The Questor Tapes (12 page)

Jerry leaned over to Questor confidentially. “What do we ask for when we get where we’re going?”

“C.”

Jerry blinked. “ ‘C’?”

“This entire portion of my creator’s records was cryptographically encoded to resemble casual social notes.”

“Code?” Jerry hissed. “What kind of business did he do with this C?”

“Principally information exchange on international matters.”

“Questor, we can’t just knock at a door and ask for a code name which . . .” He trailed off as he noticed the private drive the cab was traversing.

A long, tree-lined drive threaded its way through a cleft in natural rock and then burst out into an open expanse of lawn that was dotted with carefully planned flower beds. The house that rose at the end of the drive was vast, classic in style, ancient stone only lightly touched by modern architects on the outside. This was the first genuine stately mansion Jerry had ever seen.

“Questor,” he said weakly, “especially not on the door of
that
house.”

The cabbie pulled up before the massive main door and stopped. Jerry stepped out, still taking in the immensity of the house, the obviously expensive setting. He turned back to find Questor handing a thick wad of pound notes to the driver. “Wait, Questor. We may need him.”

Questor ignored him and nodded to the cabbie. “You may go now.”

The driver ran a finger through the stack of bills and figured out the large tip. “That’s very generous, gov’nor. Thank ya kindly.” He drove away, and Questor turned to Jerry.

“I am convinced you will not fail me, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry had no answer for that kind of remark. He and Questor approached the heavy door, and Jerry lifted and dropped the ornate knocker almost timidly. Questor’s eyes flicked around the entrance area and stopped on what appeared to be an ornamentally carved projection in the architecture.

“Curious. It appears we are being scanned by an electronic camera device.”

Jerry frowned doubtfully. “I don’t see anything. How can you tell?”

Questor promptly reached up to the projection, twisted, and revealed the end of a closed-circuit television camera aimed at where they were standing. Jerry waggled a hand anxiously.

“Put it back . . . quick!”

Questor complied, just getting the decorative cover back on the lens as the door opened. A formally attired butler stared out at them inquiringly.

Jerry looked at Questor, but Questor waited for him. “Ah . . . tell your . . . uh, master, that . . .”

The butler started to close the door. Questor still made no move, and Jerry jumped forward in time to get his foot in the door and push it open again. The cold disdain of the butler had started to annoy him. “Listen, I clearly said tell your master . . .”

The butler interrupted contemptuously. “There
is
no master, sir.” He tried to close the door again, but Jerry held it open.

“Then tell whoever that we’re here to talk to C about Vaslovik.”

Unblinkingly, the butler scanned them, but a slight frown indicated that he was undecided. Finally he opened the door all the way and gestured them in with a tiny wave. “I shall inquire of Lady Helena if that message is of any interest.”

“Lady Helena?” Robinson said.

“Lady Helena Alexandre Trimble, sir.” The butler turned and moved up a marble staircase that circled up to the second floor. Jerry stared after him, alarmed.

“Questor, Helena Trimble is world . . . world infamous. Vaslovik couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with—”

Jerry bit off his words when a capable-looking, cold-eyed man appeared at the bottom of the short flight of stairs leading to the main room. To Jerry, he looked broad as a door and quite out of place in a conservatively cut business suit. The man ignored Jerry and Questor, but took a chair positioned exactly where he could keep an eye on them and be ready for anything they might attempt. Jerry did not like the way the man’s jacket bulged out slightly precisely where a shoulder holster would be. Then he noticed Questor’s head swivel toward the head of the stairs, and he followed the android’s look.

Lady Helena Alexandre Trimble was as beautiful and as expensive as the surroundings. The pale blue culottes, topped by a matching bolero sweater trimmed with pearls, served to emphasize her height, her perfect figure, her dark hair and exquisite beauty. She had been about to make an entrance, an aloof smile on her lovely lips. But the smile froze as she stared down at the two men at the foot of the stairs. A slight, puzzled frown flickered across her face as she held Questor’s look for a long moment. There was something about him . . . something both strange and familiar . . . she could not define it, but it was troubling. She gathered her composure and moved down the stairs in a flowing, floating motion, trailing one hand on the marble banister.

Jerry watched her, stunned into silence by her poise, her sensual beauty, and the fact that she could not seem to remove her eyes from Questor. Questor, on the other hand, merely waited. It was up to Jerry to make the explanations, and he was not sure he had the savoir faire to carry off conversational gambits with this woman.

“Ah . . . madam . . . I mean, Lady Helena . . .” She looked at him, waiting, dark eyes inquisitive. He pulled himself together and began again. “I’m Jerry Robinson. This is my . . . friend, Mr. Questor.”

Questor snapped a look at him, his head tilted to the right in the questioning attitude he affected. Jerry Robinson had just said something Questor had never heard before.

“Randolph said you wished to discuss a matter of some importance,” Lady Helena said.

“Yes. Uh . . . we’re looking for an Emil Vaslovik. Can you help us?”

Lady Helena’s face remained completely beautiful and completely devoid of expression. “Vaslovik? I do not know such a name.” She started to turn away, down the stairs.

“Are you certain, madam? It’s very important to my friend that—”

Lady Helena looked back, her voice an icy dagger. “I am not accustomed to having my word questioned, sir.”

Her tone nearly riveted Jerry to the floor, but he glanced at Questor and saw a look of disappointment on his usually expressionless face, which gave him the nerve to go on. “My friend isn’t often that wrong, madam. I think you do know Vaslovik.”

“Mueller.”

Lady Helena’s voice instantly galvanized the man at the foot of the stairs. He got to his feet and moved toward them, his hand automatically going into his jacket toward the shoulder holster.

Jerry nervously turned to Questor. “Maybe if you tell her what you saw in Vaslovik’s files . . .”

Questor nodded and began his recital. “There were many coded references to a person known as C who lives in this domicile, madam. Information exchanges regarding the affairs of various nations, secret treaties, diplomatic agreements, weapons systems, specifics on certain personal idiosyncrasies of political leaders.”

Lady Helena’s expression did not change, but she turned abruptly to Mueller and waved him away. “That will be all, Mueller.”

The strong-arm man nodded mutely and left. Robinson stared at Questor, startled by the last revelation. He edged over to the android and whispered urgently, “Secret agreements, weapons systems—you never mentioned that.”

Questor’s voice boomed out normally. “You never requested specifics, Mr. Robinson.” He ignored Jerry’s frantic gestures to keep his voice down and continued in the same tone to Lady Helena. “For example, in the area of political-leader idiosyncrasy—item: Monsieur Vardon of the Foreign Ministry of France, as regards the wife of his young second assistant, Monsieur—”

Lady Helena interrupted coolly. “I know nothing about any such ‘coded’ information, gentlemen.”

Questor reached into his pocket and held out a small slip of paper. “You will recognize the name of the brokerage firm. Several hours ago, a small block of stock was purchased in your name. You have in your hand the identifying code number. If you will speak to a certain Francis Scott Campbell, he will verify the account.”

She took the slip and stared at the number written on it. “The office will be closed at this hour.”

“Mr. Campbell is waiting for your call.”

Her hand trembled slightly, and she folded the paper to hide it. “I realize I’ve been inexcusably rude. May I ask you to wait just a moment or two, and I’ll have Randolph escort you to the terrace. You will stay for a drink?”

“Yes . . . yes, thank you,” Jerry said hastily. He added a smile as an afterthought.

She nodded briefly and turned away, almost gliding down the steps to the main floor, and went into a secluded room. She leaned against the door as it shut behind her, glanced at the paper in her hand, and saw her hand begin to shake again. This had happened once before—she remembered it all—but there was a part to be played, in case this man who called himself Questor was not who she thought he was. A delicate white French-style phone stood on the table beside her. She picked up the receiver and dialed the number on the paper. It was answered almost immediately.

“Mr. Campbell . . . this is account number 9077694. I believe a purchase was made for me a few hours ago in the amount of one thousand pounds. Would you mind—” She stopped, listening, not surprised at what Francis Scott Campbell was saying. “Fifty thousand pounds,” she repeated. “Yes, please continue to follow the instructions left you. Thank you.” She hung up and stood for a moment, staring at the phone. Then she lifted it and began to dial again.

Jerry was restless and nervous and more than a little troubled. As soon as Lady Trimble was out of sight, he turned to the android. “Questor, that information adds up to espionage, blackmail, maybe worse. Are you absolutely certain you don’t know what you were designed for?”

“That was obviously among the erased information, Mr. Robinson.”

“But it could mean you were designed for immoral purposes. Remember, you promised you would let me guide you in that area.”

Questor turned his solemn blue eyes on Jerry and bobbed his head in a short nod. “As long as your advice does not conflict with the imperatives from my creator, Mr. Robinson.”

Jerry stared at him, still troubled. Questor was picking up more and more human habits and mannerisms. He certainly knew how to lie, and Jerry was not sure that the android knew the distinction between a little white lie and one that concealed facts which Jerry had to know.

Lady Helena came to the foot of the stairs, the butler trailing after her. A frown creased her lovely forehead, and she studied the two men carefully before she spoke. “Are you aware you’re being sought by the police?”

“Perfectly,” said Questor.

“Would you mind explaining how you just learned that?” Jerry asked.

Lady Helena smiled for the first time, a reassuring smile. “You needn’t worry—you’re quite safe here.” She turned to Questor, apparently fascinated by him in some strange way. “Tell me, why is locating this . . . Vaslovik so important to you, Mr. Questor?”

“It is vital I find him, madam, since—”

Jerry stepped in, interrupting Questor’s attempt to tell the truth. “Since Dr. Vaslovik is as near to a father as Mr. Questor ever had, Lady Helena.”

Her eyes searched Questor’s face for any glimmer of expression that would suggest that that was a lie. Questor stared back levelly, openly. In fact, she had begun to see more and more in him that was appealing. “Well,” she said, and found a warm smile for them, “it’s late in the day for such a long journey back to London.” She turned to the butler. “Randolph, our guests will stay overnight. See if you can provide them with some fresh clothing.”

Randolph bowed his way past her. “Yes, madam. This way, gentlemen.” He led them up the wide curving stairway to the second floor.

The guest room was actually two bedrooms with a sitting room between them. The decor was rich, not ostentatious. Most of the furniture was antique; the colors of the carpets, drapes, and wallpaper were soft and complementary. Jerry peered into a wall mirror and carefully knotted his tie. He had been given a handsome gray pinstripe suit, a white shirt, and a maroon tie. He had briefly wondered how Lady Trimble happened to have a tailored suit on hand that exactly fit a six-foot-three-inch, one-hundred-eighty-five-pound man—and then decided he did not want to speculate. Questor, too, had been given clothing precisely cut to fit him. At the moment, he was struggling to get the black and gold “school tie” into place, and not making any progress. He also had a lot of questions to ask.

“Then Lady Helena is reputed to be a courtesan? As described in some works of de Maupassant?”

“At a much higher level than that. And it’s pretty clear now why she moves in those circles.” He finished with his tie and turned toward Questor, folding his collar down into place and reaching for the suit coat. “Questor, even if she would help us, we couldn’t afford her!”

“That statement is currently inaccurate, Mr. Robinson. But according to de Maupassant, the human female can be persuaded in ways far more powerful than the simple exchange of money.”

“Well, yes, I suppose, given the right relationship, any woman could be convinced there’s more to life than money, but . . .”

Questor continued to fuss and work the tie around, peering past Jerry into the wall mirror as he spoke. “Then a most logical course now would be for you to establish such a relationship with Lady Helena.”

“What?”

“I have no other source of information but her. Please help me.” He turned to Jerry, pleading.

Jerry automatically reached out and began to tie the intractable school tie for him. “I’d like to, but this particular human female isn’t the average human female.”

“Since we first met,” Questor said, “I have observed expertise in many areas where you doubted yourself. And all my data tapes indicate that this should be a most pleasant experience for you. Please help me, my . . .” He paused and looked at Jerry, who had neatly finished knotting the tie in place and had stepped back. “Is it permissible to call you my friend? Earlier you called me the same.”

Jerry looked at him for a long moment, then he sighed and nodded. “I did call you that, didn’t I? That’s how I’m beginning to think of you. Funny.”