The Gordon Mamon Casebook (10 page)

“Who?” Gordon asked.

“What d’you mean, ‘who’? It’s Havmurthy. Lord Havmurthy.”

“Still doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Seriously? The cheese whiz?”

“No,” said Gordon, rubbing carefully at the back of his wrist. “Much as it evidently surprises you to hear it, I’ve never heard of this Havmurthy. What does—or I suppose did—he do?”

“Cheese. Dessert and cocktail market especially. C’mon, you
must’ve
heard of Havmurthy Sweet Cheeses.”

“No.”

“Sweet Baby Cheeses?”

“No.”

“Cheeses On A Stick?”

“
No
.”

Belle stood up, her knee clicking in the process. “Gordon, where have you been the past decade or so? The stuff’s everywhere.”

“Not in my vicinity, apparently. Anyway, does this bring us any closer to figuring out why someone would want him dead? Business competitors, anyone like that?”

“Probably not. I mean, there used to be Mersifal Cheeses, Blessid Cheeses, and a couple of others, but Havmurthy took care of them. He’s kind of the cheese Microsoft. Or was, I guess.”

“Cheese Microsoft? What, you mean like the old ‘blue vein of death’, or something?”

“No, just that he bought them all out.”

“Ah. How recently?”

“Years ago.”

“Not a very likely motive for this, then.” Gordon nodded towards the body.

“Guess not. Or there’s Oh My Curd—they’re still going, but I wouldn’t have said there’s much overlap between their products, so I don’t see that OMC would gain much advantage by seeing Havmurthy bite the big one. Although, then again, industrial espionage—I think Havmurthy was looking at bringing out a new cheese-and-carbohydrate mix, to compete with mac & cheese, so maybe OMC or someone was looking to steal the recipe.”

“Recipe for what?”

“Havmurthy’s latest product. Cheese Husk Rice.”

* * *

Gordon was keenly aware of the eyes trained in his direction as he stumbled in Belle’s wake across one of the Plaza’s many foyers. In all probability, the majority of those viewing him were merely concerned with how frumpy his appearance was, because Gordon did not constitute a very convincing woman. It is rather difficult, regardless of the quantity of disguising makeup, to carry off a satisfactory portrayal of femininity when one’s jawline is adorned by a day’s stubble. (The Poirot moustache presumably wasn’t helping, either.) But the fact remained that among the spectators might well be those who had dumped him in the restroom, and who had dispatched Lord Havmurthy … in which case, a disguise—even one of such questionable aesthetic values—was a sensible, even a prudent option.

Not that his assailants would necessarily need to strike again. His
ankles
were killing him. He was earnestly beginning to wish that Belle had provided him with a pair of flats, or at least a set of heels with training wheels.

He pulled to an unsteady stop beside her, at the door to the Plaza police station. “You do realise,” he said, fighting the growing impulse to scratch his itching rump—he’d never imagined the possibility of an allergy to lace, but there you go—”that a
cleaner’s
getup, probably just some overalls and maybe a bucket for appearance’s sake, mop if you wanted to go the whole hog, would have done just as well? As an outfit? To avoid scandal? A
male
cleaner?”

“Yes, you’re right. Oh, well, maybe next time.”

He sighed heavily. “Belle, seriously, if there’s a ‘next time’ for this, I’ll—look, let’s just get this over with.”

They walked into the station, asked to make a joint statement, and were directed by Judy Sargent, the desk officer, to proceed into one of the interview rooms.

“Might be a bit of a wait,” Judy advised them, as they turned away from the reception desk.

Gordon turned back, gyrating slowly in a surreptitious and ultimately doomed attempt at a handsfree realignment of his undergarments. “Why d’you say that?” he asked.

“Not your concern, of course … but we’re a bit short-staffed right this minute,” explained Judy, busily checking through an official-looking database on her handheld. “We’ve got officers investigating a spate of counterfeit moonrocks in the souvenir shops, there’ve been reports of food poisoning at the Naked Singularity nightspot, a nasty collision between rival spaceliners at the docking bay, which the captains are for some reason trying to pass off as an unscheduled corporate merger. And then on top of all that, we’ve had a tip-off about some industrial espionage sting. Someone’s rumoured to be transmitting, via the hotel somehow, details of a top-secret hyperspace drive that Saturn Propulsions have under development.”

“Judy, if the hyperspace drive’s top secret, why are you telling me about it?”

“Advertising. Leaks. Everyone
knows
about it. It’s just the details, the engineering particulars, that are secret. That’s the way these things work.”

“So you’re telling me we might be better not filing a statement, because you’re all too busy?”

“No, Gordon, we’re taking the attack on Havmurthy, and on you, seriously.” Judy looked up to make eye contact, exhaled slowly, seemed to take a while to regather the thread. Or perhaps she was distracted by Gordon’s attire, or his furtive hip movements. “Of course. Havmurthy was a big che—a big wheel—er, a big player in the business world. So someone will speak to you about it, naturally, make sure you can give us all the relevant info you have. It’s just—we have no leads whatsoever on this hyperdrive intrigue, no hint as to how the transmission is likely to be made, which, as you can imagine, makes it a bloody big ask to try to intercept. Pretty much everyone here’s on surveillance, because we very much can’t afford the negative publicity from this Saturn Props thing. Nor the lawsuits. So … it’ll be a while before someone gets to you. Maybe a half hour.”

* * *

The interview room was a windowless rectangular space in off-white plasticinderblock, furnished with a large unsteady table and four small chairs. An imposing Rogue’s Gallery of stern-faced photographs decorated one wall: the individuals depicted might equally have been current employees, station alumni, or persons of interest.

“Is that chair uncomfortable?” Belle asked.

Gordon stopped, mid-squirm. “No, it’s … doesn’t matter.”

“Any news on the handheld?”

“No,” answered Gordon, shifting in his seat again. “Bit of a forlorn hope, expecting that it might’ve turned up at Lost Property. Still, I had to ask.”

“Why d’you think they took it? I mean, not as if it’s a newish model or anything.”

“Why’d they abduct me, knock me out, leave me tied up? Naked? Why’d they kill Havmurthy? Why
didn’t
they kill me? Given that they had the chance, and that they apparently wanted me out of the way at least temporarily. It’s all connected, somehow.”

“But you’d never even heard of Havmurthy before this. I mean, you said so yourself. So there wasn’t really a connection, although I guess they might have seen one where one didn’t exist. But maybe your kidnapping and Havmurthy’s murder are separate incidents, by different people.”

“Too much of a coincidence,” replied Gordon. “I don’t believe in coincidence, not anymore. Too much money wasted on lottery tickets.”

“But—”

“I gather you wish to make a statement?” asked a tall policeman, walking into the room and taking a seat opposite Belle and Gordon.

Warren Toffisser looked much too young for the air of authority he wore like a badge of office—but possibly this was a good thing, in an officer of the law?

And if the young policeman had any opinions about Gordon’s choice of outfit, he kept his judgments to himself.

* * *

”That took longer than I’d been expecting,” said Belle, as they bustled back across the foyer.

“They’re just being thorough,” replied Gordon, struggling to keep up.

“You think so? I reckon yon Warren fancied you.”

“You what?”

“
Relax
, Gordon. Honestly, it’s so easy to get a rise from you sometimes.”

“Is that another I’ve-seen-you-naked reference? Because—”

“Oh, stop it. No, I wouldn’t have said ‘thorough’. Longwinded, maybe.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“They just kept going over the details of the statement, making sure we weren’t contradicting ourselves. I didn’t get any sense they were that interested in following up the vidcam evidence of the attack. Too busy panicking about this Saturn Propulsions intrigue, I guess.”

Gordon tapped her shoulder, signalling a brief halt while he slipped out of his heels.

A family of five, followed closely by an obedient herd of suitcases, streamed around the two hotel employees like a river finding its way around an embedded obstacle. “Belle, we’re
not
actually on the case,” Gordon said, holding his shoes by the ankle straps as they resumed walking briskly across the foyer. “They don’t need to include us in their investigations. And see it from their perspective. Trying to ID a suspect from vidcam imaging, when the perp’s cloaked like this one was, is always going to be fiddly—all the details are so blurred, it’s going to be like trying to identikit a ghost.”

“You might be right. But I still don’t get the feeling the plaza police are up to this.”

“And we are? Belle,
please
. They know what they’re doing.”

“Still, we’ll be lucky to reach the lift-module before the passengers turn up.”

“No, we’ve got plenty of time,” Gordon replied, absently patting a nonexistent pocket for his absent handheld, and almost dropping the shoes in the process.

“You sure? I was thinking you’d probably want time to change into something more—”

He glanced down. “Uh. Yes, you’re right.”

They stepped onto the spiral escalator that led down to the departure deck, and Gordon allowed himself to slip into reverie mode.

Of the assault itself he could remember nothing, he only knew that one moment he’d been heading towards an appointment with a medium-rare
filet mignon avec tous les
trimmings
at Swedish chef Martin A. Fairdig’s celebrated restaurant, had chanced to bump into this Havmurthy, and the next minute he was trussed up like a—like a—well, like a captured and denuded space-elevator attendant: a not particularly adventurous simile, perhaps, but an accurate one. Still, it was a relief to have for once got the inevitable flirtation with danger out of the way, rather than dangling over his head like some Swiss Army Knife of Damocles, waiting to descend upon him in all its multifunctional unpredictability.

He’d made a statement; he and Belle had provided their fingerprints; the police were now investigating, and Gordon could just get on with his everyday job secure in the knowledge that the case was in the capable hands of trained professionals, rather than a rank amateur such as himself. Against that kind of reassurance, the loss of his handheld and of a certain quantum of his hard-earned gravitas was, when you came down to it, rather small beer. Or perhaps, in the circumstances, small-beer-and-cheese.

His spirits lifted further when they reached the lift-module lobby and were met by Sue Sheff, 270’s chief cook, caterer, and comms officer, who (having more-or-less recovered from the initial surprise of his appearance) informed Gordon that a woman from Lost Property had been down a few minutes earlier to drop off his handheld.

“Excellent,” said Gordon, his eyes lighting up hungrily as Sue passed it to him. “Where’d they find it?”

“She didn’t say.” Sue’s eyes were still tracking between Gordon’s asymmetric chest and the flowing brunette locks of his wig.

“Ah. Well, it’s back, that’s the main thing.” He thumbed it on, and began checking its status.

Sue was struggling to maintain a straight face.

Gordon glanced up from his handheld long enough to ask, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh—just—” She threw a conspiratorial wink to Belle. “I was just wondering if you two wanted to—you know—get a room or something.”

Belle grinned in response.

“Sue!” Gordon replied, scandalised, attempting as much dignity as he could muster. Which, as it turned out—what with the wig, the dress, and some very suggestive if unconvincing padding—wasn’t much. If any. “I assure you, Sue, that, while admittedly she has recently seen me in a state of some undress, Belle and I—”

“Who said anything about Belle?” Sue asked. “I was
talking
about you and the handheld.”

* * *

Back in his office / cubicle / broom closet—surrounded by framed reproductions of the news reports of the detection exploits of, variously, the intrepid Grodon Mammal, the indefatigable Godron Mitten, and the celebrated Gondor Memo—Gordon checked the handheld’s time function.
Still
fifteen minutes until embarkation. Time enough to check my messages.

In the several hours that he had been parted from his trusty handheld, Gordon had apparently been contacted by no less than four senior officials from various international (and, in one case, interplanetary) lottery funds, advising of his unparalleled multiple windfalls in the latest draws, and requiring only his credit details to process his winnings; two young Martian women who wished to press their credentials upon him (one with a view to matrimony, one ostensibly very much not of such persuasion); three funding requests for two different startups hoping to produce, at a guaranteed ten-thousand-percent return to all investors, a knockoff of the hyper-secret in-system hyperdrive that had reportedly been recently developed by Saturn Propulsions AB; and a message from Skytop Plaza Lost Property to report that they hadn’t yet found his handheld, but would notify him immediately they had discovered it. All very ho-hum, but it
did
feel good to be once again connected to the pulse.

Still six minutes. Maybe time enough to check the rest of
that crossword?

Then the ‘incoming message’ tones sounded again. Another automated message from Lost Property, to say they still hadn’t found his handheld.