Space Police Page 3

  Mr. G. G. Gru was slumped across his desk in front of the visiphone screen, in much the fashion that the hotel manager had described. There was no doubt that he was quite dead.

  Inspector Jair Calder walked across and stood looking down at the body, ignoring the fact that Sub-Inspector Mordette and his men were sniffing around the room with drawn weapons. Then, as he saw Mordette approaching, he leaned over and ripped off the top sheet of a scratch pad on the desk. He folded back the top inch or so and held it in his hand. There was a jagged tear across the lower half.

  “No villain, eh, Mordette?” he asked casually.

  “No,” growled the sub-inspector. “An Algenibian worm couldn’t be hidden in here without my men finding him.” He stopped and gazed down at the body. “No wound. Must have been a magnetic weapon.”

  Inspector Calder grunted what might have been either an affirmative or negative.

  “Demagnetized,” Mordette said with scorn. “Just a fancy method of electrocution. I told you that even methods hadn’t changed in the last two hundred years.”

  “So you did,” murmured Jair. “Mr. Chu, I take it that Mr. Gru here was from Sirius Two?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Hmmm. I thought so. Humanoid, but a Si-type of life.” He glanced again at the paper in his hand. “As you probably suspected, Mr. Chu, the victim did try to leave us a clue to his death, but I’m afraid most of it has been made off with.” He held the paper up so that the others could see it. One jagged piece of paper, tom on both sides, still retained a crude drawing of a six-sided figure and the letters COO.

  “Coo?” asked a bewildered sub-inspector. “What sort of a clue is that?”

  “Not a very good one, I’m afraid,” admitted Jair. “By itself, the word might indicate a soft, murmuring sound—hardly to be associated with an act of violence. I believe at one time it was also an expression of surprise among a small, lower-class group of Terrans. Then again—and perhaps more to our purpose—it might be part of a name. Mr. Chu . . .”

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “I’d like a little assistance, please. First, a place where I may conduct the investigation. Preferably a comfortable place where I might also have some coffee. Then, someone sufficiently familiar with the convention here to inform me about the various delegates. Thirdly, I’d like a quick search made of your register and a list of all names which have the letters C-O-O appearing together.”

  “Of course, sir,” the manager said. “We have a rather comfortable executive’s lounge.”

  “Fine.” Inspector Calder walked out of the room with the others trooping behind him. As he stepped into the hallway, he lurched and almost fell. He stooped quickly and came up holding a small, transparent six-sided figure. As he held it up to the light, faint markings could be seen inside as if someone had managed to etch the letter U within the solid.

  “A rather interesting piece of Plexilite,” he observed. “Any idea what it was doing in the corridor, Mr. Chu?”

  “No,” the manager said. He stepped closer and looked at it. “Looks like interior etching. Could it be some sort of costume jewelry, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” Jair said. He tossed it in the air a couple of times and then put it in his pocket. He took one more look at the door. “Mr. Chu, what about someone’s removing the door from its hinges?”

  “It can only be done when the current is off or when the door is unlocked, and even then it’s a good twenty-minute job. There would have been no time for the . . . ah . . . murderer to replace the door. You will remember the warning light went on while Mr. Gru was speaking to me. So a Mercurian went down the hallway within thirty seconds and I myself was here as soon as the Mercurian returned to his room.”

  “Of course. Shall we go lounge like executives?”

  The manager disapproved of the levity, but he led the way to the elevator without speaking.

  “Now,” said Inspector Calder, when they were in the luxurious executive’s lounge, “before you dash off to fetch my coffee, the list of names, and a convention expert, would you know the time you received the call from Mr. Gru?”

  “Yes,” said the manager. “It was just one minute past two o’clock”

  “Then,” said Jair, writing the time down, “Mr. Gru was murdered at approximately one minute and ten seconds past two. The Mercurian entered the hallway at approximately one minute and thirty-five seconds past two. How long would you say before he returned to his room?”

  “Four or five minutes. I waited in the elevator until the light went off.”

  “Let’s say five minutes. So at six minutes and thirty-five seconds past two, the Mercurian went back to his room of fire. Then, at seven minutes and five seconds past two, you entered the corridor—and found it empty?”

  The manager nodded.

  “Good. While you’re about it, you might also find out which one of your Mercurians was promenading down the corridor.” Inspector Calder studied the timetable he’d written down, ignoring the glum-looking sub-inspector, until the hotel manager returned. With him was another Terran, a rather brusque-looking young man dressed in the latest sports-plastic.

  “This,” he said, “is James Bruce. He’s an employee of Plasticorp and has been in charge of the present Acrylic convention. Mr. Bruce, Inspector Calder of the I.C.P.C.”

  “Hi, Inspector,” the newcomer said in a breezy fashion. “Chu, here, told me about the business upstairs. I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. I do hope, however, that your investigation won’t disturb our convention too much. We have some pretty important men here.” He bore down on the word important just enough. Jair Calder got the implication, but gave no recognition of having noticed it:

  “We’ll try to keep the murder from inconveniencing you too much,” he said dryly. “What is your position with Plasticorp, Mr. Bruce?”

  “Vice president in charge of testing. But I’m also the convention chairman. And if I do say it myself, this is one of our best conventions. We’ve been having a high old time.”

  “Quite,” the Inspector said. “Mr. Chu, the names?”

  “Only four guests fit the requirements,” the manager said. “Cooerl II, from Mercury. Rruda Akcoo of Mars. Somer Alcoon of Rigel. And Amos Coombs, a Terran. All of them are delegates to the convention.”

  Jair Calder nodded and turned to the convention chairman. “You know them, Mr. Bruce?”

  “Sure. All of them are good guys.”

  “They are delegates from different companies?”

  “Not exactly,” Bruce said. “To get the picture, you have to realize that Plasticorp controls about ninety per cent of the plastics business in the galaxy. There are a few minor companies, but almost everyone at this convention is a part of Plasticorp. These four are all executives in the corporation. I’ll vouch for them, Inspector.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Jair Calder said dryly. He turned back to the manager. “Did you learn which Mercurian was out?”

  The manager nodded. “By a strange coincidence, it was this same Cooerl II.”

  “Let’s hope it was no more than a coincidence. You have a flame-suit I can borrow?”

  The manager nodded.

  “I’ll go up and see Cooerl II then,” the inspector said. “Mr. Bruce, I wonder if you’d mind learning the whereabouts of Coombs, Akcoo, and Alcoon at about two o’clock?”

  “Sure thing,” Bruce said.

  Inspector Calder donned a standard flame-suit and returned to the hundred and seventieth floor. He’d arranged for the desk to announce he was coming, so he was admitted without delay. Once the inner door had closed, the Mercurian turned from the controls and greeted his visitor politely.

  The Mercurians were, of course, originally descended from a form of salamander, but Cooerl II stood upright and resembled a salamander about as much as Jair Calder resembled the Peking Man. The Mercurian and the Terran exchanged polite views on the weather, the Mercurian’s relatives, and other such unimportant matters for severa
l minutes.

  “I understand,” Jair Calder finally said, “that you were out in the hall briefly this afternoon. I wonder if you’d mind telling me why?”

  “Certainly not.” The Mercurian’s voice sounded querulous in the head-phones. “I was notified by the operator that there was a visiphone call for me. There is no set in my room—I understand the heat is not good for the screen—and so I went to the public visiphone booth at the end of the corridor. But there was no one there when I answered. Apparently the party had hung up, or it was a practical joke.”

  “Strange,” said Jair, more to himself, “this is the second mention of a practical joke without any more evidence than that. You met no one in the hallway?”

  “Of course not. It would be dangerous to anyone other than another Mercurian or someone dressed as you are now.”

  Inspector Calder wasted another few minutes telling the Mercurian how much he admired his home planet and wishing him warmth and good health, and then left the room. Out in the hall he removed the flame-suit, emerging drenched in sweat, and went back downstairs. The manager, Mr. Bruce and the Provincial Police still waited for him.

  “I checked up on the boys for you,” Bruce announced. “All three of them have perfect alibis. They were in a committee meeting from one until three.”

  “Thank you,” said Inspector Calder. “What about yourself?”

  “Me?” asked the startled vice president. “You’re kidding, Inspector. But if you really want to know, I got an alibi too.”

  Jair Calder nodded agreeably and sat down. He tasted the coffee which was sitting at his place and was glad to find it fresh and hot. Then he turned to the manager.

  “Mr. Chu, I must trouble you for two more things. I’d like all the elevator operators who were on duty from about twelve o’clock until after two brought here one at a time so that I can question them. I’d also like to question any other guests on the hundred and seventieth floor who were in their rooms at about two o’clock. That is, excepting the Mercurians. Then—I believe the hotel has its own shops, does it not?”

  “Yes, indeed. You can purchase anything without leaving the hotel.”

  “Good. Check each shop and get me a list of any unusual purchases made during the past two days.” He waited until the manager left the room and then smiled at Sub-Inspector Mordette. “Best do this in an orderly fashion, eh, Mordette? Looks better on the report.”

  “You see,” Mordette said triumphantly, “even you must follow the exact form that was used centuries ago.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” Jair said solemnly.

  For the next several minutes, he was busy with the stream of hotel employees who came in to be questioned, all of them nattily attired in the hotel service uniform. But the result of the questioning only proved that no one had been on the one hundred and seventieth floor between twelve and two o’clock except G. G. Gru, himself, and the Mercurian.

  The manager returned to report that the other guests of the one hundred and seventieth floor had all been downstairs with the exception of a rather ill-tempered crustacean from Aldebaran who refused even to be questioned.

  Inspector Calder nodded and seemed to lose interest in that trend of thought.

  “You will be finished soon, won’t you?” the manager inquired anxiously. He stifled his conviction that the inspector was incompetent and would never be finished.

  “I expect so,” Jair said. “You checked with your shops?”

  “Yes. There were a few unusual purchases. The Pleasure Shop sold a silver-handled whip to a visiting Terran and had one request for Martian jhung cigarettes. These are illegal, of course, so there was no sale. The Dispensary sold a small order of carbolic acid and one of formaldehI’de.”

  “All right,” Inspector Galder said. “I think I’d like to make an outside call. Where is the nearest public visiphone booth?”

  “Through there,” the manager said, indicating a door.

  While the inspector was gone, the manager tried to hold a conversation with the sub-inspector in the hope of learning that Inspector Calder had some idea of leaving the hotel before too long.

  “Maybe it was suicide,” he suggested, glancing idly at a hotel service man who had entered and was fixing one of the wall lights. “I’ve heard that the inhabitants of Sirius II are often melancholy. And after all, the room was locked.”

  “Personally,” the sub-inspector finally said, “I’d think that somebody pumped poison through your ventilating system, if it weren’t for the fact that you saw the murderer’s hand on the screen. And maybe that’s what it was anyway. Witnesses are never very reliable.”

  “Nonsense,” the manager said sharply. “It couldn’t be done.” He looked sharply at the sub-inspector, but the latter had already decided he’d been hasty in venturing an opinion at all.

  “I’d vote for suicide,” James Bruce added. “Moody, all of those humanoid types. They’re almost human, but not quite, and they can’t stand it.”

  Sub-Inspector Mordette still refused to rise to the bait, so the three men fell silent. They watched the repairman stroll from the room, then turned to staring at the ceiling while they waited.

  “Well,” said Inspector Calder, coming back into the room in what seemed to be good humor, “I expect we’ll be through with this shortly.” He sat in his chair and pulled out a cigarette case. “Cigarette, anyone?”

  James Bruce took one, but the others refused.

  “I say,” Calder exclaimed. He reached over and grabbed Bruce’s lighter just as he was about to activate it. Then he jumped up and went over to the wall. He reached up and pulled a small brown ball from the wall. “A thallium bomb,” he said to the others. “A good thing I saw it before you struck that lighter. The slightest change in temperature and we would’ve all been poisoned.”

  “Good heavens,” said the manager. His face was pale, a color that was matched by the faces of the other two men. “How did it get there? There hasn’t been anyone in the room but the three of us.”

  “No one?” Jair Calder asked softly.

  “Not a soul. It—” A startled expression came over the manager’s face. “There was a repairman,” he said. His face darkened with anger. “I’ll—”

  “Never mind,” said the inspector. He opened a small case and popped the thallium bomb into it. “I was the repairman who came in. It was easy to borrow a coat. I also put the bomb there.”

  “But why?”

  “I just wanted to demonstrate that the testimony we received stating no one appeared on the one hundred and seventieth floor meant nothing. Repairmen, like servants, are invisible people. I think we can be pretty sure that our murderer, dressed in a hotel uniform, was up on the floor twice today.”

  “Twice?” said Mordette. “Why twice?”

  “First, he had to arrange matters—it was this arrangement which Mr. Gru thought was a practical joke. Then, after arranging for a call to be put through to Cooerl II, he returned to the floor, killed Mr. Gru, grabbed up the clue or part of it, ran out and off the floor. Thirty seconds doesn’t sound like much time, but he needed no more.”

  “But—but what about the door?” asked the manager.

  “Oh, yes, he unlocked the unlockable door and locked it again.”

  “But it’s impossible.”

  “Only improbable,” Jair Calder said. “Mr. Chu, where did you keep the special door to that room when the guest from Sirius II was not here?”

  “In the workshop in the basement.”

  “And the regular door is kept there when Mr. Gru is in the hotel?”

  The manager nodded.

  “I wonder if you’d mind phoning down and checking the door situation now?” the inspector asked.

  The manager crossed the room in nervous strides to an audiophone. He talked for a minute, then returned, a frown on his face.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said. “They report that the regular door and the special door are both there. That means—”
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br />   “A third door,” finished Jair Calder. “Also special, in that it was made for this one occasion. I might add that it was just like your special door except for a slight chemical difference. The murderer’s first trip was to install his door, of course. By the way,” he added, turning to Bruce with a smile, “as vice president in charge of testing I imagine you carry a Sonicolt, don’t you?”

  The vice president nodded.

  “Could I see it a moment?”

  James Bruce handed over what appeared to be a good-sized automatic pistol. Inspector Calder peered at it.

  “A 47-M caliber,” he said. “You use this for testing plastic?”

  “Yeah,” Bruce said. “That’s the best Sonicolt made. Our plastic will stand the full force of it, even through a supersonic periodic disturbance of 47,000 cycles per second, it is even strong enough to ki—” He broke off.

  “Exactly,” the inspector said softly. “While relatively harmless to human beings, a Sonicolt will kill anyone from Sirius II. And it was such a weapon as this that killed Mr. Gru.”

  “But I don’t understand,” said the manager.

  “Si-type life form,” said Jair. “The inhabitants of Sirius II, while humanoid in appearance, have a silicon constitution instead of carbon. A supersonic weapon of this strength would literally shatter their insides. So you weren’t so far wrong, Mr. Chu, when you said you had the impression he was falling apart.”

  “Why was he murdered?” Mordette asked.

  “I think it was over plastics,” said the inspector.

  “Nonsense,” James Bruce declared roughly. “Sirius II has never been in the race on plastics.”

  “But I think they were about to get into it through Mr. Gru,” Jair Calder said pleasantly. “Mr. Bruce, you’re more familiar with plastic formulae than I am. I wonder if you’d check the formula I’ve written down.” He handed a sheet of paper to the vice president.

  The latter looked at the paper and his face twisted with rage. He leaped to his feet, one hand darting for his pocket.