gentlemen are to be left in privacy."
"Mr. Powell, sir..." The Captain cleared his throat. "About Madame's guests. One
of them arrived after the felony was reported. An attorney, Mr. ¼maine."
Powell found Jo ¼maine, Attorney-At-Law 2, in the crowd. He shot him a
telepathic greeting.
"Jo?"
"Hi."
"What brings you to this Blind Tiger?"
"Business. Called by my cli(Ben Reich)ent."
"That shark? Makes me suspicious. Wait here with Reich. We'll get squared off."
"That was an effective act with Beck."
"Hell. You cracked our scramble?"
"Not a chance. But I know you two. Gentle Jax playing a thick cop is one for the
books."
Beck broke in from across the hall where he was apparently sulking: "Don't give
it away, Jo."
"Are you crazy?" It was as though ¼maine had been requested not to smash every
sacred ethic of the Guild. He radiated a blast of indignation that made Beck
grin.
All this during the second in which Powell again kissed Maria's brow with chaste
devotion and gently disengaged himself from her tremulous grasp.
"Ladies and gentlemen: we'll meet again in the study."
The crowd of guests moved off, conducted by the Captain. They were chattering
with renewed animation. It was all beginning to take on the aspect of a fabulous
new form of entertainment. Through the buzz and the laughter, Powell felt the
iron elbows of a rigid telepathic block. He recognized those elbows and
permitted his astonishment to show.
"Gus! Gus Tate!"
"Oh. Hello, Powell."
"You? Lurking & Slinking?"
"Gus?" Beck popped out. "Here? I never tagged him."
"What the devil are you hiding for?"
Chaotic response of anger, chagrin, fear of lost reputation, self-deprecation,
shame---
"Sign off, Gus. Your pattern's trapped in a feedback. Won't do you any harm to
let a little scandal rub off on you. Make you more human. Stay here & help. Got
a hunch I can use another 1st. This one is going to be a Triple-A stinker."
After the hall cleared, Powell examined the three men who remained with him. Jo
¼maine was a heavy-set man, thick, solid, with a shining bald head and a
friendly blunt-featured face. Little Tate was nervous and twitchy... more so
than usual.
And the notorious Ben Reich. Powell was meeting him for the first time. Tall,
broad-shouldered, determined, exuding a tremendous aura of charm and power.
There was kindliness in that power, but it was corroded by the habit of tyranny.
Reich's eyes were fine and keen, but his mouth seemed too small and sensitive
and looked oddly like a scar. A magnetic man, with something vague inside him
that was repellent.
He smiled at Reich. Reich smiled, back. Spontaneously, they shook hands.
"Do you take everybody off guard like this, Reich?"
"The secret of my success," Reich grinned. He understood Powell's meaning. They
were en rapport.
"Well, don't let the other guests see you charm me. They'll suspect collusion."
"Not you, they won't. You'll swindle them, Powell. You'll make 'em all feel
they're in collusion with you."
They smiled again. An unexpected chemotropism was drawing them together. It was
dangerous. Powell tried to shake it off. He turned to ¼maine: "Now then, Jo?"
"About the peeping, Linc..."
"Keep it up on Reich's level," Powell interrupted. "We're not going to pull any
fast ones."
"Reich called me in to represent him. No TP, Linc. This has got to stay on the
objective level. I'm here to see that it does. I'll have to be present at every
examination."
"You can't stop peeping, Jo. You've got no legal right. We can dig out all we
can---"
"Provided it's with the consent of the examinee. I'm here to tell you whether
you've got that consent or not."
Powell looked at Reich. "What happened?"
"Don't you know?"
"I'd like your version."
Jo ¼maine snapped: "Why Reich's in particular?"
"I'd like to know why he hollered so quick for a lawyer. Is he mixed up in this
mess?"
"I'm mixed up in plenty," Reich grinned. "You don't run Monarch without building
a stock-pile of secrets that have got to be protected."
"But murder isn't one of them?"
"Get out of there, Linc!"
"Stop throwing blocks, Jo. I'm just peeping around a little because I like the
guy."
"Well, like him on your own time... not mine."
"Jo doesn't want me to love you," Powell smiled to Reich. "I wish you hadn't
called a lawyer. It makes me suspicious."
"Isn't that an occupational disease?" Reich laughed.
"No." Dishonest Abe took over and answered smoothly. "You'd never believe it,
but the occupational disease of detectives is Laterality. That's
right-handedness or left-handedness. Most detectives suffer from strange changes
of Laterality. I was naturally left-handed until the Parsons Case when I---"
Abruptly, Powell choked off his lie. He took two steps away from his fascinated
audience and sighed deeply. When he turned back to them. Dishonest Abe was gone.
"I'll tell you about that another time," he said. "Tell me what happened after
Maria and the guests saw the blood dripping down on your cuff."
Reich glanced at the bloodstains on his cuff. "She yelled bloody murder and we
all went tearing upstairs to the Orchid Suite."
"How could you find your way in the dark?"
"It was light. Maria yelled for lights."
"You didn't have any trouble locating the suite with the light on, eh?"
Reich smiled grimly. "I didn't locate the suite. It was secret. Maria had to
lead the way."
"There were guards there... knocked out or something?"
"That's right. They looked dead."
"Like stone, eh? They hadn't moved a muscle?"
"How would I know?"
"How indeed?" Powell looked hard at Reich.
"What about D'Courtney?"
"He looked dead too. Hell, he was dead."
"And everybody was standing around staring?"
"Some were in the rest of the suite, looking for the daughter."
"That's Barbara D'Courtney. I thought nobody knew D'Courtney and his daughter
were in the house. Why look for her?"
"We didn't know. Maria told us and we looked."
"Surprised to find her gone?"
"We were beyond surprise."
"Any idea where she went?"
"Maria said she'd killed the old man and rocketed."
"Would you buy that?"
"I don't know. The whole thing was crazy. If the girl was lunatic enough to
sneak out of the house without a word and go running naked through the streets,
she may have had her father's scalp in her hand."
"Would you permit me to peep you on all this for background and detail?"
"I'm in the hands of my lawyer."
"The answer is no," ¼maine said. "A man's got the constitutional right to refuse
Esper Examination without prejudice to himself. Reich is refusing."
"And I'm in one hell of a mess," Powell sighed and shrugged. "Well, let's start
the investigation."
They turned and walked toward the study. Across the hall, Beck scrambled into
police code and asked:
"Linc, why'd you let Reich make a monkey out of you?"
"Did he?"
"Sure he did. That shark can stiff you any time."
"Well you better get your knife ready, Jax. This shark is ripe for Demolition."
"What?"
"Didn't you hear the slip when he was busy stiffing me? Reich didn't know there
was a daughter. Nobody did. He didn't see her. Nobody did. He could infer that
the murder made her run out of the house. Anybody could. But how did he know she
was naked?"
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then, as Powell went through the
north arch into the study, a broadcast of fervent admiration followed him: "I
bow, Linc. I bow to the Master."
The "study" of Beaumont House was constructed on the lines of a Turkish Bath.
The floor was a mosaic of jacinth, spinel and sunstone. The walls, cross-hatched
with gold wire cloisons were glittering with inset synthetic stones... ruby,
emerald, garnet, chrysolite, amethyst, topaz... all containing various portraits
of the owner. There were scatter rugs of velvet, and scores of chairs and
lounges.
Powell entered the room and walked directly to the center, leaving Reich, Tate,
and ¼maine behind him. The buzz of conversation stopped, and Maria Beaumont
struggled to her feet. Powell motioned her to remain seated. He looked around
him, accurately gauging the mass psyche of the assembled sybarites, and
measuring the tactics he would have to use. At length he began.
"The law," he remarked, "makes the silliest damned fuss about death. People die
by the thousands every day; but simply because someone has had the energy and
enterprise to assist old D'Courtney to his demise, the law insists upon turning
him into an enemy of the people. I think it's idiotic, but please don't quote
me."
He paused and lit a cigarette. "You all know, of course, that I'm a peeper.
Probably this fact has alarmed some of you. You imagine that I'm standing here
like some mind-peeping monster, probing your mental plumbing. Well... Jo ¼maine
wouldn't let me if I could. And frankly, if I could, I wouldn't be standing
here. I'd be standing on the throne of the universe practically
indistinguishable from God. I notice that none of you have commented on that
resemblance so far..."
There was a ripple of laughter. Powell smiled disarmingly and continued: "No,
mass mind-reading is a trick no peeper can perform. It's difficult enough to
probe a single individual. It's impossible when dozens of TP patterns are
confusing the picture. And when a group of unique, highly individual people like
yourselves is gathered, we find ourselves completely at your mercy."
"And he said I had charm," Reich muttered.
"Tonight," Powell went on, "you were playing a game called `Sardine.' I wish I
had been invited, Madame. You must remember me next time..."
"I will," Maria called. "I will, dear prefect..."
"In the course of that game, old D'Courtney was killed. We're almost positive it
was premeditated murder. We'll be certain after Lab has finished its work. But
let's assume that it is a Triple-A Felony. That will enable us to play another
game... a game called `Murder.' "
There was an uncertain response from the guests. Powell continued on the same
casual course, carefully turning the most shocking crime in seventy years into a
morsel of unreality.
"In the game of `Murder,'" he said, "A make-believe victim is killed. A
make-believe detective must discover who killed the victim. He asks questions of
the make-believe suspects. Everyone must tell the truth, except the killer who
is permitted to lie. The detective compares stories, deduces who is lying, and
uncovers the killer. I thought you might enjoy playing this game."
A voice asked: "How?"
Another called: "I'm just one of the tourists."
More laughter.
"A murder investigation," Powell smiled, "explores three facets of a crime.
First, the motive. Second, the method. Third, the opportunity. Our Lab people
are taking care of the second two. The first we can discover in our game. And if
we do, we'll be able to crack the second two problems that have Lab stumped now.
Did you know that they can't figure out what killed D'Courtney? Did you know
that D'Courtney's daughter has disappeared? She left the house while you were
playing `Sardine.' Did you know that D'Courtney's guards were mysteriously
short-circuited? Yes, indeed. Somebody robbed them of a full hour in time. We'd
all like to know just how."
They were hanging at the very edge of the trap, breathless, fascinated. It had
to be sprung with infinite caution.
"Death, disappearance, and time-theft... we can find out all about them through
motive. I'll be the make-believe detective. You'll be the make-believe suspects.
You'll tell me the truth... all except the killer, of course. We'll expect him
to lie. But we'll trap him and bring this party to a triumphant finish if you'll
give me permission to make a telepathic examination of each of you."
"Oh!" cried Maria in alarm.
"Wait, Madame. Understand me. All I want is your permission. I won't have to
peep. Because, you see, if all the innocent suspects grant permission, then the
one who refuses must be the guilty. He alone will be forced to protect himself
from peeping."
"Can he pull that?" Reich whispered to ¼maine.
¼maine nodded.
"Just picture the scene for a moment." Powell was building the drama for them,
turning the room into a stage. "I ask formally: `Will you permit me to make a TP
examination?' Then I go around this room..." He began a slow circuit, bowing to
each of the guests in turn. "And the answers come... `Yes... Yes... Of course...
Why not?... Certainly... Yes... Yes...' And then suddenly a dramatic pause."
Powell stopped before Reich, erect, terrifying." `You, sir,' I repeat. `Will you
give me your permission to peep?' "
They all watched, hypnotized. Even Reich was aghast, transfixed by the pointing
finger and the fierce scowl.
"Hesitation. His face flushes red, then ghastly white as the blood drains out.