Johannes Cabal the Detective (21 page)

Ninuka considered. Then she said, “There is not an iota of truth in what you say. You understand that? I have a chaperone to guard my honour. How do you propose that I led this ridiculous demimondaine existence you hint at under the very nose of Miss Ambersleigh? Does she strike you as so laissez-faire?”

Leonie Barrow did not flicker an eyelid, nor did she speak, and Cabal knew that she had no answer. He, on the other hand, did. Once he had got over the initial shock of being selected as a bedpost notch, he had been thinking events and conversations through again in light of this revelation, and had made a deduction or two of his own. Miss Barrow might be his superior in matters of the human mind, but when it came to raw data he was the master of synthesis.

“No,” he admitted, pleased to be adding something concrete to the arena. “She does not. Nor is she. Then again, you don’t strike me as a woman with insomnia.”

Miss Barrow looked sideways at him, and he met her glance. There was something like satisfaction and perhaps a tic of respect there. He felt childishly pleased for a moment, before reminding himself that this was the same woman who intended to hand him over to the Senzan authorities on the morrow.

“What nonsense is this?” demanded Lady Ninuka. It was bluster, and weak bluster at that.

“You are not an insomniac. You claim to be, but only so that your doctor will prescribe you sleeping powders. These you squirrel away until such time as they are required. Specifically, when a conscious Miss Ambersleigh would just get in the way.”

Lady Ninuka said nothing, but simply looked at her gloved hands lying in her lap. It seemed that she had finally realised that denying everything was simply undignified.

“Finally,” said Miss Barrow. “Now we can move on. Herr Meissner will inform the captain that there is a witness who can state that Herr Zoruk was nowhere near DeGarre’s cabin or the vent last night. The captain will want a name.” Lady Ninuka coloured slightly. “Herr Meissner will have to provide it, but he will also underline the need for discretion. The captain is no fool. The matter will go no further, and Herr Zoruk will be released, free of suspicion. You need have no part of any discussions, although you may depend on the captain’s paying you a visit to confirm these facts. He will probably also wish to know why you did not come forward earlier.” Miss Barrow’s voice hardened. “Which is an excellent question that I would like answered myself.”

There were several seconds of silence. “Must I say?” whispered Lady Ninuka.

“Yes,” said Cabal. “You must.”

She looked up. The confident young woman of only a few minutes before had gone. Now she had trouble meeting their eyes. When she finally managed it, she said only one thing.

“It was romantic.”

R
omantic?” said Captain Schten after Cabal had taken him to one side and told him the state of affairs.

“I couldn’t say,” admitted Cabal. “I believe the idea of a man prepared to fritter away his liberty in defence of her honour occurring outside of a novel was a profound shock to her.” He coughed and added in a confidential tone, “I fear the young lady is becoming jaded well before her time.”

“Good God,” said the captain. He shook his head and brought himself back to the matters at hand. “I’ll have to talk to her, of course, but I’ll have a word with Zoruk first.”

“He won’t say anything.”

“I know, I know, but at least we can let him know that
we
know, and that his release is imminent. Should be a weight off his mind. Come along,
mein Herr
. Let us give the unhappy chevalier some cause for joy.”

They walked down the silent corridor to Zoruk’s temporary cabin. As they approached, Cabal commented, “I notice you do not have a guard posted, Captain.”

“A guard? This isn’t a military ship. Besides, you’ve seen that cabin; there are no windows, and the lock is secure enough. I don’t think we have anything to fear, especially in light of Herr Zoruk’s apparent innocence.” He took out his key wallet and moved to unlock the door.

“That seems like very few keys for a vessel with so many doors, Captain,” said Cabal.

Schten held up the key he had selected. “Most of these are for my house.” He smiled. “This is a master key.” He inserted it into the lock and opened the door.

Cabal looked into the room as the door swung open, swore a short and bitter oath, and was through before the captain had even taken his hand off the handle. Cabal’s switchblade was in his hand in a thrice, and the blade out by the time he reached Zoruk’s dangling body. He climbed quickly onto the interview table, noted instantly that it would take too long to try and release Zoruk’s belt from either the light fitting at the ceiling or from around the hanging man’s neck, and instead sawed quickly through the taut leather. He kept the blade very keen for a variety of reasons, and was glad of it now. The belt parted quickly and Zoruk dropped to the floor, where he was caught and slowly lowered by Schten, who had overcome his own paralysis of shock.

Cabal checked Zoruk’s pulse at his throat and wrist, but the already cool skin told him it was a vain effort. He rocked back onto his heels, glaring angrily at the corpse.

“Stupid!” he spat. Schten thought Cabal was talking to him for a moment, but then realised Cabal was talking to the dead man. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Life is such a precious gift! To squander it … And for what? For some idiotic concept of honour? You fool! You utter, utter …” Words failed him, and he paced up and down, breathing hard with fury.

Schten perched on the edge of the table and looked at Zoruk. Hanging without much of a drop was a hard way to go. The young man’s face was mottled dark, his eyes bulging, his tongue pushed out of his mouth. The room stank: in extremis, Zoruk had voided his bowels.

“This whole voyage is cursed,” he murmured. “I’ve never heard the like. A disappearance, an attempted murder, a suicide. We can’t tell the other passengers about this, not yet. It will put the women in a panic, and then when the Senzans board …” He shook his head. “This must remain confidential until then. Just what is happening aboard my ship, Herr Meissner?”

Cabal ceased his pacing and looked down at the body. Schten noticed that he didn’t even flinch at such an awful sight. Civil servants were supposed to have ice water for blood, but surely even their sangfroid had limits.

“A murder, an attempted murder, and a suicide. I’m sure of it. I doubt we shall ever see M. DeGarre again.” Cabal held his chin in his hand and thought for a moment longer. “Possibly two murders.”

Schten looked up sharply at him. “What?”

“How secure is this room, Captain? There was no guard on the door; anybody could have walked in here and done away with Zoruk.”

“It was locked!”

“There are master keys.”

“Only three. The first mate’s, the purser’s, and mine. Mine has never been out of my sight since I boarded, and I can guarantee that the purser and the first mate can say the same about theirs. Bearing a master key is a serious responsibility, Herr Meissner. I can assure you that they are never left lying around. As for the characters of First Mate Veidt and Purser Johansson, I would trust my life to them. Unless,” he said, his brow clouding, “you suspect me also?”

“Yes, Captain, I do, but only for purposes of keeping an open mind, in exactly the same way that you should suspect me. As for serious suspects, well. Zoruk was all we had, and then only because of his wrist injury. Means, motivation, and opportunity eluded us. No, they
continue
to elude us.” A thought occurred to Cabal. “Tell me, Captain, did you ever complete your checks for similar wounds on anybody else aboard?”

Schten nodded. “Nobody. Zoruk here was the only one. You know, even if you’re right and DeGarre was murdered, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Zoruk did it, but he may still have been your attacker. His—” He coughed. “His companion for the evening could have fallen asleep for some time. Not long, but long enough for him to find the vent open and go in to investigate.”

“Is that likely?”

“Not if the two events are unrelated, but what if Zoruk was in cahoots with somebody else? He allows himself to fall for—” He coughed again. He did not seem able to mention Lady Ninuka’s name in direct reference to such sordid activities, as if it were somehow treasonable. “For his companion’s wiles, and that provides him with an alibi.”

“Which he doesn’t use.”

“Which he doesn’t need to use for the moment. He can hold off naming names until it is convenient for him, and will be regarded all the more as a gentleman for being so reticent until he had no choice.”

“It’s an interesting thought, but I perceive a problem.”

Schten was very taken with his hypothesis, and frowned at Cabal. “What problem?”

“The problem lying at our feet. If this was all part of his plan, why did he hang himself?” Schten had no answer, and shrugged.

“Sorry, Captain,” said Cabal. “The only reason I can think of is that he did not commit suicide but was murdered by this accomplice that you imagine, presumably to make sure Zoruk has no opportunity to turn coat. You tell me, however, that this room could not have been entered. If you are right, your theory founders.”

Schten stood up and looked across at the door, arms crossed. “Locks can be picked.”

Cabal nodded. “Indeed they can,” he said heavily, and a little ruefully, as if this was an unpleasant occurrence of which he had personal experience. He went to the door and examined first the lock itself, then the bolt and striking plate, and then the lock again. “If it has been picked, it’s been done by an expert. I can see no trace of pick scratches or anything else unexpected. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility that it was indeed picked by an expert.”

“An assassin,” said Schten slowly. Cabal looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “An assassin!” repeated Schten, warming to the idea. “A trained killer! He, or possibly she, was working with Zoruk. Zoruk makes himself the obvious suspect and then draws off the heat. But he doesn’t realise that he’s expendable!”

“You,” Cabal said severely, “should cut down on the caffeine and on reading pfennig dreadfuls. Highly trained assassins, indeed. No, we should harken to Friar William of Ockham and his
entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem
. This appears to be a suicide and, if the only alternative involves bizarre orders of wraithlike assassins haunting the corridors of the
Princess Hortense
, then a suicide it certainly is. A young fool doing the decent thing, if you can dignify it thus. The only mystery extant in this corner of the affair is the wounded wrist. That remains puzzling.

“Come, let us leave this room before the stink settles in our clothing, Captain. You should inform your medical officer immediately, and then decide exactly what you are going to tell the Senzan authorities. There is little time left.”

Chapter 11

IN WHICH CABAL BEHAVES DESPICABLY AND INQUISITIVELY

Cabal, for his part, knew exactly what he was going to tell the Senzan authorities.

The
Princess Hortense’s
entry into the skies of Senza was marked by the appearance of a flight of military entomopters. As the passengers gathered in the salon to watch the machines zoom by in a whirl of metallic wings, Captain Schten was at pains to announce that the aircraft were there as an honour guard, come to escort them in style to Parila Aeroport in the long promontory of land that split Mirkarvia and Katamenia. Nobody believed it for a second. They all knew, or were told quickly enough by their fellows, that the escort was there to keep an eye on them. Nobody said what would happen if the aeroship deviated on its approach path to Parila, but nobody needed to. The guns and rockets the entomopters carried were not there simply for show. Perhaps, oddly, it was the fact that the pilots did not return the waves of the passengers, but remained grim and cold, that caused a greater sense of foreboding than all the weaponry.

“Bloody Senzans,” sniffed Cacon, making one of his occasional but always unpopular appearances. “Wouldn’t kill them to crack a smile now and then.” That this was the most rank hypocrisy, coming from a man for whom cracking a smile himself would probably prove fatal, was silently noted by his listeners. None, however, commented on it; that would have meant possibly provoking a conversation with him, and this was too great a price to pay.

The captain’s description of the fighter aircraft as an “honour guard” was therefore believed by no one, nor was his additional announcement that there would be a stopover of a full day at Parila to allow the passengers to stretch their legs a little and take in the sights. In reality, all knew that Senzan officials would be going through the ship’s every nook and cranny in search of possible military supplies intended for Katamenia. On this particular occasion, it would mean searching the tons of food supplies intended for disaster relief, which could only prolong the search process. There are only so many bags of potatoes that can be bayoneted in a working day.

The final approach to the mooring cradle was slow but sure, the tone of the manoeuvre being “no sudden moves” writ large. The fighter aircraft had stacked into a formation high and astern of the
Hortense
, all the better to stoop down and strafe her into wreckage if she did anything the squadron leader considered suspicious or threatening. Captain Schten intended to provide no such excuse, and was clearly signalling every turn and alteration in speed, right down into the cradle itself. It was not just the relief of completing the difficult landing that caused the passengers and, it was reasonable to assume, the crew to sigh but also the lifting of the threat of machine-gun bullets and rocket explosions.

Cabal stood at one of the long salon windows. He had watched the approach with a lively interest, specifically the arrangement of the aeroport itself. Around the field stood a high-wire fence, and without that a ditch or possibly an overgrown ha-ha. Alongside the wire ran a long strip of carefully maintained tarmacadam, near the end of which were two hangars. One seemed to be for civilian aircraft, but the other was partitioned off by another fence and gates, and was presumably the hangar from which the military ran its aerial patrols. Between the runway and the two aeroship cradles (the other standing empty) was a clear green swathe of short cut grass perhaps three hundred metres wide. The cradles stood much closer to the aeroport buildings than the hangars, and it was clear that entomopters were the lesser part of the facility’s traffic, in status if not quantity. It all seemed very efficient. Rather too efficient for Cabal’s liking. To be sure, he had a Plan A to get him out of the aeroport, away and clear before anybody was any the wiser about the truth of “Herr Meissner.” He didn’t like the plan much, though. It involved close dealings with the Senzan authorities, and if they failed to react the way that he’d predicted they need only reach out to arrest him. He had hoped for a less complex Plan B to present itself—something along the lines of sneaking through the aeroport’s perimeter under cover of darkness—but the high fences and the military presence had snuffed out that hope. There was no choice, then; Plan A, with all its attendant opportunities for unwanted complication, was his only option. Filled with conflicting emotions, none of them pleasant, he retired to his cabin to prepare.

Even after the ship had settled onto the cradle, the etheric line guides had disengaged, the gyroscopic levitators had been allowed to wind down to a halt, and the passenger ramp had been lowered, nobody was allowed to disembark. Instead, there was a long and humiliating wait while Senzan customs made ready. The passengers hung around in the salon, impatient but speaking little. Only Leonie Barrow was actually scheduled to leave the journey here, but everybody wanted to stretch their legs and see a little of Parila, a city noted for its history, art, and architecture throughout the civilised world. Even the most fervent Mirkarvian patriot would not like to be regarded as a barbarian—though most were—and so they were prepared to wander the streets, guidebook in hand, and pretend that they appreciated what they saw.

It was necessary for Herr Meissner to lead the crowd, however, and he couldn’t do that via the salon. Instead, he took advantage of the crew hatch down through the dining room and found himself on the top of a steel spiral staircase leading down one of the support stanchions, the very cousin of the one by which he had first boarded the
Princess Hortense
at Emperor Boniface VIII Aeroport in Krenz. He was thankful that they all seemed to be built to a standard pattern; the alternative might have involved him dangling from the aeroship’s underside by his fingertips, and he’d done quite enough of that for one voyage.

He descended quickly, carrying no luggage but for his case and his cane. Meissner’s could stay aboard the
Hortense
and be divided amongst the crew by lots as far as he was concerned. He was almost done with the petty civil servant whose persona he had been forced to estimate and assume. He had met the real Meissner only briefly and had not had sufficient time on that occasion to properly foment a real dislike for the man. He had, however, by a combination of going through Meissner’s luggage, personal effects, and work papers, got his measure and could not wait to shrug the lowly and loathly civil servant from him as a serpent might slough off a particularly irritating skin.

His progress was noted and acted upon by the Senzans, which was fine and predicted, and so he was unsurprised to be met, a few metres from the base of the steps, by a small cortège of serious and concerned customs officers. Their leader made as if to say something officious and obvious, but Cabal preempted him with an impatient wag of his finger. “Not here!” he snapped at the surprised officer. “Not now!” He moved through them with such a sense of purposeful intent that the customs men found themselves falling into twin columns as he headed for the main aeroport buildings, the cortège becoming an entourage.

Upon arrival at the customs shed, he glared significantly at the junior officers until they wilted. Taking the hint, their senior dismissed them with a wave, as if shooing off flies. Once again, the officer drew breath to demand of Cabal an explanation and, once again, Cabal preempted him. He drew a long white envelope from an inner pocket quickly enough to make a small
krak
, like a tiny whip. The customs man looked at it curiously, and raised his eyebrows when he saw the Mirkarvian state seal in red wax on the flap. Cabal ran his thumb under it and broke the wax before the officer had a chance to see that it was a low-priority variant of the seal, such as a docket clerk (first class) might carry with him.

“I was given this when I embarked upon the
Princess Hortense
,” Cabal told the officer in a conspiratorial tone. “You will understand that there are … politics at play, even within my government? Factions and suchlike. One of these has taken to dabbling with certain … procedures that are not acceptable to civilised persons, no matter what their nationality.” He took the two folded sheets of paper from the envelope that he had placed there less than an hour before and passed them over. If the customs officer had been startled by events so far, that was as nothing to his expression when he read the first paragraph of the letter.

He looked up from the letter and stared at Cabal with wide eyes. “A necromancer?” he said, nearly in a whisper.

“Indeed so,” confirmed Cabal. “Read on, read on.”

The officer did so, and his discomfort increased with every line. “This is dreadful,” he said when he had finished, this time in a definite whisper.

Cabal hoped and trusted that he was referring to the document’s content and not to the fact that it was a forgery. “Yes, it is. I am ashamed that I have to turn to you for help, instead of concluding this affair in Mirkarvia. The people who first employed this … monster made that impossible. This is my last chance to prevent their plan reaching fruition.”

The customs officer was out of his depth. He kept rereading the document, or, at least, one part of it. Cabal suspected it was the phrases “mass resurrection” and “army of the dead” that had fixed his attention so admirably, which was gratifying, as that was exactly the reason he had included them. The vision they provoked was of the victims of the Katamenian famine being so ill-bred as not only to be Katamenian and dead but brain-eating Katamenian zombies stumbling over the border into Senza to suck the cerebellums of the Senzan citizenry, all under the domination of a mercenary necromancer backed by Mirkarvian money. To an officer whose usual workaday routine consisted of saying “Anything to declare?” repeatedly, it was all a bit much to grasp.

Cabal allowed him another few seconds of grasping time, then said, “You have to inform your superiors immediately! This plot has to be exposed and stopped, for the sake of your people and for the very soul of mine! Do you understand how important this is?”

“But who?” asked the customs officer, almost pleading. “Who should I go to?”

This foxed Cabal for a second. He’d expected the Senzan customs to be rather more thorough in its preparedness for the ghastly plots of its neighbours. “You’re going to be overseeing the search of the
Princess Hortense
, are you not?”

The customs man shook his head. “No, no. The military handles that. We always expect trouble from those Mirkarvian bast—From Mirkarvian vessels, so the military is used to discourage anything, y’know, a bit dodgy.”

The military. Of course. “Then take this report to the officer of the watch at the military hangar immediately! Now! Time is wasting!” The customs man took a couple of uncertain steps towards the door and then stopped, dithering. Cabal allowed a little of his impatience to boil over. It was a realistic reaction under the circumstances and, besides, it made him feel better. “What in heaven’s name is it?”

“Would you come with me?” asked the customs officer. “Please?” The customs and the military did not always see eye to eye, and it would help his case to have an actual Mirkarvian agent with him when he tried to explain to a hard-boiled wing commander that the Katamenians and an element of the Mirkarvian élite were planning a mass illegal immigration of undead cannibals into Senza.

“Come with—? Impossible! I have to get back to the aeroship before I’m missed.” A happy bit of invention occurred to him, and he added, “They’ve already murdered two other agents during this trip. I don’t want them to make it three. You understand me?”

The officer didn’t, not really, but the mention of murder raised the tide of responsibility past his chin and up to his nose. He was desperate to pass it on to somebody senior to himself who might actually know what to do with the information. Ideally, somebody in the military. Then if they messed up, and Senza was overrun by voracious zombies, he would be in the delightful position of being able to mutter, “Typical bloody military. Can’t get anything right,” shortly before ingestion.