

“Hair,” said Scharde laconically, and continued his search.