The Dogtown Tourist Agency (20 page)

Cholly moved fretfully away. “Hurry then; I can’t delay all evening.”

Hetzel adjusted the indices. As Eban Dobor had reported, Faurence Dacre had stated his local address to be the Caelzie Empire Inn, in Cassander. Hetzel ignored the registration card and focused upon Dacre’s original application for admittance.

“Someone is coming up the steps!” grumbled Cholly. “You can stay no longer!”

“A moment,” said Hetzel. With his stylus he wrote an address:

And below he wrote a name, the signature on the application:

Hetzel reported to Clent, and without preliminaries said: “I suspect that Dacre has gone off-planet.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Clent. The comfort he had derived from Hetzel’s participation in the case had worn off; he now seemed as morose and woebegone as ever.

“The accretion of several ideas, none in themselves decisive. In Cassander your marriage has made him look a fool, or so he believes. I suspect that Cassander has lost all charm for him. He also knows that you are looking for him, though I doubt if he is seriously alarmed; you are now nothing to him except a figure of contempt.”

Clent made a husky sound deep in his throat.

“Further, it seems to be his habit to travel off-world at frequent intervals, which suggests that he maintains another residence, or headquarters, though this of course is not necessarily true. Still, when one takes all with all, there seems reason to believe that he has departed Thesse. That at least is my guess.”

“But where?” asked Clent in a hollow voice. “Twenty ships leave Cassander every day; there are a hundred worlds in every direction. To go out to find a man is like trying to find a drop of water in the ocean!”

“In a certain sense, this is true,” Hetzel agreed. “Still, no one moves without leaving traces. The ordinary method is to go down to the spaceport and try to discover on which ship he departed: obviously a near-hopeless job if a person has tried to conceal his movements.

“The alternate system is to start in the past, before he needed subterfuge, and discover the places he favored, to which he might be apt to return, and this is the method I propose to use.”

“I fear that you have left me behind,” growled Clent.

“We can either trace his life backward, or trace him forward,” Hetzel explained. “Going forward, I have no clues, no indications whatever. Going back I have at least one clue: the name and address of his mother.”

Clent was genuinely startled. “Where did you get that?”

Like the professional magician, Hetzel preferred to conceal his methods, in order that his effects might the better be appreciated. He said politely, “I make it a rule never to reveal the sources of my information. You will understand the reason for this.”

Clent, who understood nothing of the sort, said blankly: “Yes, naturally.”

“I personally will go to Wittenmond to interview Dacre’s mother,” said Hetzel. “Still we will not neglect the obvious. Another man will try to trace Dacre’s movements from Cassander, although I doubt if he will have any more luck than Eban Dobor.”

Clent spoke in a glum voice: “When will I hear from you?”

“As well as I can I’ll keep you abreast of events, but don’t expect news until I call.”

Clent grunted. “If you run out of money, call for more. All I want is—well—results.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Around that enormous yellow blaze known as Jingkens Star swung several dozen planets, all of which had been surveyed by Gieter Jingkens, a jovial freebooter of the Great Expansions. Three of these, the so-called Sister Planets, were alike in size, mass, density, atmosphere, climate and land-water ratios; their flora and fauna had elaborated to approximately the same degree. These special conditions had not escaped the attention of Gaean scientists; the correspondences, analogies, and divergences had proved material for ten thousand monographs and a whole new evolutionary chronometry had been established on the basis of the so-called “Jingkens parallelisms”.

The “Sister Planets”, Wittenmond, Gietersmond, and Skalkemond, originally had been settled by three epodes of the Reformed Anti-Gnomic Credentists; and the disparate development of these people were of no little interest to social anthropologists. The folk of Wittenmond had created a thriving mercantile system, and traded throughout the System. Consciously, or unconsciously, they extended the concept of exact measurement and specified quality to the most ordinary details of daily life. Every gradation of luxury was labeled and value rated; prerogatives, recreation, property, garments, and adjuncts—all must appropriately be matched to status. Music, architecture, cuisine, even gardening and horticulture: all were arranged in hierarchies of taste and suitability. The society, necessarily stratified into an elaborate aristocracy, was by no means frozen, and movement across the castes preoccupied the thoughts of every Witt. Far from incurring resentment, the
situation was universally supported, inasmuch as the gradated society, rather than alienating or isolating folk into solipsistic cells, made each person intensely aware of his fellows; each Witt, no matter how menial or how exalted, if nothing else relished his participation in the complicated game, and took pride in mastering the elaborate rules. The sophisticated Witt, if taken to task for the inequities of life on Wittenmond, merely pointed out that the same inequities existed everywhere, but that on Wittenmond they were acknowledged and codified.

Folk from other worlds were wont to marvel at the multifarious details which seemed to clutter the existence of the Witts, not appreciating that the codes precisely stipulated the Witt way of life; that their own seemingly spare society entailed a far greater intricacy, owing to ambiguities, allusions, implications, flexible sets of moods and overtones, symbols which might or might not signify, superiorities and inferiorities enforced by subtle little contests which created far more frustration than the impersonal distinctions of the Witts; and in the end each society seemed to the other an impenetrable murk.

Arriving at Diestl on Wittenmond, Hetzel discovered a city of considerable charm, built in a series of levels on the hills surrounding Mount Flouderklaf. The Lemon River swinging down from the northern plains passed through the industrial district, then angled away to the Irruptor Ocean, twenty miles distant across a rolling landscape of forests and gardens and manorial estates of high-bred merchant princes.

The spaceport occupied a square mile of inordinately valuable real estate only a quarter mile north of the Diestl financial district; the commerciants of Diestl well understood the value of convenience.

From the spaceport Hetzel rode a slideway to the Traveler’s Hotel, his policy being to assure himself of comfortable lodging before all else. In his pleasant if sterile room he consulted the Directory and learned that Diestl was divided into seventy-three purlieus, each with its particular set of characteristics, which the directory faithfully noted. Hetzel thus discovered Willanella to be a district of middle-nobility residences, each situated on a plot of no less than 1.2 acres, valued at no less than SVU
*
two hundred thousand, and maintained by at least six servants. The Directory also assured him that Vela, Lady Keurboom, still occupied Gangardie House in Willanella, and listed her address, the members of her household, which included herself; Lazar, Lord Keurboom; a butler, a cook, a head gardener, and six underservants, with a communication code for each. No person who might have been Faurence Dacre appeared on the list.

Hetzel, lacking any definite plan of procedure, hired a flitter which whisked him westward to Willanella and deposited him on a terrace fifty yards from Gangardie House.

By moving only twenty yards and climbing an embankment Hetzel was afforded an excellent view of that structure which presumably had nurtured Faurence Dacre during his childhood. Hetzel put a pair of macroid spectacles to his eyes, and studied the ornate façade, but learned nothing of consequence…A movement attracted his eye. From the back garden came a dark-haired woman, wearing a white frock which swept the turf as she walked. She was tall and imposing rather than portly, although her face bulged at cheek, jowl, and under the chin. Still, her eyes flashed grandly, and the angles of her face hinted of an exotic beauty now unhappily departed.

Hetzel watched her as with great fervor she cut a bouquet of flowers. With what enthusiasm did she seize upon a choice bloom! With what repugnance did she spurn the overblown blossom! With what raptures of indignation did she stamp her white slipper upon a noxious insect!

Hetzel removed his spectacles. The woman was excitable and emotional; to approach her directly would surely arouse her suspicions.

Hetzel descended the embankment and sauntered past Gangardie House. He paused beside a residence across the way, where an elderly man in old clothes pruned a rose tree. Hetzel paused to watch the elderly man’s technique. He remarked upon the density of the hedge, the fragrance of the flowers, and a conversation was underway. Hetzel identified himself as a wealthy nobleman of Old Earth who might be interested in buying a house.

“Unlikely to be anything here in Willanella,” his acquaintance remarked. “We’re all pretty well established.”

“That may be,” said Hetzel. “However I was told of a noble mansion which might go on the market soon. I wonder if it could be that one yonder, across the way.”

“Hoho! Gangardie House? No chance whatever. That’s the Keurboom place; they’ve been there forever.”

“‘Keurboom’ you say? I know that name. Don’t they have a famous son—a scientist or a surgeon or something of the like?”

“Leave Sir Lazar out of it. That would be Lady Keurboom’s boy by her first spouse. I’ve heard that he’s finally made a success of himself, but only after leaving home, since he never got along with Sir Lazar.”

“Not unusual in such a situation. Does he never attempt a reconciliation with the old man?”

“Not to my knowledge. I haven’t seen him for years.”

Hetzel, making inquiries here and there about Diestl, learned that the Keurboom family originally had prospered in the publishing business, and that Lazar, Lord Keurboom now lived on the proceeds of investments. His first wife had borne him no children; after a divorce Sir Lazar had espoused a foreign woman, a certain Vela Woxonoy from Todnie, who came to Diestl in a theatrical company, accompanied by her young son. Keurboom, now a semi-invalid, divided his time between his home and his club. Hetzel decided that the optimum occasion to seek a meeting with Sir Lazar would be at his club, where refusal to confer with a foreign gentleman, perhaps a customer, might be considered eccentric.

Accordingly, Hetzel stepped into the Apollonian Club at an appropriate hour and dispatched a message requesting a few moments of Lord Keurboom’s time.

Lord Keurboom made him wait ten minutes, then stumped gracelessly into the small sitting room where Hetzel waited. He inspected Hetzel from the doorway: a stout heavy-legged man of no great stature with a pale complexion, scant sandy hair, and a massive prognathous jaw curiously at odds with the remainder of his rather bland countenance. “Well sir?” he demanded in a rasping voice. “You are Miro Hetzel?”

“Correct, Sir Lazar.”

“And what do you wish to talk to me about?”

“I won’t waste your time or my own, sir. I want to learn the present whereabouts of your stepson Faurence Dacre.”

Keurboom’s rasp became a sibilant whistle; Hetzel wondered whether he might not be talking through a synthevox. “Do not speak to me of that person. I have nothing to say.”

Hetzel nodded with understanding. “Then you have no kind recollections of Dr. Dacre.”

“Dr. Dacre, pah!” Keurboom’s lips worked; wetness showed at the corners of his mouth. He struggled for words and managed to say: “That is all, sir. I will say no more!”

Hetzel held up his finger. “Let me define my interest. Faurence Dacre has committed flagrant irregularities at Cassander on Thesse. I want to find him so that he may be brought to account. We talk in complete confidence, I assure you this; your name will never be mentioned.”

Keurboom slowly sank into a seat. “I do not know where he is. If I did…”

“But perhaps you can tell me other things, by which I can trace him. For instance—”

Keurboom held up his hand. “It all must be confidential, is that understood? No one must know, and this includes Lady Vela.”

“I agree to your condition.”

“Well then; what is important to you?”

“Whatever you can tell me.”

Keurboom told a rambling tale, punctuated by spasms of fury which rendered his speech barely intelligible. “I tried to do my best for the boy. It was clear that his mother spoiled him and filled his mind with nonsense. Despite her lamentations I sent him away to a fine school on Thesse: the Trembling Waters Academy. Well, he lasted a term or two and then they sent him home, to the joy of his mother, and we had him around the house once more. For a time he kept quiet; he was reading mysticism: rot and stupid nonsense! His mother ordered me not to bother him, that he was preparing for a career in psychology. Then for a time I didn’t see him at his books and I began to wonder. I found him in the potting shed—his ‘laboratory’, he called it. He was performing experiments, right enough, upon the gardener’s daughter! He had hypnotized her, dosed her with vile drugs, and played her all manner of weird tricks. I caught him red-handed at the business and turned him out of the house. His mother was horrified, and made excuses, but for once I had my way, and Faurence was sent packing. I washed my hands of him. For a month or two he lived with his aunt, then his mother put him into the Technical Institute at Narghuys, on Gietersmond. Naturally I was required to foot the bills. I understand that he undertook the medical program and it seems that he accomplished a brilliant success. His mother will not mention him to me and I believe that she is trying to put him out of her mind.” Sir Lazar made a curt gesture. “That is all I can tell you of Faurence Dacre, as he calls himself.”