The demolished man (13 page)

his Guild taxes remitted for a year."

"Jeepers!" the secretary sat bolt upright. "Can you do that?"

"I think I'm big enough in Council to swing it."

"This'll make the grapevine jump."

"I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I

want that girl."

Quizzard's Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break...

the only break in a gambler's day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the

Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In

crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier's

desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked

in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and

Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with

flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.

"Your price," Reich told Church, "you know already. And I'm warning you, Jerry.

If you know what's good for you, don't try to peep me. I'm poison. If you get

into my head you're getting into Demolition. Think about it."

"Jesus," Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. "As bad as that? I don't banker

for a Demolition, Reich."

"Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?"

"A question." Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of

sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. "Listen

to what I hanker for."

"Name the best price you can figure, Keno."

"What's it for?"

"To hell with that. I'm buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me

how much I've got to put up to get it---guaranteed."

"That's a lot of service."

"I've got a lot of money."

"You got a hundred Ms laying around?"

"One hundred thousand. Right? That's the price."

"For the love of..." Church popped upright and stared at Reich. "A hundred

thousand?"

"Make up your mind, Jerry," Reich growled. "Do you want money or reinstatement?"

"It's almost worth---No. Am I crazy? I'll take reinstatement."

"Then stop drooling." Reich turned to Quizzard. "The price is one hundred

thousand."

"In sovereigns?"

"What else? Now, d'you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to

work right off?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Reich," Quizzard protested.

"Frab that," Reich snapped. "I know you, Keno. You've got an idea you can find

out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right

now. That's why I let you set the price."

"Yeah," Quizzard said slowly. "I had that idea, Reich." He smiled and the

milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. "I still got that idea."

"Then I'll tell you right now who'll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell.

Trouble is, I don't know what he'd pay."

"Whatever it is, I don't want it." Quizzard spat.

"It's me against Powell, Keno. That's the whole auction. I've placed my bid. I'm

still waiting to hear from you."

"It's a deal," Quizzard replied.

"All right," Reich said, "now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name

is Barbara D'Courtney."

"The killing?" Quizzard nodded heavily. "I thought so."

"Any objections?"

Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.

"I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows

where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her."

Quizzard nodded.

"She's about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds.

Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs..."

The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.

"Yellow hair. Black eyes. Heart shaped face. Full mouth and a kind of aquiline

nose... She's got a face with character. It jabs out at you. Electric."

"Clothes?"

"She was wearing a silk dressing gown last time I saw her. Frosty white and

translucent... like a frozen window. No shoes. No stockings. No hat. No jewelry.

She was off her beam... Crazy enough to tear out into the streets and disappear.

I want her." Something compelled Reich to add: "I want her undamaged.

Understand?"

"With her hauling a freight like that? Have a heart, Reich." Quizzard licked his

fat lips. "You don't stand a chance. She don't stand a chance."

"That's what a hundred Ms are for. I stand a good chance if you get her fast

enough."

"I may have to slush for her."

"Then slush. Check every bawdy house, bagnio, Blind Tiger, and frab-joint in the

city. Pass the word down the grapevine. I'm willing to pay. I don't want any

fuss. I just want the girl. Understand?"

Quizzard nodded, still jingling the gold. "I understand."

Suddenly Reich reached across the table and slashed Quizzard's fat hands with

the edge of his palm. The sovereigns chimed into the air and clattered into the

four corners.

"And I don't want any double-cross," Reich growled in a deadly voice. "I want

the girl."

8

Seven days of combat.

One week of action and reaction, attack and defense, all fought on the surface

while deep below the agitated waters Powell and Augustus Tate swam and circled

like silent sharks awaiting the onset of the real war.

A patrol officer, now in plainclothes, believed in the surprise attack. He

waylaid Maria Beaumont during a theater intermission, and before her horrified

friends bellowed: "It was a frame. You were in cahoots with the killer. You set

up the murder. That's why you was playin' that Sardine game. Go ahead and answer

me."

The Gilt Corpse squawked and ran. As the Rough Tail set off in hot pursuit, he

was peeped deeply and thoroughly.

Tate to Reich: The cop was telling the truth. His department believes Maria was

an accomplice.

Reich to Tate: All right. We'll throw her to the wolves. Let the cops have her.

In consequence, Madame Beaumont was left unprotected. She took refuge, of all

places, in the Loan Brokerage mat was the source of the Beaumont fortune. The

patrol officer located her there three hours later and subjected her to a

merciless grilling in the office of the peeple Credit Supervisor. He was unaware

that Lincoln Powell was just outside the office, chatting with the Supervisor.

Powell to staff: She got the game out of some ancient book Reich gave her.

Probably purchased at Century. They handle that stuff. Pass the word. Did he ask

for it specifically? Also, check Graham, the appraiser. How come the only intact

game in the book was `Sardine'? Old Man Mose'll want to know. And where's that

girl?

A traffic officer, now in plainclothes, was going to come through on his Big

Chance with the suave approach. To the manager and staff of the Century

Audio-bookstore, he drawled: "I'm in the market for old game books... The kind

my very good friend, Ben Reich, asked for last week."

Tate to Reich: I've been peeping around. They're going to check that book you

sent Maria.

Reich to Tate: Let 'em. I'm covered. I've got to concentrate on that girl.

The manager and staff carefully explained matters at great length in response to

the Rough Tail's suave questions. Many clients lost patience and left the store.

One sat quietly in a corner, too wrapt in a crystal recording to realize he was

left unattended. Nobody knew that Jackson Beck was completely tone-deaf.

Powell to staff: Reich apparently found the book accidentally. Stumbled over it

while he was looking for a present for Maria Beaumont. Pass the word. And

where's that girl?

In conference with the agency that handled copy for the Monarch Jumper ("the

only Family Air-Rocket on the market"), Reich came up with a new advertising

program.

"Here's the slant," Reich said. "People always anthropomorphize the products

they use. They attribute human characteristics to them. They give 'em pet names

and treat 'em like family pets. A man would rather buy a Jumper if he can feel

affectionate toward it. He doesn't give a dame for efficiency. He wants to love

that Jumper."

"Check, Mr. Reich. Check!"

"We're going to anthropomorphize our Jumper," Reich said. "Let's find a girl and

vote her the Monarch Jumper Girl. When a consumer buys one, he's buying the

girl. When he handles one, he's handling her."

"Check!" the account man cried. "Your idea has a sense of solar scope that

dwarfs us, Mr. Reich. This is a wrap-up and blast!"

"Start an immediate campaign to locate the Jumper Girl. Get every salesman onto

it. Comb the city. I want the girl to be about twenty-five. About five-five

tall; weighting a hundred and twenty pounds. I want her built. Lots of appeal."

"Check, Mr. Reich. Check."

"She ought to be a blonde with dark eyes. Full mouth. Good strong nose. Here's a

sketch of my idea of the Jumper Girl. Look it over, have it reproduced and

passed out to your crew. There's a promotion for the man who locates the girl I

have in mind."

Tate to Reich: I've been peeping the police. They're sending a man into Monarch

to dig up collusion between you and that appraiser, Graham.

Reich to Tate: Let 'em. There isn't anything, and Graham's left town on a buying

spree. Something between me and Graham! Powell couldn't be that dumb, could he?

Maybe I've been overrating him.

Expense was no object to a squadman, now in plainclothes, who believed in the

disguises of plastic surgery. Freshly equipped with mongoloid features, he took

a job in Monarch Utilities' Accounting-city and attempted to unearth Reich's

financial relations with Graham, the appraiser. It never occurred to him that

his intent had been peeped by Monarch's Esper Personnel Chief, reported

upstairs, and that upstairs was quietly chuckling.

Powell to staff: Our stooge was looking for bribery recorded in Monarch's books.

This should lower Reich's opinion of us by fifty per cent; which makes him fifty

per cent more vulnerable. Pass the word. Where's that girl?

At the board meeting of "The Hour," the only round-the-clock paper on earth,

twenty-four editions a day, Reich announced a new Monarch charity.

"We're calling it `Sanctuary'," he said. "We offer aid and comfort and sanctuary

to the city's submerged millions in their time of crisis. If you've been

evicted, bankrupted, terrorized, swindled... If you're frightened, for any

reason and don't know where to turn... If you're desperate... Take Sanctuary."

"It's a terriffic promotion," the managing editor said, "but it'll cost like

crazy. What's it for?"

"Public Relations," Reich snapped. "I want this to hit the next edition. Jet!"

Reich left the board room, went down to the street and located a public phone

booth. He called "Recreation" and gave careful instructions to Ellery West. "I

want a man placed in every Sanctuary office in the city. I want a full

description and photo of every applicant relayed to me at once. At once, Ellery.

As they come in."

"I'm not asking any questions, Ben, but I wish I could peep you on that."

"Suspicious?" Reich snarled.

"No. Just curious."

"Don't let it kill you."

As Reich left the booth, a man clothed in an air of inept eagerness accosted

him.

"Oh, Mr. Reich. Lucky I bumped into you. I just heard about Sanctuary and I

thought a human interest interview with the originator of this wonderful new

charity might---"

Lucky he bumped into him! The man was the "Industrial Critic's" famous peeper

reporter. Probably tailed him down and---Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said

the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissention have begun.

"No comment," Reich mumbled. Eight, sir; seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir...

"What childhood episode in your life brought about the realization of this

crying need for---"

Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one...

"Was there ever a time when you didn't know where to turn? Were you ever afraid

of death or murder? Were---"

Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and

dissention have begun.

Reich dove into a Public Jumper and escaped.

Tate to Reich: The cops are really after Graham. They've got their entire Lab

looking for the appraiser. God knows what kind of red-herring Powell's

following, but it's away from you. I think the safety margin's increasing.

Reich to Tate: Not until I've found that girl.

Marcus Graham had left no forwarding address and was pursued by half a dozen

impractical tracer-robots dug up by the police lab. They were accompanied by

their impractical inventors to various parts of the solar system. In the

meantime, Marcus Graham had arrived on Ganymede where Powell located him at an

auction of rare primitive books conducted at break-neck speed by a peeper

auctioneer. The books had been part of the Drake estate, inherited by Ben Reich

from his mother. They had been unexpectedly dumped on the market.

Powell interviewed Graham in the foyer of the auction room, before a crystal

port overlooking the arctic tundra of Ganymede with the belted red-brown bulk of

Jupiter filling the black sky. Then Powell took the Fortnighter back to Earth,