CHAPTER SIX

Too many suspects

“It would seem,” Molly said at last, taking a deep breath, “that you have the cause of death solved, A.Q. It was done by Rogers’ deadly lamp, his son using the original idea and bringing it up to date as a modern lamp.”

Quirke was silent. Molly glanced at him.

“Boss, I said that…”

“Yes, yes, sweetheart, I heard you. Doubtless it is clear what kind of scientific method was employed, but was it young Rogers? Damn’ my doubts! Earlier I was sure of my ground…”

“He had ample motive.”

“Motive, yes. But had he the opportunity? You said earlier that perhaps old man Rogers sold his deadly lamp idea to de London. That’s a distinct possibility, and maybe Rogers never got any financial return anyhow. But could young Rogers get at that lamp if it was in de London’s strong room, as undoubtedly it would be? Rogers is a chauffeur-handyman and as such has no connection with the office itself. Again, how did Rogers put the lamp in the cube-room ceiling when it was twelve feet high and de London was right next to him, and guards outside?”

“He probably put the lamp in there some time before.”

“Not ‘some time’ before, Molly, otherwise the lamp might have worked before it was intended. It could have been put there on the day preceding the fatal night, yes, because there would be no particular reason to switch on the light. But certainly it could not have been put there any earlier. And Rogers, according to his daily movements, was not in the office during the daytime. The only time he came was a few minutes before de London locked himself in the cube-room. It’s a knotty point, light of my life. Very knotty.”

“Harry de London, Owena, and Miss Turner would all be there during the day,” Molly pointed out, then she frowned and shook her head. “No they wouldn’t. They only took over when the old man died—”

“Nevertheless, on the day of de London’s death they visited him and they both went into the cube-room for a while. We have that on their own admission.”

Molly snapped her fingers. “Maybe that’s it! They did it between them! Yes, why not?” she went on eagerly. “If Owena clambered on to Harry’s shoulders—or even his arched back—she’d be able to reach the lamp. That does away with the need of any furniture!”

“Mmmm,” Quirke mused. “Quite ingenious, but if we accept that fact we must also accept the fact that they knew all about the lamp. How did they ever discover it? Certainly not by entering de London’s strong room or searching his files. Neither of them were connected with the de London business before the big fellow’s death, so they’d have no opportunity. And anyway they’d both been away on Mars for a considerable time.”

“Then that leaves Miss Turner,” Molly said.

“Yes. Miss Turner.” Quirke considered for a moment. “I am just thinking of something she said in conversation—to the effect that de London deprived her of the joys of youth and, in a sense, destroyed her. Logically, it is human nature when a person has destroyed you to try and destroy in return…”

Quirke struggled to his feet and stood breathing heavily, his eyes masked by profound inner thoughts. He actually gave a start when the visiphone shrilled. Molly went to it and switched on—to behold none other than Miss Turner herself in the scanning screen.

“Good morning, Miss Brayson,” she greeted formally. “Might I have a word with Mr. Quirke?”

“Pleasure. He’s here beside me.”

Quirke heaved himself across and picked up the instrument.

“Oh, Mr. Quirke, I’ve just thought of something which I felt you might like to know—concerning my employer’s death, I mean.”

“Yes?” Quirke waited, his full moon face giving nothing away.

“I don’t want to cast any undue suspicion upon Rogers, of course, but I think I ought to mention that the light installation for the foolproof room was his suggestion.”

“I see,” Quirke said, without moving a muscle.

“Originally,” Miss Turner hurried on, “the foolproof room had no light at all. It was accidentally omitted, I believe, and Rogers noticed it. I know he suggested that lighting should be put in because I happened on him mentioning it to Mr. de London in the office one evening. Also, in case you don’t know it already, the foolproof room was Rogers’ own idea. He thought it the safest way for Mr. de London to avoid death in the manner threatened. Unhappily, it didn’t work out.”

“Very kind of you to go out of your way to tell me this, Miss Turner,” Quirke commented. “I assume you are alone in the office?”

“Of course—otherwise I wouldn’t be talking so freely. As I say, I don’t wish to point a finger at Rogers any more than at anybody else, but when we’re all under suspicion one has to do everything to try and establish the innocence or guilt of those concerned, don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly,” Quirke agreed gravely. “Thank you so much, Miss Turner. I’m working hard on the case and every scrap of information is useful.”

Satisfied, Miss Turner rang off. Quirke stood thinking, his chubby lips compressed. Molly glanced at him.

“That almost seems to put Rogers back on the spot,” she said.

“Which may be the exact effect intended,” Quirke retorted.

“But you can’t mean that Miss Turner—”

“Miss Turner could not know that our suspicions concerning Rogers have waned considerably; that I realise. But she might feel that the time I am taking to indict Rogers is indicative of my not being too sure of his guilt. Hence the extra information on her part to tilt the scale towards Rogers.”

“Look, boss, are you trying to say that Miss Turner is the guilty one?”

“I am facing an incontrovertible fact,” Quirke answered slowly. “Namely, that Miss Turner was the only person with the opportunity! That is the point I’ve slipped up on so far. It is possible to pin a crime on anybody, but you have to think twice unless you can prove they had the opportunity to do it. Rogers, it seems, had no opportunity to get at the master-lamp because a commercial combine had it. We’ve assumed—and let’s hope correctly—that de London was the person concerned. Right! Owena and Harry couldn’t get at the lamp either. But Miss Turner could. A secretary in such a position of trust as she was could very easily get into the strong room. She probably knew the whole secret of the lamp. All she needed was the chance to use it in a convincing way…”

“But the cube-room wasn’t her idea, boss. It was Rogers’. Again, if she had this lamp idea up her sleeve why didn’t she use it earlier, in the office maybe?”

“Probably because she was never sure whether de London would stay put long enough to get killed. In the cube-room she knew he wouldn’t leave. It begins to look as though that cube-room proved the very chance she needed. As to opportunity in fixing the lamp— Well, I ask you! There were many times in the day before the fatal night when she could have had time to switch the cube lamps. Yes, it slowly begins to tie up.”

“And the induced nerves and the medicine? Does that tie up with doped cigars?”

“Certainly it does. There are cigars in the office—or rather were when de London was alive. Nothing simpler than to dope them. Again—opportunity! What makes me more certain than ever now that Miss Turner is mixed up in this is her sudden desire to hammer home this extra bit of information about Rogers. If she were perfectly innocent she’d probably leave me to find out all the odds and ends for myself.”

Molly reflected. Then: “If she’s the guilty party why on earth was she such a fool as to come to you for help because she wasn’t satisfied with the circumstances of de London’s death? He’d been put down and finished with. Why did she have to rake everything up again?”

“Vanity, m’dear. Vanity.”

Molly frowned. “How d’you mean, A.Q.? What’s vanity got to do with it?”

Puffing gently Quirke lumbered away from the visiphone and submerged in the nearest chair.

“Molly, in our time we’ve tackled quite a few criminal cases, and the outstanding point with every one of them is their colossal ego, their conviction that they can spit in the eye of the law. I see no reason to class Miss Turner as an exception. You see, to such people—especially those who work out what they believe is a foolproof crime—there is absolutely no point in having done it if nobody appreciates it. The whole great build-up just melts away into an anti-climax. Few ingenious killers can tolerate their handiwork being known only to themselves. You’ll find that in looking down the crime archives. So then, convinced she had produced the perfect crime, Miss Turner decided to have an acknowledged expert view the result, feeling she was quite safe from detection—and just to make doubly sure it looks very much to me as though she did everything possible to deflect the blame to Rogers. Quite naturally, since every circumstance pointed in his direction…”

Quirke became silent for a while, debating his next move: then presently he nodded to himself.

“There is still the possibility that Miss Turner may be as innocent as anybody else,” he said, “though I hardly think so. I need evidence, and to get it I’m going to Mars and root out who sent those messages. I’ll get to the bottom of this business somehow.”

“Why,” Molly asked, “did Miss Turner send messages to Rogers at the same time?”

“Possibly to heighten the suspicion against him, which to a certain degree it did.”

Molly sighed. “To my mind, A.Q,, Miss Turner is several kinds of a fool! She could have saved everything if she’d removed the lamp from the cube-room the following morning.”

“That was not possible. de London locked himself inside the cube-room and engineers had to blast the room open. After that the police and the guards were around. There was no chance whatever to switch lamps. And anyhow I don’t think Miss Turner wanted to: she was so sure of herself with the existing lamp. Why not? It took me the devil of a time to find what was wrong with it.” Quirke lunged to his feet and coughed thickly. “Anyway, light of my life, I’m heading for Mars on the next space-liner and you are going to stay behind and woo Miss Turner.”

“Huh?” Molly looked startled.

“I want you to find out, in that inimitable wheedling way which women have, just how much Miss Turner knows about the Rogers lamp. You can make it look as though your suspicions—and mine—rest upon Rogers. If she wonders where I am tell her I’ve been called away on urgent business.”

“Okay,” Molly sighed, “but I’d much rather come to Mars with you.”

“As the Burmese prophet once said, m’dear—no can do.” And Quirke quivered and wobbled immensely under the tides of merriment. As usual Molly took no notice. She picked up the empty coffee cups and took them over to the sink.

* * * *

Quirke departed for Mars at eight o’clock that evening, and an hour later Molly Brayson kept a city restaurant appointment previously made with Miss Turner. From the willing way the de London secretary had agreed to the ‘date’ Molly wondered if Quirke was not perhaps riding the wrong horse after all.

“In case you’re wondering where Mr. Quirke is,” Molly smiled, as she and Miss Turner settled at a corner table, “he’s away on urgent business.”

“Connected with the de London case?”

“That I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me everything… However, I do know the de London case is still uppermost in his mind and that is why we’re here tonight …”

Molly paused and orders were given to the waiter. Then Miss Turner sat back in her chair—angular, cold, yet somehow vaguely eager.

“I hope Mr. Quirke is getting near to an arrest,” she said. “It’s not pleasant being under suspicion and the papers and newscasts are beginning to point the finger, too. Mr. de London’s death from foul play is exciting enormous interest.”

“I’m aware of it.” Molly held forth cigarettes, which Miss Turner declined. “Which makes me wonder, Miss Turner, why you dragged this business into the daylight when everything was more or less settled.”

“I did it purely because I couldn’t swallow the coincidence of the notes sent to Mr. de London, and the synchronised fashion in which he met his death. The thing was too obvious. It had to be murder—brilliantly arranged.”

“Mr. Quirke,” Molly said slowly, “is working on the theory that de London died through the influence of a most unusual electric lamp, the one which we removed during the investigation.”

“Oh?” Miss Turner’s eyebrows rose. “Surely that is rather a waste of time? An electric lamp couldn’t kill.”

“Not a normal one, true. The one we have is not normal. It is lethal—or was to commence with. Our only problem now is to decide who had access to it. To the best of our belief it was in de London’s possession to begin with, and originally invented by Henry Rogers.”

“Ah! You mean you are building the case against Rogers the chauffeur?”

“Naturally,” Molly smiled, and waited as the waiter laid out the refreshment. “What other conclusion is there? Rogers must have cashed in on his father’s invention—but what I have to learn from you, on behalf of Mr. Quirke is whether such an invention was even in the de London files.”

“A lethal electric lamp?” Miss Turner sipped at her drink for a long time and Molly watched her covertly, drawing at her cigarette and apparently pondering deep issues.

“I suppose it was in Henry Rogers’ lifetime?” Miss Turner asked suddenly.

“Naturally, since he invented it.”

“How can Mr. Quirke be so sure that Henry Rogers did invent it?”

“He is, and he has incontestable proof. Something to do with the age of the ink on the formula, or something. Rogers invented it all right. We have copies of his original plans.”

“And what was supposed to happen then?”

“We believe the lamp was handed over to de London as a weapon of war, to be used against invaders as a sneak killer. We want proof that such a lamp was given to de London, and we must also know whether Rogers could have had access to it.”

Here, Molly felt convinced, Miss Turner would seize the supreme opportunity to blacken the younger Rogers to the limit, but to her amazement the opposite happened.

“I’ve never heard of such a lamp, Miss Brayson. And even if there were one Rogers would never be able to get at it. To do that he’d have to either get past me, or the night guard, and there is no record of him having attempted either.”

Molly took a sip of her own drink, somewhat puzzled as to what to do next. The whole ‘wheedling process’ had gone off the rails somewhere.

“It would seem, then, that such a lamp was not bought by de London, but by somebody else,” she said at last.

“Very unlikely!” Miss Turner declared dogmatically, and Molly gave her a surprised glance.

“Why unlikely?”

“Because everything which Henry Rogers ever invented was sold by contractual obligation to de London. Some fifteen years ago I recall making out that contract under Mr. de London’s direction. It called for first option on everything Henry Rogers invented, and I am prepared to swear that no lethal lamp was ever offered. It is not for me to cast reflections on my late employer’s business methods.” Miss Turner added, “but I will say that Henry Rogers never received the considerable monies to which he was entitled. He considered Henry Rogers as a genius just asking to be plucked—and plucked he was. Which is why I think the son may be responsible for everything, getting his own back for the way his father was treated.”

“Yes—probably,” Molly admitted, feeling completely out of her depth.

“There are so many angles,” Miss Turner sighed. “As I said to Mr. Quirke, I don’t want to point suspicion more at one person than another, so I suppose, if it comes to that, Mr. de London junior and his wife are also targets.”

“Have you any personal reaction towards them?” Molly asked.

“Not particularly. I work well enough with them, though I do rather object to Mrs. de London—Owena, I mean—taking the reins so constantly out of her husband’s hands. I hardly know from which one I am supposed to take orders. I do believe that before very long Owena de London will become the governing director of the organisation and push her husband right out of it. She’s a brilliant businesswoman, extremely ambitious, and anything but the quiet, simple young woman she made herself appear at first. I have been quite disagreeably surprised. I suppose though, that I shouldn’t be. She is of high Martian rank and extremely intelligent, and if she could wed the gigantic de London interests to the great combines of the Martian Nardins, controlled by her Martian mother, it would be a conquest indeed.”

“You think that may be her aim?” Molly asked slowly.

“Now de London senior is out of the way, yes… If I had her intelligence I’d probably do the same thing myself.”

* * * *

Meantime, several million miles from Earth Adam Quirke’s titanic bulk was sprawled in one of the armchairs of the space liner’s ‘solarium’. Quirke was apparently at peace with all men—a cooling drink at his side, a 3-D projected orchestra playing a lulling refrain, and outside the giant bowed windows loomed the void. Then Quirke’s peace was interrupted by the presence of a page at his side.

“Radiophone call from Earth, Mr. Quirke—a Miss Brayson. Will you take it here?”

Quirke nodded, and took the instrument as it was handed to him.

“Well. Light of my life?” he asked sleepily, and after an interval Molly’s voice floated over the millions of miles of void.

“I’ve just come back from my interview with Miss Turner boss. She’s got me all mixed up, or else she’s confoundedly clever. I don’t know what to think.”

“Let me do the thinking, love, and you just talk,” Quirke replied at length. “Word for word, what happened?” Quirke waited for the reply, which came after a short interval. In detail Molly recounted the conversation as near as she could remember it.

“After which,” she finished, “things sort of fell flat. I thanked her for what she’d told me and we parted on the best of terms. Honest, A.Q., I can’t somehow see her as the killer. Not now. She had so many wonderful chances to blacken Rogers and she didn’t take them. No woman could be that smart.”

A further pause whilst the radio waves crossed the gulf of space. Quirke’s blue eyes were narrowed but his voice was honey itself when he answered:

“You’ve done your best, light of my life, and no gal could do more. Take a vacation until I return. God knows you’ve earned it. If during that vacation you run into anything unusual just buzz me.” A pause, then:

“Right, boss—and thanks. I’ll miss you.”

Quirke boomed and rumbled over some obscure joke concerning the wonder of anybody missing his size; then he becalmed abruptly and sat in fathoms’ deep concentration, the ’phone clutched in his hand until the page came and politely removed it.

“Thanks, laddie,” Quirke muttered, handing over a tip. “I was right out beyond the ken of things.”

“Yessir,” the boy muttered, and went on his way wondering if the white-haired Buddha was an old-time actor of some sort.

And in a matter of seconds Quirke had relapsed again. He had the singular gift, shared with very few people of utterly detaching himself from his surroundings and living entirely within his mind. In this way he could pursue any line of reasoning to either a logical or illogical conclusion. And so it was now. The only movement he made was to put down a note in case a point escaped him. His final note read:

‘The Nardins of Mars, the highest caste—direct descendants of the original scientist colonists—and the mightiest commercial enterprise on the red planet, of which Owena is a member. More, she is the only daughter of the highest Nardin of all. The love of Owena for Harry de London is no longer marked by girlish and clinging affection, but by domination absolute. There arises the great question: was Gyron de London right when he viewed Owena with such rank disfavour? Had he more behind his animosity than mere resentment at the wedding of Martian and Terranian?’

“Interesting,” Quirke murmured, viewing what he had written, “extremely interesting. The twist and the turns, the brilliant red herrings, the ingenuity, the flawless preparation. But then, if one deals with an advanced mind—such as anybody with a part Martian upbringing must have—one must expect fireworks. The point is: can A.Q. douse those fireworks completely?”

He smiled to himself, put his notes away, then got to his feet and retired to his suite.

For the rest of the journey to Mars he appeared quite detached from all problems, spending most of the time resting his colossal bulk—but the moment Mars was reached he was as active as ever. His first call after being given clearance by the spaceport customs and medicos was upon the police authorities in Duo City, the metropolis roughly divided into half-Earth and half-Martian communities, a city standing close to the edge of one of Mars’ relentless deserts.

The chief of the police authorities was Douglas Anzia, a half-Martian, half-Earth man. Not that this in any way detracted from his cordiality and high standing.

“Delighted, Mr. Quirke,” he said, shaking hands. “Long time since you had reason to come to Mars.”

“And I wouldn’t be here now except for urgent business,” A.Q. responded, sitting down heavily. “As I explained to you in my advance radiogram, I’m working on the de London case and need to make a thorough check of the mails to Earth from about the first of March onwards. Did you manage to do anything for me in that direction?”

“I did yes, as far as possible, and there is a complete list of mails sent to Earth. Here it is.”

The chief of police handed it across and Quirke studied it. Then he nodded.

“Four of them to Gyron de London. That’s correct—tallying with the two he received and the two sent to Rogers, his handyman-chauffeur. Did you get any clue as to who sent these?”

“In the normal way it would have been next to impossible—as difficult as you on Earth having to detect one particular person having sent one particular letter—and not registering or insuring it, either. In this case, though, the matter was simplified because the mail-collector remembers where these letters came from. A private mail-collection box.”

“You mean one of the boxes belonging to the governing body of this planet?”

“Yes. The Controlesque.”

“One final guess,” Quirke mused. “It was one of the boxes—or maybe the only box—used by the Nardin family, who are high-ranking members of the Controlesque, or governing Martian body.”

The chief of police gave a rather whimsical smile. “It would seem, Mr. Quirke, that you have the facts without our needing to help you.”

“The verification was what I needed—and now I have it. When I began my journey to Mars I had no preconceived ideas concerning the Controlesque, but I have now—thanks to a very diligent secretary back on Earth. I am not concerned with the Controlesque as a whole, but with the Nardins in particular. I thank you, Chief, for your valuable information.”

Quirke struggled to his feet, shook hands, and went on his way. As he went he looked interestedly about him. It was difficult to realize that he was on an alien world. Far overhead was the impenetrable protective dome that covered the entire city and kept in the Earth-normal atmosphere. It also filtered out the intense cosmic and ultra-violet radiation that fell on the Martian desert plain outside, whilst allowing the weak sunlight to get through. Strategically placed public lighting gave the effect of daylight. Buried in the ground beneath his feet, he knew, were artificial gravity generators that boosted the weaker Martian gravity to Earth-normal. Outside the dome Mars was a hostile and dead world.

Ten minutes walk brought him to the mightiest edifice in Duo City, the great building which housed the administrative and living quarters of the Martian government. One side of the building was devoted to business and the other to private apartments. On the long bronze-gold plate that Quirke studied were the names of the high-rank Martian families who constituted all that was supreme in Martian business and society.

Eventually he arrived at ‘Nardin: Apartment 7, 8th Floor’. He went into the building’s enormous hall, took the self-service elevator, and was quickly whisked to the middle reaches of the building.

A Martian-born servant opened the apartment door to him.

“Adam Quirke soliciting an audience with Ianta Nardin,” Quirke explained, handing over his card. “It is most urgent and concerns her daughter Owena.”

“Will you be so good as to step inside, Mr. Quirke?”