The Dark Lady (14 page)

“How many generations are you inbred?” he asked.

“You still do not understand,” I said. “Mating frequently takes place between members of different Houses, expressly to avoid the less desirable traits of intensive inbreeding. I myself am such a product. My mother was of the House of Krylken, and my father, whose Pattern I bear, was of the House of Crsthionn.”

“So he raised you?”

“I was raised by my Pattern Mother.”

“I'm getting all confused,” said Heath. “I thought your mother didn't have the same Pattern.”

“She did not. I was given to a matriarch of the House of Crsthionn— my Pattern Mother— and it was her obligation to see that I was cared for and instructed in the ethos of the House of Crsthionn.”

“What about your father?”

“What about him?”

“Didn't he have something to say about it?”

“I have never met him. He left Benitarus II before I was born.”

“Why? Had he broken some law, or were they just upset with his choice of wives?”

“Neither,” I replied. “Bjornn society is a matriarchy. Males are infinitely replaceable; females are the source of strength and stability within the House. Therefore, all males leave the House, and usually the planet, upon reaching maturity, lest they prove disruptive to the orderly life of the House.”

“From what you've said, it seems to me they'd miss the social life of their Houses.”

“Desperately.”

“Do they ever return?”

“Only for breeding, or to take further instruction in the ethos of their Houses.” I stared directly at Heath. “One meets many deleterious influences while traveling abroad in the galaxy, and occasionally one must return home to reimmerse oneself in the moral imperatives of the Bjornn.”

Heath looked amused. “I do believe I've just been insulted.”

“If so, then I apologize.”

“Graciously accepted,” he said. “And now, shall we get back to discussing Abercrombie and his collection?”

“I am ethically compelled not to.”

“Ethics can be
such
a bother,” he said wryly. “Especially, it would seem, for a Bjornn.”

“I come from a very harmonious and honorable society,” I replied. “Doubtless I was inadequate in my description of it.”

“I doubt it. I get the distinct impression that it stifles a certain type of individual initiative.”

“The individual is nothing. The House is all.”

“You don't really believe that nonsense, do you?” he asked.

“I most certainly do.”

“Well, after a couple of weeks with me, you'll have a more practical outlook.”

“We shall not be together that long.”

“Certainly we will,” he replied easily. “You've got to examine the painting, and then you wanted to meet Mallachi. That's four or five days right there.”

“But you said two weeks,” I pointed out.

“So I did.”

“What will consume the extra time?” I asked.

“Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something,” he answered confidently, and somehow I knew that I had not heard the last of his questions about Malcolm Abercrombie and his collection.

As night fell, I still had not formed a judgment concerning Valentine Heath. He was interesting and amusing, and he treated me with civility and respect; but if he was to be believed (and I saw no reason to doubt him), he was a thoroughly amoral felon who was currently harboring stolen artwork and would doubtless be selling some of it to an unsuspecting Tai Chong before too much longer. Even before we descended to the ground floor of the Excelsior Hotel, I had decided to remain in his company only long enough to obtain the Mallachi painting, and then to return to Far London as quickly as possible.

“Shall we hire a vehicle, or is there some form of public transportation you would prefer?” I asked as we approached the front door.

“Public transportation?” he repeated with a mock grimace. “Rubbing shoulders with the proletariat while they exhale smoke and garlic in your face? Bite your tongue, Leonardo!”

“Then I will flag down a vehicle,” I said, stepping outside.

“Allow me,” he said, signaling to a large, luxurious silver vehicle that was halfway down the street. It immediately came to life and pulled up to the door.

“My pride and joy,” he said, opening a door for me. “Even the cigar lighter is fusion-powered. What do you think of it?”

“It is quite large,” I remarked as I climbed into the immense back seat.

“If you're thirsty, there's a built-in bar,” he said, joining me and pressing a button that raised a small liquor cabinet between us.

“No, thank you.”

“There's also a video with an octaphonic sound system,” he continued.

“How interesting,” I said.

He pressed another button, and I stifled a yelp as the entire seat began vibrating.

“For those days when you're bone-weary from dodging the police,” he explained.

He knocked on the opaque glass that separated us from the front seat, and the driver, a Mollutei, slid the panel back.

“Yes, Mr. Heath?” he said through a translator pack, which came out in perfect Terran.

“The subterranean penthouse, James,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Heath,” replied the Mollutei, sliding the glass panel shut again.

“What is a subterranean penthouse?” I asked.

He chuckled. “An underground apartment.”

“I noticed that you called your driver James,” I said. “I was not aware that the Mollutei possessed human names.”

“They don't. But I can't pronounce his name, so I call him James.” He paused. “The last one, if I recall correctly, was Oscar.”

“I am delighted to discover that you are willing to employ non-humans.”

“As I believe I mentioned, their testimony is not allowed in Charlemagne's courts,” replied Heath. He paused. “Also, they work for less money than humans, and I'm continually trying to cut expenses— not that it ever does any good. I was brought up never to settle for second best, but no one thought to teach me how to
afford
the best. My professional life has been an endless round of trial and error.”

“Obviously you haven't made too many errors,” I noted, “since you are still at large.”

“Oh, I've made my share,” he answered easily. “But so have the police. You'd be surprised at how long it takes them to realize that someone in my position could be a thief. A stock-market swindler, a manipulator of government contracts, a buyer of political favors— these things are expected from a man of obvious wealth and breeding. But a thief in the night? It never seems to occur to them.”

“Then why were you forced to hide in my suite?” I asked.

“
Almost
never,” he amended. “And of course by the time they catch me, the Morita will have already been placed with a person who has even less reason than I to make its possession a matter of public record, and then I'll be given a clean legal bill of health and a series of profuse apologies, and the police will wait even longer before suspecting me of the next theft.”

“It seems very convenient,” I said disapprovingly.

“To say nothing of illogical,” he added. “Consider the folly of arresting the typical disadvantaged underworld character for stealing a precious gem or a rare painting. I mean, he's barely able to pay for a clean shirt; how could he possibly be the man they're after? Whereas
I
require upward of half a million credits a month just to meet my basic expenses, and I have no visible means of support. If the police just looked at things logically, they'd round up every member of the idle rich and keep them all imprisoned without bail until the culprit confessed.”

“It is a very interesting point of view,” I admitted.

“And not without a basis in fact,” he continued. “I never worry about being robbed when I go out among the unwashed masses, whereas I always go armed to the teeth when traveling among my peers.” He turned to me. “Remember, Leonardo: The moment a man tells you that he has no need for money, grab your wallet and run.”

“And what should I do if he tells me that he is a thief?”

“We're all thieves,” he said with a smile. “I just happen to be an honest one.”

“Is that not a contradiction in terms?” I asked.

“Of course. Whoever said that a man can't be contradictory?” He looked out the window. “Ah! Here we are.”

I reached for the door handle, but he gently grabbed my hand.

“Not just yet,” he said. Then he activated an intercom switch. “Twice around the block, James.” He turned back to me. “If you don't mind, we'll take an extra minute or two to make sure we're not being followed and that the entrance to my building isn't under surveillance.”

“And if it is?”

“Then I'll disguise myself as a neighbor and take the painting out right under their noses.”

“What if the real neighbor should make an appearance?” I asked.

“You're looking at him,” said Heath with a smile.

“I do not understand.”

“I keep two apartments in the building. The one in the basement is rented in my own name, but the one on the sixth floor is leased by an elderly gentleman with a white beard and a very noticeable limp. He rarely emerges from his apartment, just often enough so that the neighbors can identify him.”

“Am I to understand that you maintain two identities in Oceana?”

“Three, actually,” he said. “It's a bother, but you never know when they'll come in handy.” He spoke into the intercom again. “That will do, James. Park about a block away after you let us out, and keep a watchful eye out for us.”

The vehicle came to a stop, and we emerged into the warm, dry night air.

“This way,” he said, leading me to the front door of a large steel and glass apartment complex.

We entered a small foyer and waited for the security system to identify Heath.

“Good evening, Mr. Heath,” said a metallic voice.

“Good evening,” replied Heath.

“You have a companion,” said the voice. “Please identify him.”

“This is Leonardo, of the race of Bjornn, a business associate from Far London. He will be my guest for the next few hours.”

“Registered,” said the voice.

Suddenly a section of the wall slid back and Heath walked through, gesturing me to follow him. We followed a well-lighted corridor to a nearby elevator, and a moment later had descended to the basement level.

“Here we are,” he said, walking to a door and standing before it while his voiceprint and retinagram were cleared. Then it slid silently into the wall, and we entered his darkened apartment.

“Lights,” he commanded.

Instantly the various lamps and light fixtures came to life, and I found myself in an elegantly furnished room that was equipped with a plethora of entertainment devices ranging from a full-sized holographic video to a number of highly complex games of skill, all keyed to a single computer. A recording of a string quartet serenaded us in decaphonic sound, while hypnotic ripples of light formed intricate pastel patterns on the walls and ceilings. A display case along one wall held some twenty sculptures and artifacts from around the galaxy, most of them quite small and delicate, each of them stunningly executed. A chrome tabletop floated two feet above the ground in front of a fur-covered couch, and on it were three leather-bound books from Earth.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Heath.

“No, thank you,” I said.

“You are the driest creature I've ever met,” he noted. “Are you getting hungry? I've got an exceptionally well-equipped kitchen, though I must confess that I've never cooked a meal in my life. You'll have to fix it yourself.”

“Perhaps later,” I said. “I would like to see the Mallachi painting now.”

“If you wish,” he said, walking into another room. He returned a moment later with a large canvas, which he propped up on the couch. It matched the hologram Tai Chong had given me.

“Dreadful, isn't it?” he commented as we both looked at it.

“He is not very skilled,” I admitted.

“I wouldn't have had the gall to offer it to Tai Chong,” continued Heath, “except that the woman is so beautiful that she almost overcomes the inadequacies of the artist.” He continued to stare at the painting for a moment. “She really is quite striking, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “Do you know if Mallachi has painted any other portraits of her?”

“I doubt it,” answered Heath. “In fact, to the best of my knowledge this is his first painting.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Not very much,” replied Heath. “He spends most of his time on the Inner Frontier, though he makes his home on Quantos IX. He never talks about his profession, but from bits and pieces I've managed to pick up, I believe him to be a bounty hunter, and a highly successful one at that.”

“If he is a wealthy man, and he does not paint for a living, why did he give you the portrait to sell?” I asked.

“I gather that she left him a few months ago.”

“And he is so heartbroken that he wants no reminders of her in his home?”

“Or so furious.”

I studied the sad face in the painting. “Did he say why she left him, or where she might have gone?”

Heath shook his head. “I hardly know the man, Leonardo.” He looked at the painting again. “Do you really think Abercrombie will want this thing?” he asked dubiously.

“He will want it.”

“The man has no taste at all.”

“He collects portraits of her,” I said.

“He must be a completist.”

“He would like to be.”

“How hard can it be?” asked Heath. “After all, she can't be thirty-five years old. How many people can have painted her?”

“More than you might suppose,” I replied. “Men have been painting and sculpting her for eight thousand years.”

“She must have a commonplace face.”

“Have you ever seen it before?” I asked.

He stared at her portrait once more, then shook his head. “Never,” he admitted.

“Did Mallachi ever speak of her?”

“You make it sound like we're old friends,” complained Heath. “In point of fact, I've met the man twice. The only thing he told me was that he met her out on the Frontier somewhere.”

“How long were they together?” I asked.