Necroscope: The Mobius Murders (13 page)

And for a third time Harry studied those dates:

Alf Samuels, last seen eighteen months ago, very drunk and disconsolate, in a pub on the Dalkieth Road in Edinburgh. Most likely a suicide (hah!) though no body had ever been found…
Nor ever would be!
thought Harry.

Patrick Kelley, last seen one year ago approximately, in a Falkirk betting shop where he’d begged one pound from a winning punter to place a losing bet. He had appeared down and out, and very desperate.
But even more so now!

Donald McMannus, last seen in the late evening four months ago, wandering in the graveyard in Glasgow where his father was buried. Perhaps the victim of a gang of prejudiced local youths, though nothing by way of clues—or a corpse—had ever been recovered.

Mary Anne McNiven, last seen a month ago in a district of ill repute favoured by prostitutes, and warned off by an Edinburgh police patrol for soliciting. Very young and attractive, it was possible she had been smuggled away to London, probably by a pimp or perverts.

How wrong could they be?
thought Harry. But then what else could people, the police, statisticians and other compilers-of-lists be expected to believe? For after all, they were frequently correct.

As for Wee Angus, and finally, just yesterday, number six: they probably wouldn’t be missed or appearing on any list for a while yet. But if the timings of their murders were any indication of how things were progressing, then patently things were progressing far too quickly—and rapidly accelerating…!

Since it was almost noon, time had also passed quickly for the Necroscope. And as if on cue, as he was returning Darcy’s list to its envelope, the telephone rang.

Deep in disquieting thought, Harry reached fumblingly, automatically for the ’phone and said, “Yes, what is it?”

“It’s me, Harry,” Darcy replied. And a moment later, sounding puzzled: “Are you just up, not quite awake maybe? Am I disturbing you or something?”

Giving himself a shake, Harry answered, “No, no, and no. I wasn’t all here, that’s all. Lost in thought and, while I hate to admit it, more than a little worried, too. Things are still coming along but way too slowly, while other things are happening much too quickly. But I’m glad you called, because there’s something else I may want you to do for me.”

“Whoah!” said the other. “First there are things I need to tell you.”

“Information?” said Harry. “Something I’ve asked for? Well go ahead. I hope it’s good news.”

“I believe it could be, but that’s for you to decide. We’ll have to wait and see. Until when:

“You told me this character you’re looking for has to be an academic of sorts—maybe a first class scientist or intellectual—but definitely a mathematician. That’s how I remember it, anyway.”

“Yes,” Harry answered. “Except there’s two words there that you shouldn’t confuse—academic and intellectual. Just because some individual becomes expert in a certain subject or subjects doesn’t make him an intellectual. This creature I’m looking for is way beyond the merely academic stage!”

“Maybe, but he probably came up that way, right? Before he got really good at it?”

Harry frowned again, and asked, “Who are we talking about, Darcy”

“Let me explain,” said the other. And he quickly continued: “Taking your advice, I passed your latest wants to last night’s Duty Officer, one Geoff Lambert, which turned out to be a fortunate coincidence. Geoff’s a recent E-Branch recruit, specializing in predictions, probabilities, and forecasts in general. In other words he’s—”

“A precog,” Harry cut in. “Okay, but what’s the connection? What does he have in store for me?”

“Ah, no! He doesn’t do personal stuff, never tries to read his own or anyone else’s future, concentrates mainly on trends, international fiscal fluctuations, old enemy countries rattling their sabres and making ready for war again, other large-scale, world-wide events…etcetera. A good man to have watching the money markets, close to the foreign embassies, and that sort of thing. He needs fairly close contact with his subjects.”

Harry sighed. “How does that fit in with what I’m doing?”

“It doesn’t. I’m just explaining that this is a very clued-up sort of fellow. But being a newcomer he starts at the bottom and gets his share of administrative and other duties, which is how it happens he was the D.O. last night and got to be working on your problem.”

“Okay, got it,” said Harry. “He’s bright and very clued-up. So what has he come up with?”

“Hold fire, Harry!” said Darcy. “Look, I can tell how frustrated you are and eager to get on, but there’s more for you to know. See, Geoff’s not merely bright—not only talented enough for E-Branch—but he’s also a member of Mensa International.”

Harry nodded to himself. “I see. Not just bright but brilliant, eh? With one hell-of-a-high IQ, right?”

“Oh, absolutely! Because a soaring intelligence quotient is a necessity, it’s the key to becoming a member of Mensa. Which is what I meant by this being a fortunate coincidence.”

Harry frowned. “Oh, how so?” Suddenly he was keenly attentive, animated by what the other was saying. “Just what are you trying to tell me, Darcy? That perhaps this Geoff is something of a mathematician, too? That maybe it’s even possible he’s—”

“No, no,
no
!” The other cut him short. “Geoff isn’t the man you’re searching for, Harry! No way!
But it’s possible he knows who is!
”

“I’m all ears,” said Harry, gripping the telephone tightly, not even trying to relax. “Do go on.”

“Well, I don’t want to be
too
optimistic, but Geoff can put two and two together far quicker than you or I, and the coincidence is this: that description you gave us rang bells with him…by which I mean he
remembered
having met someone who looked exactly like that, another member of Mensa and a veritable whiz with numbers, too! So, without searching for anyone else, Geoff went ahead and began to check him out. This was something of a reversal for him; for instead of looking at the future, he was searching through his memories of the past!

“Well, while there wasn’t much he could do last night, this morning when his shift ended he stayed on at the HQ and started to contact friends of his in the organization, in Mensa, to see if they knew anything useful about this fellow—whose name, by the way, is—”

“Stop!” Harry brought the other to an abrupt halt. “I don’t want a name, Darcy, not just yet, not even if the line’s scrambled. This killer: I don’t know how clever he is, or what other talents he may have. Like for instance, telepathy? I just don’t know! But however it works out, I would like it to come as something of a surprise if and when I do catch up with him. Except, having said that, there’s more than a small chance I’ve already compromised myself! He may have at least an idea of what I look like. I just have to be careful, that’s all.”

“Okay,” said Darcy. “I think I understand. But…how will we continue? I mean, this really does look promising, Harry. Do you want me to send you everything I’ve got, like last time?”

Harry thought about it, then said: “No, why don’t we save a little time, eh? Are you in your office?”

“Yes, I’m at my desk. Why do you ask?…Oh! I see! In fact I not only see, I’m beginning to feel!”

“What, more twinges, Darcy?” But this time, instead of grinning, the Necroscope had stood up, conjuring his numbers.

“Just a sudden queasy feeling, that’s all,” said Darcy.

“Well, try to ignore it,” Harry answered. “And secure your door. I don’t need to see or be seen by anyone else, just you. By the time you’ve put that ’phone down, I’ll be there…”

Nondescript, an average-looking person in every way, the Head of Branch beat Harry to it, actually managing to press the button that secured his door electronically,
and
to put the ’phone down, before a sudden draught from nowhere fluttered some loose papers on his desk and gave him another twinge. Then:

“Oh!”
he said, jerking upright, stiff-backed in his swivel-chair, as first the right foot and leg, followed by the rest of the Necroscope’s person, stepped out of otherwise thin air into his office on the far side of the desk.

“Hello, Darcy,” said Harry, nodding a greeting as he tossed his For-Your-Eyes-Only envelope onto the desk within easy reach of the other. And glancing casually, perhaps a little sardonically around the office, he then said, “Don’t take it personally, but I can’t say I ever much liked this place—not so much your office but the building, E-Branch itself. E-Branch: gadgets and ghosts, right? In a way it’s too much like me, if you know what I mean…too
close
to me. It’s like I can feel your agents in my head, as if I’m sensing their proximity. And perhaps I am.”

“You mean like they sense yours?” Darcy answered. “Even as we speak there’ll be a small handful of them out there who know you’re here without ever being told!”

“Yes, I know,” said Harry. “And that’s what I mean: they’re too close to me, your espers. But I need to keep a low profile, Darcy, and if one of your agents should ever go sour on you, or on the Branch itself—”

“That’s never going to happen,” the other at once cut in.

“Oh really? What, are you something of a precog, too?”

“No, but you can be sure I’ll be keeping an eye on it! Oh, and by the way, a good day to you, too, Harry!” Darcy rose and extended a slightly shaking right hand across the desk, saying: “Excuse my nerves, but people usually come in through the door! Still and all, that aside, it’s always good to see you, however you choose to get here!”

Smiling and taking Darcy’s hand, Harry said, “Yes, you too. It’s good to see you. And let me say just one more time, thanks for all you’re doing for me. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” said the other, and flopped back down in his chair. “But…won’t you sit down, make yourself comfortable?”

“Thanks.” Harry pulled a chair out from under the desk, sat facing E-Branch’s top man, took up the envelope and spilled its contents, Darcy’s list, out onto the polished oak. “We can talk about this later,” he said, indicating the handful of loose leaves where they’d slid to a halt on the glassy surface. “Then I’ll tell you what I still need. And with any luck that will be the last thing I’ll be asking you for this time around…

“But first things first:

“You started to tell me about this Mensa person, this mathematician that your Night Duty Officer—your new precog, Geoff Lambert?—remembered seeing or maybe hearing about during his time among the highbrows. We should begin with that.”

“Hold on a minute!” said Darcy. “Don’t you think we should get settled down first? I know for sure that
I
should! A cigarette and a drink, maybe?”

He took a bottle of Courvoisier from the cabinet beside his desk, two brandy glasses, a pack of cigarettes and a clean ashtray. A heavy desktop lighter was already in evidence, standing central on the desk. And as Darcy poured out liberal amounts of golden cognac, Harry said, “I don’t remember you smoking?”

“Only now and then,” Darcy told him. “When that damn thing of mine will let me! You could call this a ‘now’ moment. You?”

“A drink can’t hurt,” said the Necroscope, reaching for one of the glasses. “But no thanks for the nicotine. I do occasionally, but Bonnie Jean says it stinks—she gets enough of that in the wine bar.”

“Your lady friend? I was meaning to ask you about her.”

“Well don’t!” said Harry, edgily. “Because I can’t tell you anything about B.J.” Which was, quite literally, the truth; and as Darcy lit his cigarette, Harry changed the subject and continued: “Now can we get on with this, please?”

Darcy nodded, opened a desk drawer, took out a brand-new as-yet-untitled file, and slid it across to his visitor. “Didn’t I tell you our new boy is something else? This is his work from last night and all of this morning, until he went home for the day less than an hour ago. But why should I bother telling you about it when you can read it for yourself?”

“Then I’ll do just that,” Harry replied. And he did—

—But not until he could take his eyes from the monochrome photograph paper-clipped to the inside of the stiff file cover. Colourless, yes, and the features were maybe ten, fifteen years younger than the ones he remembered; but the picture the Necroscope’s memory had framed had been viewed through a Möbius door and a time-stream shifted haze, as blurred as a scene reflected in a breeze-rippled pool. But still, this
could
be his man, his monster, his devil!