"Oh, I don't remember exactly. He went venomous! I suppose there were
threats. I told him he hadn't enough money _or_ influence to buy what I
knew, and that when I had it properly documented I intended to make a
national scandal of it." Pederson halted abruptly. "You know, it
occurred to me later that was a foolhardy thing to say!"
"Ah? Why is that?"
"Well, I had heard of that safeguard of his--the 'neuro-vibe'--and I
suppose there were other things, too. He was a cautious man, a dangerous
man. But," Pederson shrugged, "he let me into his home readily enough."
Beardsley lifted a finger. "Because he was confident he was going to buy
you--wouldn't you say?"
"I suppose that's it. Maybe I was lucky to get out of there so easily!
Anyway I did." Pederson stopped pacing, and his gaze bored into
Beardsley's. "So now to the big question. Yes, he was alive when I left
him. No, I never saw Carmack again. I went straight to my office and
worked until well past midnight; by the way, I have ample proof of
that--"
"Yes, I'm sure you do! What were your feelings at this point?"
"My feelings? I knew my life was in danger now! Carmack would be out to
stop me. I don't mind admitting I was ... well, rather relieved, when I
heard the news."
"Ah-h! And when did you hear it?"
Pederson glared, but his answer was quick. "Late the next afternoon, of
course! By habit I work late hours and I sleep long." With an air of
finality he threw a challenging look around. "I want to congratulate
whoever did it, and I don't much care whether the answer comes from you
or ECAIAC!"
Beardsley surveyed him solemnly. Pederson had little more than brushed
the surface, but it was enough, it served to set the pattern; he could
have sworn Pederson was aware of that. He said drily, "Thanks, Pederson.
Your story is--very pat."
* * * * *
He turned to the others. Mandleco rather surprised him, seeming not so
much disturbed as he was engrossed deep in thought; as for Mrs. Carmack,
Beardsley saw that the comedy had gone out of it for her, but she tried
to keep up the veneer.
"This is all most interesting!" she sparkled, placing her glass down
carefully and turning to face him. "Am I to be next, Mr. Beardsley?
Shall I give both the questions and the answers as Mr. Pederson did?"
"No, Mrs. Carmack. I'll do that! I took note a moment ago that you
mentioned the _whodunits_. You must be familiar with them? Say as a
hobby?"
It wasn't at all what she expected. She stood wide-eyed and startled.
"This is so thrilling, remember. Vintage '60! As the _whodunits_ will
tell you, one of the prime requisites is an accounting and proof of your
whereabouts at the time of the deed! Well?"
Beardsley's voice was just edged enough to throw her into confusion.
"Why, I--" she faltered. "You mean that night? I--I--"
"What, no alibi? You don't even remember? According to vintage '60 that
could mean either complete innocence or extreme cunning; beware the
suspect who is clever enough to be ready with no alibi!"
Beardsley saw her stiffen; there was a change across her face, a
struggle beneath the eyes. "But then," he shrugged, "it has always been
my conviction that _motive_ rather than opportunity is the real
requisite. On that basis it's plain you couldn't have killed your
husband. You loved him! He was only fifty-eight, he only left you a
dozen million dollars, but you loved him and you were faithful! Anyone
can see that after seven weeks you're still all broken up over it!"
The veneer was gone now; Sheila Carmack's eyes were vicious pools of
hate, her mouth a grimace. "Why, you--you ridiculous little monster!"
Victor d'Arlan stepped forward belligerently. "Say, now look here! This
is all very--" Beardsley placed a hand on d'Arlan's chest and shoved,
and the latter stumbled back with mouth agape. Pederson was gazing at
Beardsley with delight and admiration, seeming to visualize this little
man as material for his next tele-column. Mandleco stood transfixed, a
monument of agony, twisting a fist into his palm. "Beardsley, stop it!
This ridiculous farce has gone far enough! I warned you about these
tactics--"
Beardsley said, "Shut up!" and Mandleco stood there with mouth opening
and closing soundlessly.
"Well, Mrs. Carmack? Answer me! You loved your husband, didn't you? For
the past ten minutes you've heard him maligned; I should think you'd
want to protect his very good name!"
"Sheila, I must advise you against making _any_ statement of whatever
nature!" Mandleco strode for the tele-stat, then turned back and pointed
a trembling finger at Beardsley. "This man," he choked--"this man is no
longer acting in any official capacity for Crime-Central!"
With a quick step Pederson got himself between Mandleco and the
tele-stat; he strolled over to the instrument and leaned against it,
with a knowing look at Beardsley.
Sheila Carmack tilted her chin in defiance. "But I _wish_ to answer this
man. I insist on answering! Loved Amos Carmack? Love him?" Her voice
rose a full octave and broke in stridence. "For the past nine years I
have _hated--his--guts_!"
* * * * *
For a long moment the room was silent. No one moved. Beardsley's thick
glasses glinted eerily as he peered around at them, from Mandleco to
Sheila to Pederson and back to Mandleco.
"Well now," he said, "this is remarkable. Most remarkable! Everyone
hated Carmack. Professor Losch--we know why. Pederson here--he's told us
why. His wife--I think it's obvious. Who else? Surely not you, Mandleco!
Carmack was a pal of yours! You backed his cause with ECAIAC, you
lobbied for him, you even stole patents for him.... I wonder what
persuasion he held over you to bring all that about. Or is _persuasion_
too mild a word? Vintage '60 had a better term for it!"
Slowly, through the murk of his agitation Mandleco seized a measure of
control; he gazed at Beardsley out of cold incalculable eyes now hooded
with dire intention. "You're really trying hard, aren't you!" he grated.
"Well, make the most of it, because I guarantee _you_ won't be around,
not after the next Annual Basic! Do you understand that--_Mister_
Cooerdinator?"
But Beardsley was watching Pederson now, whose face took on a sudden
febrile gleam. "Blackmail ... by God, Beardsley, that's it! And I have
the proof! Sure, it was Carmack I was after, but I dug out a lot more--"
Pederson shot a challenging look at the Minister of Justice. "It goes
back some years, but I can prove that Amos Carmack had enough on
Mandleco to _finish him politically any time he chose_. You can bet your
life Mandleco hated him. Enough to warrant murder!"
There was an odd, illogical delight in the way Pederson said it--and
something almost frightening the way Mandleco just stood there in cold
silence, gazing at the tele-columnist with a look of boundless regret.
Beardsley said very softly, "Thanks, Pederson, but I'd suggest you save
it. It's scarcely pertinent now."
"Not pertinent? But, man, I tell you I have proof! What better motive
would you--"
"Motive?" Beardsley hit him with a pitying glance. "Why, I thought it
was obvious. We've progressed beyond _motives_ now."
Again there was an electric silence, and Beardsley let it assimilate. "I
have said," he went on, "that all this is most remarkable. But you know,
the _really_ remarkable thing--" He paused and watched them. Mandleco
continued to grind a fist into his palm; Pederson straightened
attentively, and d'Arlan, sneery no longer, moved over to stand beside
Sheila Carmack.
"--the really remarkable thing is this. I am now ready to state,
unequivocally, that the person who killed Amos Carmack ... _didn't hate
him at all_."
* * * * *
A thought was throbbing through the room like the seconds passing. Quick
and cumulative, almost embodied, it made transition from stunned mind
to startled mind as Beardsley stood there blinking at them. Beardsley
really didn't mind; they just couldn't know how subtly he worked into
his themes! Taking advantage of the lull, he went over to the door and
peered out into the Operations Room.
He peered long and soberly, then turned. Mandleco had found his voice
first, perplexity pushing down his anger: "Beardsley, either you're
bereft of your senses or--Do you mean to say," he choked--"after going
to these preposterous lengths do you mean to say that no one _here_--"
"Just a moment!" To everyone's surprise it was d'Arlan who broke in.
"I'm not sure what's going on here, not sure at all, but I want to make
one thing quite clear. _Sheila_ had no complicity in this crime! I know,
because--" He hesitated, touched her gently on the arm. "Sorry, darling,
I've got to say it. I know because she was with _me_ that night."
Sheila was startled for a moment, then utterly scathing. "You needn't
lie for me, Victor! I appreciate your sense of the dramatic, and even
your motives, but I assure you they are both misplaced. I have never
heard such nonsense!"
d'Arlan looked more desolate than abashed. As for Beardsley, he was only
a little amused. "Well, now, this is really more than I deserve; in all
my years on Homicide I wanted to experience this, but I finally put it
down as a myth. The Noble Alibi!" He peered sharply. "True vintage,
right out of the _whodunits_--wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Carmack?"
The answer didn't come, and Beardsley went on sternly: "And you reject
his noble attempt on your behalf. That is interesting! Especially, as it
occurs to me that d'Arlan's effort is just a little delayed...." He
paused, gazing thoughtfully upward. "It's enough to make one wonder
whether his noble effort is designed to protect you--or himself!"
d'Arlan suddenly paled, as if he had just been kicked in the stomach. He
gulped heavily and tried to speak. Beardsley watched stolidly for a
moment, then dismissed him with a gesture of complete disgust. "Oh,
hell, never mind! I would say neither. The lady is right, sonny, you'd
better watch those impulses. You just aren't the type!"
* * * * *
Mandleco had been hanging onto every word, grimly intent; he was sure
Beardsley was getting somewhere at last. Now he straightened, and his
grinding fist indicated that he'd had quite enough. Without a word,
without even a deigning glance at Beardsley, he traversed the office
with great purposeful strides and slammed through the outer door into
ECAIAC's room--
And was back an instant later, trailing Jeff Arnold as the latter
brushed past him into the office. Mandleco was saying something
urgently, tugging at Arnold's arm. Arnold ignored him. His startled gaze
was on the little group.
"Sheila!" He took a step forward. "Sheila, what are _you_ doing here?"
"I wish you'd tell me, Jeff. I wish _someone_ would explain what this is
all about...."
Beardsley watched the tableau in silence. Jeff Arnold's gaze flicked to
d'Arlan, who stared back with insolence, and there was no mistaking the
hostility that leaped between the two.
Sheila noticed it, too, and there was an indecisive moment that mounted
toward panic. Beardsley watched her churning effort to control it. She
said quickly, an inflection of fear in her voice: "Mr. Beardsley, if it
_really_ matters--my whereabouts that night--you'll understand my
reluctance to say it before! I was with Jeff. Truly! I'm sure he will
tell you--"
The words were directed at Beardsley, but she was talking to Jeff
Arnold. And deliberately, almost brutally, Arnold refused to accept the
cue. Beardsley saw the pleading turn to apprehension in Sheila's eyes.
"But, Jeff, you remember! Surely you do! Jeff, you don't understand--you
must tell them--"
* * * * *
Arnold looked at her for a single comprehending instant, a pitying
instant, then his lips compressed tightly as he turned away.
There was finality in it. Sheila's eyes were stark and unbelieving. She
stood there without motion, without a word, her mind groping in a shock
of blindness.
Beardsley said gently, "It's all right, Mrs. Carmack. It's really all
right. Merely an experiment, an inquiry into comparative methods as
Mandleco said. I'm truly sorry if my methods seemed harsh, but"--he
shrugged--"I dare say my participation is over now."
"You're damned right you may say it, Beardsley!" Arnold's eyes raked him
with venom, but he controlled himself and turned to Mandleco. "I only
came to tell you, sir, that we have ECAIAC ready. We'll be reaching
Cumulative very shortly now."
"Jeff ... are you _sure_?"
"Quite sure! Depend on it, there'll be no more trouble."
More than relief took hold of Mandleco; it was transformation, it was as
if a spell had been snapped. He glanced once about the room, and
shuddered as his gaze encountered Beardsley.
"Uh--yes. Fine!" he said. "That's fine, Jeff! Shall we proceed?" He
strode through the door, pausing only to fling back scathingly: "That
is, if Mr. Beardsley is quite sure it meets with _his_ approval!"
* * * * *
ECAIAC was in finest fettle again as the tapes sped through. Circuits
were activated. Codes gave meaning. Synaptic cells summed and
integrated, cancelled and compared and with saucy assurance sent the
findings on toward Cumulative. The murmur was soft and sustained and
somehow apologetic, as if ECAIAC were quite aware that she had failed in
her duty but would be just pleased to make amends _this_ time.
So like a woman ... fractious, unfathomable, then fawning and
attrite--with a purpose! Beardsley cocked his head and listened, his
mien almost beatific. Purpose? This creature had none that could quite
match his! He was convinced of it now, and he had never been more happy
or self-assured.
It was Pederson who was distressed, as he paced with long nervous
strides and watched the equate-panel where the mathematics were made
visible in a pattern of constantly changing lights. It had meaning only
for the techs, but Pederson couldn't seem to take his eyes from it. At
last he came over to Beardsley and managed to steer him aside.
"Beardsley, I just don't get it! This whole thing--are you quite sure--"