CHAPTER SEVEN

Quirke trumps a murderer

Quirke lumbered into the huge reception room and seated himself, his eyes passing over the spotless furniture, the dozen and one scientific gadgets to make life easier and more entertaining, and finally to the great windows through which the shrunken sun was pallidly shining. Then the door of the inner apartment clicked and a tall, gracious-looking woman of advancing years came into view. Her clothes were vivid in colouring and clung to her still slender figure with the softness of golden silk. Here was Ianta Nardin, born of Martian parents, and a leading member of the Martian nobility.

“How are you, Mr. Quirke…” She shook hands gently as Quirke surged to his feet. “This is the first time I have had the pleasure of a personal meeting, though, of course, your name is quite familiar to me.”

“You are more than gracious to acknowledge the fact.”

Quirke murmured, inclining his head with its mop of unruly white hair.

The uncrowned queen of Mars seated herself with easy grace and Quirke settled back again in his chair. The extraordinary eyes of the woman of Mars pinned him.

“Now, Mr. Quirke, what brings you here?”

“I am afraid,” Quirke replied gravely, “that my mission is not a pleasant one, but because the Nardins of Mars are no ordinary people, I felt it my duty to acquaint you with certain facts… I am afraid that you are unlikely to see your daughter Owena again.”

“What!” lanta Nardin gave a start and her eyes widened. “But why not? Has something happened to her? Why do you have to tell me this? Why not her husband—”

Quirke raised his pudgy hand slowly. “A moment, madam, if you please. Let me explain. Since my name is familiar to you, you will also be aware that my profession is that of a scientific investigator—”

“Yes, yes. I know. But what—”

“I am directly concerned with finding the right answer to the death of Gyron de London, one of Earth’s greatest commercial giants. He was murdered.”

“So I heard.” Ianta Nardin looked troubled. “But, Mr. Quirke, what has this to do with my daughter?”

“Everything. Your daughter was the killer.”

“Mr. Quirke!” The Martian woman rose with dignity to her feet. “Whilst I respect your famous name and ability, I must protest against—”

“Protest, madam, is pointless.” Quirke had also risen, his round face grim, his voice determined. “I have spent a very long time working out this problem and every factor now points straight to your daughter. I shall not bother you with the details. I merely warn you that after your daughter has been arrested by Earth law—as she will be—you will not see her again.”

A speechless look of anguish crossed Ianta Nardin’s face. Quirke waited, his blue eyes fixed on her.

“How—how can you be sure of such a ghastly fact?” she asked at last, faltering.

“That, madam, is my business—with all respect. You are not involved in this, therefore—”

“But I am involved in it!” Ianta Nardin stopped dead, her lower lip between her white teeth. It looked as though she could have bitten out her tongue for having said that one line.

“Thank you, madam, for the observation,” Quirke murmured. “Would you perhaps care to enlarge upon it?”

“If it will do anything to save Owena, yes. Anything. Mr. Quirke, to prevent the ultimate disgrace descending upon us!”

“The law will take no cognizance of rank or standing, madam, but if you have something which may—er—ameliorate things then I am prepared to listen.”

He waited until the Martian woman had reseated herself, then once more he squeezed into the nearby big chair and puffed heavily. In courteous silence he waited for the woman to get a hold over her emotions.

“Owena acted under my orders,” she said at last, averting her face.

“That does not absolve her from blame, madam. She is a grown woman and knows the difference between right and wrong. Had she not wished to commit murder no power of your devising could have made her.”

“I did not say she wasn’t willing. She was! And why? Because of the withering scorn in which Gyron de London held her. She hated him more than any man on Earth. She would have given up the idea of marrying Harry de London had I not pointed out that that was just what Gyron de London wanted her to do. So she married—no longer for love—for she could not love a de London any more after the way Gyron de London had behaved—but to achieve a purpose. My purpose!”

“Your purpose being, I think, to wed the vast commercial interests of the de London organisation to the Controlesque of Mars? A merger of interplanetary interests which would never have been possible whilst de London lived?”

“Yes.” The Martian woman’s voice was still quiet; then she suddenly looked up, her clenched fists giving the clue to her emotion. “Understand this, Mr. Quirke: my daughter acted as she did because I ordered her to, not as her mother but as one of the ruling factions of this planet. She dared not disobey.”

Quirke smiled faintly. “That does not convince me, madam. The dictates of one’s own conscience are far more powerful than the orders of a near-ruler, such as you are. Your daughter’s act stands self-condemned. As I see it she murdered de London because she, as much as you, wanted to see the merging of Earth and Martian interests, with strong bias on the Martian side. She also wanted personal revenge on de London. Both very strong motives. But she did not want to be found out so, before she committed the act, she made certain plans to deflect the blame from herself.”

“Yes,” Ianta looked at Quirke thoughtfully. “You say you have proof of everything she has done?”

“I now have proof that she did commit the murder. I hadn’t until you started explaining.”

“But you said—”

“I am sorry for the deception, madam. I’m something of a psychologist and, knowing Owena would protect herself if I made an effort to question her, I decided to tackle you. It struck me as reasonable that, as her mother, you would do your utmost to tell the whole story, even blacken your own side of the case, just as long as your child was shielded from the wrath to come. I guessed right. You have explained facts which I had already formulated.”

“You are a clever man, Mr. Quirke.”

“A resourceful one, madam. But the story is not yet told. There is much your daughter did. Let me suggest to you what happened: Through Harry de London she had the chance of discovering the identities of those most closely connected with de London in his business life—such as Henry Rogers, the inventor, his son who became de London’s chauffeur, Miss Turner, the faithful secretary—and she doubtless discovered that Miss Turner and young Rogers both had ample reason for wanting to be rid of d« London.”

“Yes, she found that out—and reported to me.”

“She also found out, probably, that Henry Rogers, when alive, was under contract to de London to hand him all his inventions?”

“Yes. That information came from the younger Rogers himself. Owena purposely made a friend of him in the few times she saw him on her Earth visits prior to the marriage.”

“And out of this information concerning Rogers she devised a clever scientific plot, specially designed to throw guilt on Rogers, or—more remotely—upon secretary Turner.”

Ianta Nardin was silent, but there was a faint colour in her normally pale cheeks.

“You people of Mars are clever scientists,” Quirke continued, “and for that reason the exact science of death by radiation would probably be child’s play. I was led astray by giving to Henry Rogers the credit for possessing more scientific genius than he really had. I was led to think—as was intended—that he devised a lethal lamp for defence purposes and gave it to de London. It was Miss Turner who exploded this theory to my own secretary, for there is no record of any such invention ever having been handed in by Henry Rogers. Your daughter, I imagine, was clever enough to discover the whereabouts of the Rogers laboratory and put therein plans and notes relating to a lethal lamp in the hope the younger Rogers—if investigation got that far—would be involved. She had evidently learned that he rarely used the laboratory, therefore there was little chance of him discovering the foisted plans—and even if he had done so he would have accepted them as his father’s. Even apparent age in the ink and papers was cleverly faked, a not very difficult matter with science such as yours…”

“You are entirely correct,” Ianta Nardin said, a tautness about her mouth which seemed to indicate she was thinking swiftly.

“As to the rest…” Quirke’s huge shoulders rose and fell. “Your daughter had merely to have a lamp made in laboratories here and take it with her to Earth—probably when she returned from the honeymoon with Harry de London. The simple matter of altering the lamp into an apparently modern one would present no trouble to her technical skill. She sent letters of warning in advance to confuse the issue and scare de London, sending similar notes to Rogers to throw guilt on to him. There were other things she did—such as drugging cigars, or else switching normal cigars for the same brand in a drugged variety. Her opportunity was there for she was right inside the de London home after the honeymoon when de London first began to get attacks of nerves. It can and does fit in, madam, but there are still loose ends which your daughter will be compelled to explain for herself.”

“Such as?” Ianta Nardin asked.

“She did not know, I think, that a cube-room would be devised for de London’s ‘safety’, so I am left to the assumption that her original intention was to use the lethal lamp in some other way—until the cube-room presented a more spectacular opportunity.”

“Her original intention. Mr. Quirke, until she was ordered out of the do London house along with her husband, was to put the lamp in de London’s desklight. Every evening he spent a certain time there and that would have been as efficient as the cube-room method. She used the cube-room because, to make the warning come true, it was all she could do. The deterrent was that she could not move the lamp afterwards. She trusted to the secret not being found—and unfortunately underestimated your powers.”

“There is still one final point,” Quirke said. “When did she have the opportunity to fit the lamp in place? I think my secretary gave me the answer to that and I told her not to be ridiculous.”

“I cannot answer that question, Mr. Quirke, because Owena has not told me the exact details, but in every fact leading up to the disposal of de London you are uncannily correct. I would add that I do not regret wiping out de London. He stood for everything that was arrogant and brutal. Interplanetary trade was strangled by his iron hold. He was only concerned with his own advancement and the fact that he was damming the normal circulation of business did not concern him one jot.”

“Nevertheless, madam, he was a man and a citizen—and therefore the one who terminated his life must stand trial for murder. You yourself will also be involved as an accessory.”

“Perhaps,” the Martian woman answered, with a strange smile. Then she rose majestically to her feet. “I have nothing further to add, Mr. Quirke. You must act as you see fit—but I hope my frankness will have helped the position somewhat against my daughter.”

Quirke struggled up and inclined his head. “I will do my best, madam—and thank you.”

He left the apartment quietly and the manservant closed the door upon him. Still in the apartment reception lounge Ianta opened the front of what appeared to be one of her many jewel-studded bracelets. Adjusting the tiny button on its top she spoke quietly.

“I’m alone now. Did you hear all that, Owena?” Her message sent, Ianta poured herself a drink and settled down on a divan to wait for the reply. After nearly eight minutes had elapsed—the time taken for radio waves to cross the 40-million mile gap to Earth and back—the reply came.

“I heard it, mother.” The voice was remote but audible. “I never thought a private radio waveband could come in so useful. You think of everything. You needn’t worry. I’ll deal with Mr. Quirke—effectively.”

Ianta smiled. “I thought you would, my dear. You are so resourceful.”

* * * *

His Martian business concluded Quirke wasted no time in returning to Earth, informing Molly Brayson by interplanetary radio of the success of his Martian mission—but somewhat to Quirke’s surprise Molly did not answer. Which was most unusual for her. She had never before failed to acknowledge a communication from her boss when it had been sent her.

“There’s one possible answer to this,” Quirke told himself, as the space liner touched down at the London spaceport, “and I hope I’ve guessed wrong.”

He had not. He discovered that when he arrived at his home and laboratory. Neither the housekeeper nor Molly Brayson were present—but Owena de London was. Quirke discovered her in the laboratory, entirely at her ease, a deceptive smile on her good-looking face.

“Hello Mr. Quirke!” she greeted him pleasantly enough and rose from her chair. “Well equipped laboratory you have here—and plenty of food and comforts too. I’ve been quite happy whilst waiting for you to return home.”

Quirke looked her up and down, his blue eyes hard. “Which means, I suppose, that you know all the details of my interview with your mother?”

“I do, yes. Mother and I have a private radio waveband, the pick-up being on our wrists. When either of us have anything important we wish overheard we simply signal with the invaluable little instrument—which looks no bigger than a wristwatch, but is immensely powerful—and there you are.”

“With your permission,” Quirke said, “I’ll sit. I’m too heavy a man to stand about for long.”

“Yes, do. Make yourself comfortable.” Owena also sat, choosing the nearest upright chair. Then her large-pupilled eyes roved over Quirke’s monstrous form as he reclined.

“I suppose the disappearance of my secretary and housekeeper is your doing, Owena?”

“Of course. Fortunately I didn’t have to trouble over your wife as she is visiting relatives in Europe. Yes, Mr. Quirke, I know everything you told my mother, and I must congratulate you upon your sagacity. The extra little bit that worries you—as to how I changed the lamp in the cube-room—can easily be explained. My husband bent down so that I could use his back as a ‘chair’. Nothing could have been easier.”

“Exactly what my secretary thought,” Quirke mused. “From which I gather your husband knows all about your activities?”

“Not a thing. Though he had no love for his father he would certainly never have agreed to connive in murdering him. No, to get him to bend his back I merely said that the shade around the lamp looked as though it were falling off. Since Harry, in his stooped position, could not see what I was doing he never suspected a thing. He’s a dear boy, Mr. Quirke, but not very bright.”

“Compared to you I can well credit that. But come to the point, Owena. Obviously this isn’t a social call you’re making. What are your terms?”

“I imagine,” Owena said, thinking, “that you consider the lives of your housekeeper and Miss Brayson are worth saving, so I am willing to return them both to you in return for your dropping the case against me and my mother. Tell the world you can’t find the answer and everything will be well.”

“By which statement you reveal you are still very young,” Quirke murmured. “Even if the lives of my housekeeper and Molly Brayson should be forfeited, I still would not allow you to escape the penalty due for your crime.”

Owena sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that—and after all the trouble I took to have those two abducted and hidden away! Very well then, since the merging of Martian and Earthly business interests cannot now be disturbed there’s only one answer. You will have to be disposed of, Mr. Quirke. My mother and I cannot allow our plans, which have come to maturity, to be blown sky-high just because you have hide-bound conceptions about murder and the penalty due therefore. On Mars we rid ourselves of those who block progress or are unwanted and—”

“This is Earth, Owena, not Mars, and I shall carry out my duty as far as I possibly can. Killing me won’t avail you anything, you know.”

“I think it will. It will dispose of the only person who knows the facts.”

Quirke shook his mane of white hair. “On the contrary, Owena. You are now in a laboratory which contains a hundred and one scientific instruments, together with a variety of hidden switches—and I am the only living person who knows where the switches are and what purpose they serve. It will interest you to know that at this very moment this whole laboratory, and you and myself, are being televised into police headquarters, together with a radio reproduction of our conversation. So you see, even if I die the police know the facts, and you will be hounded down no matter where you may go.”

Owena looked sharply about her. “I don’t see any switches! Most certainly I haven’t seen you move one since you came in here.”

“You have overlooked the usual qualities of intercepting a photo-electric cell.” Quirke gave a grim smile. “I am never alone in this laboratory unless I really wish to be.”

“Bluff!” Owena shouted, striding forward. Sheer bluff!”

“I assure you it is not. If you kill me your act will be visible to those who are watching at Scotland Yard. In fact it is more than probable that a squad of men are heading here at this very moment!”

That Owena was unsure of herself was more than obvious. In words she had already given herself away, and admitted abducting two innocent citizens. If she was televised in the act of murdering Quirke she would be picked up within an hour, no matter how much she tried to escape. Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. She swung away and headed for a corner of the laboratory where the main generators were humming musically. Seizing the massive power switch that governed them she pulled it over to zero.

“If your television is still working I’ll be surprised!” she declared, swinging round again. “How do you like—”

She stopped. In the brief seconds that had elapsed Quirke had risen from his chair and was standing right beside her, a hypodermic syringe in his hand with plunger extended. Before Owena had a chance to grasp what had happened Quirke seized her in a grip that held her immovable; then she felt the sharp stab of the needle as it sank into her arm.

“I dislike rough treatment but sometimes it is necessary,” Quirke said, breathing heavily. “I have injected a virulent poison into your bloodstream, Owena. In five minutes you will drop dead unless the antidote is used. I am prepared to use it if you tell me where my secretary and housekeeper are.”

Owena glared at him furiously and in those few seconds the veneer of Earth culture vanished. That she was more Martian than Terran at heart was plain.

“I’m dictating the terms—not you!” she shouted in fury.

Quirke did not answer. He glanced up at the clock. Owena glanced too and then thrust her hand into the pocket of her costume jacket. Instantly Quirke seized her arm and forced her to withdraw the hand quickly.

“I could very easily pin you at the point of a gun,” he said, “but I do not think it necessary. I am so much bigger than you,” he added dryly.

Owena relaxed, trembling a little. The clock finger moved remorselessly onwards and Quirke waited. Finally the fight seemed to go out of the half-Martian girl.

“All right,” she muttered. “They’re in one of the basements at the de London residence. My husband doesn’t know since he was at the office when I had the abduction made.”

“Thank you. And you freely admit you murdered Gyron de London in the manner I described to your mother?”

“Yes, yes, I admit it. For God’s sake hurry with that antidote! The five minutes are nearly up.”

“Water,” Quirke grinned, “does not require an antidote. That was all I injected into you, Owena. Aqua pura!”

“What!”

“As for my television and radio—just a little game of bluff even as you suggested. I rather thought you might forget yourself—and me—for the moment and seek a means of killing the power in this laboratory. That gave me a chance to move, to good advantage. I will admit that our conversation, from the moment when I injected you, has been transmitted to the police. I moved the necessary switch when your back was turned. So there are many witnesses to your admission that you murdered de London.”

Owena was silent, massaging her arm gently from where the needle had stabbed her. Quirke waited for a moment and then lumbered to the laboratory door, opening it.

“After you,” he said, quietly. “We have an appointment with the Police Commissioner.”