THERE WAS NOTHING IN Inspector Beckford’s large off-white office except the inspector, two off-white chairs, and Jake.
After dusting off the seat of his chair with a plyochief, the trim blond Beckford seated himself. “My associates tell me you alluded to me as a first-class jerk,” he said.
“I didn’t want to use stronger language in front of them,” said Jake. “I never like to see a robot blush. What exactly do you want?”
“They also stated that you referred to me as Becky.”
“Not a term of endearment.” Jake spun the chair around, sat straddling it.
“I prefer not to be called Becky, Cardigan.”
“Fine. Why am I here?”
“That’s precisely what I’m most anxious to learn,” Inspector Beckford told him. “What does bring you to London?”
“Personal business.”
“You may recall that I didn’t care for you when you were a California police officer and came poking around in London some years ago,” said the inspector. “I find I care for you even less now that you’re nothing more than a private investigator.”
Jake reflected. “I guess I dislike you about the same as I did back seven years ago. No more, no less.”
Beckford rested his hands on his knees, watching Jake. “This Unknown Soldier case is one I don’t want anyone interfering with,” he warned.
“Whoa now. You don’t have any jurisdiction in France.”
“Don’t try playing schoolboy games with me. You’re much too along in years to bring it off, Cardigan.”
Grinning, Jake asked, “There’s been a new killing, huh? Right here in England.”
“I assumed you already knew that. Isn’t that why you came over to England in such a rush?”
“No, it isn’t. Who’s the victim?”
“Senator Ainsworth. He was murdered outside the apartment of his current mistress,” answered the inspector. “His skycar pilot was only stunned. Ainsworth, of course, was killed by having his body quartered.”
“Do all the details match the other killings?”
Leaving his chair, Beckford slowly walked to the room’s solitary window. He stared out at the gray day. “The description of the killer matches, his method was the same.”
“But something’s bothering you?”
“I know you’ve been hired to look into the murder of Joseph Bouchon. Are there really any indications that he wasn’t a victim of the Unknown Soldier?”
“Some, yeah.”
The inspector returned to his chair. He dusted it again before reseating himself. “The note he left last night contained a variation.”
“Which was?”
“In addition to his usual message, he added a postscript. It consisted of one word—‘True.’ ”
“Which could mean,” said Jake, “that this was a true Unknown Soldier kill and not an imitation.”
“You’re thoroughly convinced, are you, that there are two separate killers?”
“There seem to be,” said Jake. “There’s the Unknown Soldier and there’s the copycat who did in Bouchon.”
Inspector Beckford said, “You give me your word that you aren’t in England to interfere in my investigation?”
“Until you told me, I didn’t even know there’d been a new killing.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Crystal Palace Hotel.”
The inspector stood. “You may consider our interview at an end.”
Gomez recognized both of the goons who were standing in the conservatory, glaring down at the sprawled Madeleine Bouchon. They were the exact same lads who’d burst into Eddie Anguille’s room at the Hotel Algiers yesterday. In fact, the needlegun thrust in the belt of the larger of the two louts was probably the same one that had been used to shred the informer to tatters.
“What I really need right now,” the lurking detective said to himself, “is a diversion.”
He was crouched in the galley next to the conservatory, having snuck about the houseboat and slipped in there. He was watching the two husky men threaten Madeleine, his eye to the slit of the barely open door between the two rooms.
“You understand?” The one with the needlegun squatted next to the woman. “You better forget all about your husband’s murder, lady.”
His companion squatted, too, grabbing hold of her blonde hair. He yanked hard, jerking her head up clear of the carpeting. “All you got to remember is that the Unknown Soldier killed the bastard.”
Gomez overcame an impulse to go charging in there. He looked around and noticed Maurice, the serving robot, standing stiff in a shadowy corner of the galley. Quickly, quietly, he slid over to the robot and activated it.
“Oui? How may I be of—”
“Quiet, please,” urged the detective in a whisper. “What I want you to do, Maurice, is walk right into the conservatory and pretend those two lunks in there ordered drinks. Beer, I think, will be the best.”
“Monsieur, I fear I don’t exactly comprehend—”
“Just listen. You miss the glass and, making it look like an accident, you spritz beer into one of the guys’ faces. Then, acting flustered, you drop the glass on his foot. Do you think you can play a scene like that, Maurice old chum, without—”
“One hates to perform one’s duties in such a slovenly fashion.”
“Mrs. Bouchon is in danger. But you and I working as a team can save her.”
“Ah ... but in that case I am yours to command.” The robot rolled to the door, pushed it open, and went into the next room.
“Hey—who the hell are you?”
“Here is your beer, monsieur.”
“Aw, this ain’t the time for booze or ... Yikes!”
“Watch out, you stupid tincan, you shot it in his kisser and ... Ow! Don’t roll over my damn foot.”
Gomez entered then, stungun in hand.
He fired at the one with the needlegun.
The other lout was wiping beer off his face with a plyochief.
The other one had reached for the needlegun, but the stungun beam had hit him square in the chest before his fingers closed on the butt. He stiffened, executed a jerky shuffle off to his left, stumbled, went crashing into the glasswall of the big room.
The remaining goon noticed Gomez, through beer-blurred eyes, and grabbed for his lazgun.
“Nope.” Gomez shot him.
When the sizzling beam hit this one, he went swooping backwards. He flapped his arms for a moment, as though he had suddenly decided he knew how to fly. But he never got airborne. Instead he fell over with an impressive thud, bounced once, and lay still.
Tucking away his stungun, Gomez ran to Madeleine’s side, saying to the robot in passing, “You did a dandy job of distracting them, Maurice.”
“It was rather effective, oui.”
Kneeling, Gomez slid an arm around the blonde woman’s slim shoulders. “You all right, ma’am?”
“I’m not too bad. They’ve only been here a few moments.”
He helped her to stand. “From what I overheard, they’d like you to stop looking into your husband’s death.”
“We’ll keep on,” she said. “In fact, we have something important to take care of as soon as we can.”