Johannes Cabal the Detective (16 page)

“Fortunately,” he said quickly and a little too loudly, “I was able to climb back aboard.”

“If you were just hanging there—” began Herr Roborovski, but the thought mired him down and he said nothing more.

“Yes?” asked Cabal.

“If you were just hanging there,” continued Herr Roborovski with renewed inertia, “why didn’t this blackguard who attacked you finish the job? You couldn’t really defend yourself, could you?”

“He must have thought I had fallen immediately, and was already scurrying away like a rat,” said Cabal, steering around the fact that he had, indeed, defended himself.

Herr Roborovski considered this for a moment. “That was lucky,” he said finally, but Cabal thought he detected a note of suspicion in his voice.

Cabal inwardly admitted that it certainly sounded that way. Some economy in veracity seemed called for. “Not lucky at all. Only a coward would have attacked me like that in the first place. It seems hardly surprising that he would want to be away from the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.”

“Herr Meissner has a point.” It was Colonel Konstantin, who had been listening from the next table. “It was a craven assault. Any man worthy of the name would have struck from the front. Pushing people out of hatches … It’s un-Mirkarvian.”

From Cabal’s admittedly limited contact with the modern face of Mirkarvia, a sneak attack seemed entirely in character. Then again, he had been dealing only with the ophidian Count Marechal, a bargain-basement Machiavelli if ever there was one. Konstantin, in contrast, struck him as an officer and a gentleman of the old school. He wondered how a man like that would fit into Marechal’s vision of a new, resurgent Mirkarvia that embraced deceit and devious doings to achieve its ends.

“You have high standards, Colonel,” said Frau Roborovski. “Not everybody else has them. No. Some of the things I read of in the newspaper … Shocking! Shocking!”

“A criminal is a criminal,” agreed her husband with a very Gallic shrug. “If they had any honour they wouldn’t be criminals, after all.”

Cabal assumed that they took the
Daily Obvious
, and perhaps the
Sunday Truism
of a weekend.

“Do you think your experience has anything to do with DeGarre’s death?” Konstantin asked Cabal.

Cabal decided to be noncommittal in the face of no definite evidence. “M. DeGarre is only missing, Colonel.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, man,” replied Konstantin dismissively. “You think he’s lurking in the hold with the potatoes? Of course he’s dead. Somebody did him in, came up with a half-arsed attempt at a suicide note, and threw him out of the window.” He ruminated for a moment. “Not necessarily
exactly
in that order, but I’m certain that’s the gist of it.”

“And then escaped from a locked and barricaded room?”

“Well, I’m not pretending to know all the facts, Herr Meissner. I have to admit, I have no idea how that was done, but I must also admit that it does not concern or worry me. Y’see, in my experience the cleverer somebody tries to be, the more likely they are to come a cropper.” Cabal worked hard to maintain his composure, but the colonel had already moved on. “How a killer escapes from a locked room, that’s for a detective to work out. It’s a little wrinkle that I’m sure will become clear after the captain’s investigation is complete.”

Cabal wished that he could share the colonel’s sangfroid about the affair, but he could not, not after having been unceremoniously dumped out of the aeroship’s belly. His hackles were raised, and he wanted—he didn’t even pause inwardly to find some euphemistic way to call it “justice”—revenge. Nice, hot, juicy revenge. He and Count Marechal may have been miles apart in most aspects of their personalities, but this thing, at least, they had in common.

Furthermore, after his own interview with the captain earlier, he had received the distinct impression that Schten remained convinced, whatever his protestations about keeping an open mind, that DeGarre had committed suicide. The attack on Herr Meissner was something else again, and he seemed intent on turning all his enquiries in that direction. Cabal, in contrast, was convinced that DeGarre had been murdered, and that the killer had escaped from the room by some means that involved the underfloor ducting. The curious case of the defenestrated DeGarre and the adventure of the ersatz civil servant were inextricably linked, and it seemed that, if he didn’t get to the bottom of them, they would in all likelihood remain unsolved. Therefore, he would prosecute his own investigation, and so justice would be served, albeit in passing. The important thing was that Cabal would have discovered the perpetrator, and so be ahead of the game when it came to killing him or her.

In all fairness, Cabal’s vengefulness was as much a product of his lifestyle as his humours; in his career to date, he had long since discovered that rivals and enemies rarely simply shook their heads and wandered out of his life, older and wiser. Instead, they were inclined to go off to a dark corner and fester away on new plots and schemes that would explode all over his life like acidic pus. Johannes Cabal had far better things to do with his time than spend it dodging acidic pus, so he had realised early on that the best way to avoid assorted blowhards and rapscallions bursting through the door declaiming “We meet again, Mister Cabal!,” or some such nonsense, was simply to kill them the first time around while they were handy and vulnerable. It wasn’t a perfect solution, he had to admit; his rivals and enemies tended to have access to the same sorts of forbidden arcane arts and unwholesome sciences that he did, and so having them sometimes come crawling out of their graves, intent on inflicting a messy postmortem revenge, was not unknown.

Still, as a working practise it had a great deal to recommend it. Even the trail of murder it left was of little import, since—first—most of his victims were already under sentence of death for crimes against God, Nature, and Humanity, and—second—Cabal himself was already under sentence of death for crimes against God, Nature, and Humanity, so another few corpses on the tally sheet would hardly concern him unduly. They could hang him only once.

He did not even hint that he meant to carry on his own investigation, however. Somewhere on this vessel was somebody who wished him harm, and he had no intention of handing out any bulletins about his plans that might reach unfriendly ears. He would move slowly and methodically, drawing together the facts until he had his attacker’s identity in hand, and when he did—

Cabal was just considering the best way to isolate and kill his prey when Leonie Barrow spoilt it all by approaching the little group at a fast clip and saying to him, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Herr Meissner! They’ve caught the man who tried to kill you!”

Chapter 8

IN WHICH A SUSPECT IS INTERROGATED AND AN INTERROGATOR IS SUSPICIOUS

It is a nuisance to be preempted. All Cabal’s playful little plans to shove his hog-tied assailant out of the
Princess Hortense’s
ventral hatch to see how
he
liked it had now come to nothing, and all because the captain had done exactly what he had said he would, and carried out a thorough investigation. He had fastened upon the single most solid and therefore useful fact from the testament of Herr Meissner, and pursued it through every deck of the ship. Now, in a spare cabin in the second-class section that had been pressed into service as an impromptu brig and interrogation room, Schten and—after some bullheaded arguing on the basis that he was the only government official aboard and therefore a necessary witness, allied with some creative quotations from imaginary governmental directives—Johannes Cabal sat opposite the freshly arrested attempted-murder suspect.

Gabriel Zoruk did not look best pleased to be there. He was tousled and unshaven, his shirt was without tie or cravat, and his jacket was creased. He actually looked more like a revolutionary now than when he had been spouting ill-considered politicisms the previous evening, yet now, contrariwise, he was silent. He simply sat with his hands in his lap and glowered at Schten and, occasionally, at Cabal, who was sitting off to Schten’s right and a little behind him.

For his part, Schten sat in silence, reading some notes from a sheet of foolscap on a clipboard and pointedly ignored Zoruk’s glare. Unusually for the captain, his jacket was open, but this may have been to draw attention to the holster and revolver he wore, dark tan leather and acid-blacked steel against the white shirt and trousers. Zoruk could not have failed to notice it when Schten sat down.

When he judged that Zoruk had stewed enough, the captain deigned to look up from his notes. “Your hands, Herr Zoruk. Would you show me your hands, please?”

Zoruk kept his hands in his lap and replied quietly, “Am I under arrest?”

“Yes,” replied Schten without hesitation. “You are under arrest.”

“I haven’t been read my rights.”

“I am not obliged to read you your rights, Herr Zoruk. I am not a policeman. You are being held under the provisions of the Aeolatime Act pertaining to the safety of aerial vessels, crew, passengers, and cargo. You can have a copy to read later if you doubt it. Now … Your hands, sir.”

Zoruk’s gaze flickered from Schten to Cabal and quickly back again. “Why?”

Schten made a deep rumbling sound. To forestall the captain’s rising temper, Cabal said, “To be blunt, Herr Zoruk, you are suspected of attempting to murder me. I succeeded in wounding my attacker in the hand or the wrist. Therefore, if you have such an injury we would be very interested in hearing how you came by it. It is a simple thing. If you are uninjured, you may go. If you are injured and can provide a reasonable explanation, ideally with some corroboration, you will in all likelihood also be allowed to go. Truly, sir, if you are an innocent man, you have nothing to lose by helping the captain in his enquiries.”

Schten allowed Cabal’s words to sink in before repeating, “So … would you show me your hands, please?”

Zoruk was plainly nervous, and it took him a full five tortuous seconds before he finally placed both hands, fisted, on the tabletop. Cabal saw a bandage across the back of his right hand, about where the switchblade would have struck. Zoruk started talking the instant his hands hit the wooden surface.

“I can explain. I know what it looks like, but I can explain.” Schten raised his own hand to signal silence, his gaze on the bandage. “Explanations come later, Herr Zoruk. First, I should be obliged if you would remove that dressing.”

With obvious reluctance, Zoruk undid the gauze that held the bandage in place. When he had finished, he carefully peeled it off, wincing as the wound beneath was exposed. Cabal leaned forward in his seat to get a better look, and sat back in disappointment. He had been hoping that the injury would clearly be a knife wound, but this was a shallow, if bloody, affair. It could easily be the result of a blade wielded with desperation rather than technique causing an ugly scoring instead of a clean cut. He couldn’t be sure if his knife had or had not been the cause. It was very frustrating.

“Does that look like a knife wound to you, Herr Meissner?” asked the captain.

Cabal regretfully shook his head. “It may be. I just struck upwards; I don’t even know if the blade cut on its sharp edge or was dragged. It’s not conclusive.”

Schten humphed. He had clearly been hoping for the examination to close the case immediately. He signalled to Zoruk to cover the wound again. “So,
mein Herr
,” he said as Zoruk started wrapping the gauze back around his hand, “we are listening. How came you by that wound?”

“It was an accident, just a stupid accident. And I have a witness! I was in the corridor this morning and one of the stewards was just ahead of me. He reached the double doors leading into the dining room first and held it open for me. As I was reaching for the handle, so he could move on, he lost his grip or thought I was already holding the door or something. In any event, the door closed on my hand. They’re pretty heavy, you know. Powerful springs on them. It made quite a mess of my hand. The steward was full of apologies and got me off to the doctor’s … what do you call it? The clinic? The sick bay, that’s it. It was cleaned up and bandaged and that was that. Well, I thought that was that, but now everybody’s very interested in it.”

The captain had made a few notes and nodded. “Very well, Herr Zoruk. I shall make some enquiries. In the meantime, you will have to remain in custody.” Zoruk started to protest, but Schten talked over him. “Please remember, you are suspected of a serious crime. I would be failing in my duty if I did not complete my investigation before acting on its findings. If the steward and the ship’s medic confirm your story, you will be released shortly. All I ask is a little patience.”

Schten climbed to his feet and stood by the door, ushering Cabal out ahead of him. A burly engineer was keeping guard outside, and he locked the door once Zoruk was alone. Schten took the keys. “Thank you, Kleine. You may return to your section.” The engineer saluted crisply and left them. Schten looked pensively at the locked door before walking slowly away, Cabal by his side.

“Do you believe him?” asked Cabal.

“It’s irrelevant what I believe,” said Schten. “Facts are all that matter.”

“You have a scientist’s mind,” said Cabal approvingly. “Yes, facts are paramount, clearly. But you must have an opinion? Even scientists use a degree of educated intuition to guide their research.”

“An opinion … I do not wish to prejudge, Herr Meissner. But I will admit to some disbelief that you can injure a man in the hand in the early hours of the morning and, a few hours later, a suspect manages to injure himself in the same place in an innocent accident.”

“Your meaning being … ?”

“My meaning being, is it an innocent accident, or is it an apparently innocent accident?”

“My thoughts exactly. It is a long coincidence if the former, but an engineered alibi if the latter.”

Schten stopped at the head of the circular staircase that led down to the first-class deck. “Just promise me that you made no mistake about injuring your attacker,
mein Herr
. I don’t want to take a man’s liberty because of a mistake made in the excitement of a struggle.”

Cabal drew his switchblade from his jacket pocket and snapped the blade out. Schten raised an eyebrow. “Hardly a penknife, Herr Meissner. You carry that with you?”

“From last night, yes, Captain. You can hardly blame me. Look, I haven’t cleaned the blade since then. You can see blood has worked its way down to the pivot.”

Schten watched with evident disapproval as Cabal closed the knife and put it away. “That knife is material evidence. It should be held in the ship’s safe until official investigators have seen it.”

Cabal looked him in the eye and said, “You may have it with my blessings the very moment you supply me with a replacement of equal or greater lethality. A pistol would be nice.”

“Impossible.”

“Then I shall keep my knife.” The captain frowned, and then shrugged. It was un-Mirkarvian to disarm a law-abiding citizen, Cabal guessed. “Now, Captain, who is next for questioning?”

T
he ship’s sick bay was surprisingly large, a fact Cabal commented upon when they first entered. It was a long room with four beds out, but room for more. The rows of lockers at head height and the large glass-fronted pharmacy cabinet indicated that the bay was as well equipped as it was spacious. Dr. Huber looked just as capable as his environment, despite being only in his mid-twenties and having a mop of wavy black hair whose exuberance no pomade could hope to quell. He blinked at them over ill-advised half-moon glasses, and seemed so friendly and competent that Cabal’s usual dislike of doctors was hardly provoked at all.

Dr. Huber smiled. “You would be surprised at how quickly an infection can travel through a ship,
mein Herr
. Days from medical assistance, and people have to be isolated from the rest of the crew and passengers.”

“Can’t they be confined to their cabins instead?”

“If the problem is mild, yes, but even something mild is debilitating, and the crew does not have individual cabins. Would you feel safe aboard a ship where some otherwise mild gastrointestinal illness had laid the crew low?”

Cabal had a momentary mental image of the crew fighting to use the heads while the bridge stood abandoned, the ship’s wheel rolling gently this way and that as the
Princess Hortense
drifted whimsically into the nearest hillside. No, he had to admit. He would not feel safe.

“Besides which,” continued Huber, “serious illnesses and even, God forbid, serious accidents happen, despite our best efforts. The patients would require constant supervision. I cannot organise that if they are in their cabins.” He appeared not to have noticed the captain wince when he spoke of accidents. Some maritime superstitions had clearly made their way from the seas to the skies, and tempting fate was one of them. With hindsight, it also seemed likely this was why the doctor had not attended the meal that first evening; thirteen at table would be considered inauspicious. As things had turned out, twelve was not such a lucky number, either. Cabal watched with quiet amusement from the corner of his eye as Schten surreptitiously looked around for some wood to touch.

“To business, Doctor,” said Schten, after tapping the edge of the doctor’s desk with palpable relief. “Earlier today, Gabriel Zoruk came to you with an injury.”

The doctor thought for a moment and nodded. “The young man who came in this morning with a cut to his hand? Yes, a straightforward case. I just cleaned the wound and bandaged it. Asked him to come back tomorrow to make sure there were no signs of infection. What about him?”

Cabal recalled that there was some directive somewhere, probably a part of the Hippocratic oath, about patient confidentiality. It seemed from Huber’s blithe ignorance of such niceties that Hippocrates was regarded as some sort of dangerous liberal in Mirkarvia.

“In your considered opinion, Doctor, what do you think caused the injury?”

“He caught it in a door.” Huber looked at the other men’s faces and frowned at their silence. Grudgingly, he added, “Well, he said he caught it in a door. I had no reason to think he was lying. What’s this all about, Captain?”

“Was the cut consistent with being caught in a door, would you say?”

Huber bridled. “I’m no criminologist, Captain. The forensic sciences are not my field. I would regard it as a courtesy if I were not forced to make a judgement in a discipline of which I have only a passing knowledge.”

Schten nodded unhappily. He had wanted a nice black-and-white piece of information, but he knew enough of life to realise that such things are a rarity. There was no point in trying to wring a certainty from the doctor; it seemed Zoruk would benefit from the assumption of innocence that even Mirkarvian justice used, provided the defendant wasn’t a necromancer.