“You dope! Well, hurry around, and I’ll have something ready for you when you get here.”
“But-“
“But nothing. How soon can you start?”
A minute after he had clicked off the visiphone, Lieutenant Caquer went to answer a knock on the shuttered door of the shop.
He opened it. “Oh, hullo, Reese,” he said. “Did Brager send you?”
The policeman nodded.
“He said I was to stay here in case. In case what?”
“Routine guard duty, that’s all,” explained Caquer. “Say, I’ve been stuck here all afternoon. Anything going on?”
“A little excitement. We been pulling in soap-box orators off and on all day. Screwballs. There’s an epidemic of them.”
“The devil you say! What are they hipped about?”
“Sector Two, for some reason I can’t make out. They’re trying to incite people to get mad at Sector Two and do something about it. The arguments they use are plain nutty.”
Something stirred uneasily in Rod Caquer’s memory but he could not quite remember what it was. Sector Two? Who’d been telling him things about Sector Two recently-usury, unfairness, tainted blood, something silly. Although of course a lot of the people over there did have Martian blood in them…
“How many of the orators were arrested?” he asked.
“We got seven. Two more slipped away from us, but we’ll pick them up if they start spouting that kind of stuff again.”
Lieutenant Caquer walked slowly, thoughtfully, to the Gordon apartment, trying his level best to remember where, recently, he heard anti-Sector Two propaganda. There must be something back of the simultaneous appearance of nine soap-box radicals, all preaching the same doctrine.
A sub-rosa political organization? But none such had existed for almost a century now. Under a perfectly democratic government, component part of a stable system-wide organization of planets, there was no need for such activity. Of course an occasional crackpot was dissatisfied, but a group in that state of mind struck him as fantastic.
It sounded as crazy as the Willem Deem case. That did not make sense either. Things happened meaninglessly, as in a dream. Dream? What was he trying to remember about a dream? Hadn’t he had an odd sort of dream last night-what was it?
But, as dreams usually do, it eluded his conscious mind.
Anyway, tomorrow he would question-or help question-those radicals who were under arrest. Put men on the job of tracing them back, and undoubtedly a common background somewhere, a tieup, would be found.
It could not be accidental that they should all pop up on the same day. It was screwy, just as screwy as the two inexplicable corpses of a book-and-reel shop proprietor. Maybe because the cases were both screwy, his mind tended to couple the two sets of events. But taken together, they were no more digestible than taken separately. They made even less sense.
Confound it, why hadn’t he taken that post on Ganymede when it was offered to him? Ganymede was a nice orderly moon. Persons there did not get murdered twice on consecutive days. But Jane Gordon did not live on Ganymede; she lived right here in Sector Three and he was on his way to see her.
And everything was wonderful except that he felt so tired he could not think straight, and Jane Gordon insisted on looking on him as a brother instead of a suitor, and he was probably going to lose his job. He would be the laughingstock of Callisto if the special investigator from headquarters found some simple explanation of things that he had overlooked…
Jane Gordon, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her, met him at the door. She was smiling, but the smile changed to a look of concern as he stepped into the light.
“Rod!” she exclaimed. “You do look ill, really ill. What have you been doing to yourself besides forgetting to eat?”
Rod Caquer managed a grin.
“Chasing vicious circles up blind alleys, Icicle. May I use your visiphone?”
“Of course. I’ve some food ready for you; I’ll put it on the table while you’re calling. Dad’s taking a nap. He said to wake him when you got here, but I’ll hold off until you’re fed.”
She hurried out to the kitchen. Caquer almost fell into the chair before the visiscreen, and called the police station. The red, beefy face of Borgesen, the night lieutenant, flashed into view.
“Hi, Borg,” said Caquer. “Listen, about those seven screwballs you picked up. Have you-“
“Nine,” Borgesen interrupted. ‘We got the other two, and I wish we hadn’t. We’re going nuts down here.”
“You mean the other two tried it again?”
“No. Suffering Asteroids, they came in and gave themselves up, and we can’t kick them out, because there’s a charge against them. But they’re confessing all over the place. And do you know what they’re confessing?”
“I’ll bite,” said Caquer.
“That you hired them, and offered one hundred credits apiece to them.”
“Huh?”
Borgesen laughed, a little wildly. “The two that came in voluntarily say that, and the other seven-Gosh, why did I ever become a policeman? I had a chance to study for fireman on a spacer once, and I end up doing this.”
“Look-maybe I better come around and see if they make that accusation to my face.”
“They probably would, bit it doesn’t mean anything, Rod. They say you hired them this afternoon, and you were at Deem’s with Brager all afternoon. Rod, this moon is going nuts. And so am I. Walter Johnson has disappeared. Hasn’t been seen since this morning.”
“What? The Regent’s confidential secretary? You’re kidding me, Borg.”
“Wish I was. You ought to be glad you’re off duty. Maxon’s been raising seven brands of thunder for us to find his secretary for him. He doesn’t like the Deem business, either. Seems to blame us for it; thinks it’s bad enough for the department to let a man get killed once. Say, which was Deem, Rod? Got any idea?”
Caquer grinned weakly.
“Let’s call them Deem and Redeem till we find out,” he suggested. “I think they were both Deem.”
“But how could one man be two?”
“How could one man be killed five ways?” countered Caquer. “Tell me that and I’ll tell you the answer to yours.”
“Nuts,” said Borgesen, and followed it with a masterpiece of understatement. “There’s something funny about that case.”
Caquer was laughing so hard that there were tears in his eyes, when Jane Gordon came to tell him food was ready. She frowned at him, but there was concern behind the frown.
Caquer followed her meekly, and discovered he was ravenous. When he’d put himself outside enough food for three ordinary meals, he felt almost human again. His headache was still there, but it was something that throbbed dimly in the distance.
Frail Professor Gordon was waiting in the living room when they went there from the kitchen. “Rod, you look like something the cat dragged in,” he said. “Sit down before you fall down.”
Caquer grinned. “Overeating did it. Jane’s a cook in a million.”
He sank into a chair facing Gordon. Jane Gordon had sat on the arm of her father’s chair and Caquer’s eyes feasted on her. How could a girl with lips as soft and kissable as hers insist on regarding marriage only as an academic subject? How could a girl with—
“I don’t see offhand how it could be a cause of his death Rod, but Willem Deem rented out political books,” said Gordon. “There’s no harm in my telling that, since the poor chap is dead.”
Almost the same words, Caquer remembered, that Perry Peters had used in telling him the same thing. Caquer nodded.
“We’ve searched his shoo and his apartment and haven’t found any, Professor,” he said. “You wouldn’t know, of course, what kind-“