Eros at Zenith: Book 2 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (2 page)

“How late are these places open?” asked Crane, suddenly realizing that he hadn't eaten in quite some time.

“Around the clock, sir,” replied Oglevie. “There is no day or night aboard the
Velvet Comet
.”

“I thought I was told that the body was discovered at 0200 hours, ship's time,” said Crane sharply.

“Two in the morning,” nodded Oglevie. “That would be about right, sir. When I said that we had no day or night, I meant of course that we are a 24-hour-a-day operation.”

“Of course,” repeated Crane.

They passed a cocktail lounge filled with angular chrome chairs and polished obsidian tables.

“What the hell is
that?
” demanded Crane suddenly.

“What, sir?”

“That man with the make-up job,” said Crane, indicating a middle-aged man with bright red lips and black grease paint which had been applied in a diamond-shaped pattern that made it appear as if he were crying. “He sure as hell can't be a customer.”

“No, Sir. He works here.”

“Are you trying to tell me women find that attractive?” asked Crane. “Because if you are...”

“I really couldn't say, sir. His name's Pagliacci. He works as a comedian in one of the nightclubs.”

“I hope his jokes are funnier than his make-up.”

“I've never caught his act, sir,” replied Oglevie.

Crane took a final look at the comedian, shook his head, and once again fell into step behind Oglevie.

After another few minutes they came to a large, ornate door.

“This is the place?” asked Crane.

Oglevie nodded. “I'll wait outside for you, sir.”

“That won't be necessary. I don't know how long I'll be, so you might as well go back to work.”

Oglevie looked relieved. “As you wish, sir.”

Crane watched the security man walk away, then turned to the door. He was just about to reach out and press a small buzzer when it slid back into the wall, revealing a spacious and tastefully-furnished office.

The beige carpeting was deep and luxuriant, there was a well-stocked hardwood bar on the back wall, and a pair of fur-covered couches faced each other across a large chrome coffee table which he suspected was also a computer. Half a dozen computer screens were set unobtrusively into one wall, while holographs and paintings were carefully hung on the remaining walls. A pair of stylish chrome chairs faced an artificial fireplace that was made of highly-polished opalescent quartz which seemed to catch the indirect lighting of the room and reflect it back in a myriad of changing colors.

As the door slid shut behind him, Crane stepped into the office and began scrutinizing it more carefully.

The holographs on the wall instantly captured his attention, and he walked over and stood before them. There were eleven, each displaying the likeness of a lovely and exotically-clad woman, and he paused to examine them individually.

“My predecessors,” said a feminine voice.

He turned and saw a tall, slender, strikingly beautiful black woman standing in a doorway just to the right of the fireplace.

Her hair was piled high atop her head, strung through with shining gold beads. Her single garment was a glittering strip of metallic gold cloth, carefully wound around her body in a series of spirals that exposed almost as much as it concealed. Large circular golden earrings, a number of golden bracelets, and a pair of delicate golden sandals completed the picture.

“You're the Black Pearl?” he said.

“Good old lucky Number Thirteen,” she replied with a grimace. “You must be Mr. Crane, here to bring the murderer to justice.”

“There are only eleven holographs on the wall,” he noted.

“The Corporation decorated my office, and for some reason saw fit not to display one of the holographs.”

She smiled. “I assure you that there really have been twelve previous madams.”

“I've never met a madam before,” he said awkwardly. “How does one address you?”

“As the Black Pearl,” she replied. “It's my name.” She paused, obviously amused by his uneasiness. “I, on the other hand, have never met a detective before.”

“For all I know, neither has your Chief of Security,” said Crane. “At least, she hasn't met
this
one.”

“She's probably busy trying to solve the crime before you take over,” remarked the Black Pearl. “She's a very proud woman, the Dragon Lady.”

“She's also a very frightened one,” added Crane. “And not without cause.”

“Why should you say that, Mr. Crane?”

“Because a patron was killed in an area that patrons theoretically can't gain access to. That means your security system has been breached, and she's in charge of it.”

“Then shouldn't you be talking to her instead of me?”

“I plan to,” he said ominously. “In the meantime, I thought I ought to meet the person in charge of the ship.”

“Well, now that you're here,” she said, walking to the bar, “can I fix you a drink?”

He shook his head. “I don't drink.”

She sighed. “I suppose you disapprove of prostitution and gambling, too.”

“I haven't given it any thought.”

“That's just as bad,” she said with a chuckle. “If enough people don't think about it, we're out of business.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You don't seem very upset about what's happened up here.”

“Of course I am,” replied the Black Pearl. “But I've got 509 very wealthy, very demanding prima donnas on board who'll be even more upset if I stop tending to their comforts.” She stared at him. “Or have I got 510?”

“I'm not sure I understand you,” said Crane.

“If your understanding is that faulty, you're never going to catch our killer, Mr. Crane,” said the Black Pearl. “You're here to complain because the Dragon Lady wasn't at the airlock to meet you.”

“Am I?”

She nodded. “It's the only subject that seems to interest you so far.”

“There are others,” he said. “For one thing, I'll need a place to stay until this case, is over.”

“In the Home?”

“I'd prefer one of the suites in the Resort,” said Crane.

“They're very expensive.”

“Vainmill will pay for it. And arrange to have all my meals billed to Vainmill.”

“You certainly like your comfort.”

“Yes, I do. Have you any objection?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “I approve whole-heartedly of people who like their comfort. Will you be wanting a companion for your suite?”

“I hadn't given it any thought,” he responded.

“Ah, that's right: you don't think about such things. Well, if you get lonely, let us know.” She walked over to a couch. “Do you mind if I sit down, Mr. Crane?”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, looking away as she lowered herself to the couch and readjusted her outfit.

“Don't be embarrassed,” she said. “These are just my working clothes. I can get a robe if my outfit distracts you.”

“How you people choose to dress is a matter of complete indifference to me,” said Crane.

“How disappointing,” she replied with mock regret.

“Now,” he said, seating himself opposite her and returning to his subject with a single-minded intensity, “about your Security Chief.”

“All right, Mr. Crane,” sighed the Black Pearl. “What
about
my Security Chief ?”

“Her failure to meet me was more than a breach of etiquette. It shows a blatant disregard for my authority, and I want to determine whether or not it represents an unwillingness on her part to accept Vainmill's decision to send me here.”

“Mr. Crane, I appreciate your concern, but there is a murderer walking the decks of the
Comet
. Wouldn't you be better advised to go searching for him instead of sitting here arguing about protocol?”

“I'll catch him, never fear,” said Crane. “I just want to make sure we understand each other before I begin my investigation.”

“I think we understand each other very well,” she responded easily. “You're concerned with social graces and I'm concerned with apprehending a killer. Given our respective professions, doesn't that seem a little backward to you?”

“Do you plan to answer my question or not?” he demanded.

“You haven't asked one. Look,” she said reasonably, “I'm not the enemy, Mr. Crane. Neither is the Dragon Lady. We are both fully prepared to give you whatever assistance you require. The enemy is out there”—she nodded her head toward the door—“quite possibly preparing to kill again.”

Crane stared at her for a moment. “I realize that people find me abrasive and demanding...” he began.

“You left out tyrannical,” she noted dryly.

“And tyrannical,” he acknowledged. “I can't do anything about the abrasiveness, and I freely admit to being demanding. I'm dedicated to my work, and I expect my subordinates to be just as dedicated. I will not tolerate laziness, disobedience, or insubordination. As long as everyone keeps that in mind, I can be a reasonably pleasant person to get along with.”

“Then we both have the same goal,” she answered. “You won't tolerate sloppy work in hunting down the murderer, and I won't tolerate a continued threat to my patrons. I see no reason why we can't work together.” She paused. “I just hope you're as good a detective as Vainmill seems to think you are.”

“Better,” he said unselfconsciously. “And I'm more than a detective; I'm a damage control expert.”

“Do we need one?”

“If the patrons find out what's happened, you're going to need a dozen of them,” he replied. “How many people know about it so far?”

“Not counting the doctors who might have examined the body, there are just four of us,” said the Black Pearl. “The maintenance man who found the body, the Dragon Lady, the security woman who helped her move it, and myself.”

“Five,” he corrected her. “You're forgetting Oglevie.”

“That's right,” she said, nodding her head. “And he's so eminently forgettable, too. How
is
Uriah Heep this morning?”

He frowned. “Uriah...?”

She smiled. “Don't worry about it. It's just my pet name for him. I suppose the Dragon Lady had to tell him so that he wouldn't be so surprised that he repeated it at the top of his lungs when you mentioned it to him.”

“I take it you don't think too much of Mr. Oglevie?” noted Crane.

“As a matter of fact, I try not to think of him at all,” she replied. “Still, he's the Dragon Lady's second in command.”

“Really? I wouldn't have guessed it from his manner.”

“There are no end of things you wouldn't guess from his manner,” she said. She shot him a quick glance. “I see the wheels starting to turn, Mr. Crane. Forget it. Paxton Oglevie wouldn't have the intestinal fortitude to kill one of the insects he so closely resembles.”

“Then why have you gone out of your way to give me an unflattering picture of him?” he asked her.

“Because you're probably going to have to spend some time in his company, and I felt you should be forewarned. After all, that's what friends are for—and you and I are going to be friends, Mr. Crane.”

“Are we?”

She nodded firmly. “Absolutely—unless you can think of some reason why we should be enemies.”

“None.”

“Then it's settled.” She looked across at him, studying his face. “You know,” she remarked after a moment, “you might be an attractive man if you would just smile occasionally.”

“I'm not in a funny business,” he said.

“Neither am I, when you get right down to it,” she replied. “Yet I smile all the time.”

“I'll smile when I catch the murderer.”

“Just how difficult do you expect that to be?” she asked seriously.

“Well,” he said, “we've got a closed environment here, and a reasonably thorough security system. I'll check out the body and the area where the murder occurred, begin comparing alibis against the record, have the computer put together a history of the victim, and with a little hard work and a little luck I ought to be able to clear this thing up before too long.”

He was right about the methodology, but wrong about the result.

Crane found his way back to the foyer with no difficulty, then took the escalator down to the tramway entrance. A small titanium gate barred his way, and he waited for the computer to check his retinagram.

“I'm sorry, sir,” said a voice. “But the tramway is for use by
Comet
personnel only.”

“Who is this?” demanded Crane.

“Security guard Enoch Lyman, sir,” was the response.

“I assume you're not in my immediate vicinity?”

“That is correct.”

“My name is Andrew Jackson Crane, I work for the Vainmill Syndicate, and I'm here on official business. You can check me out with either Paxton Oglevie or the Black Pearl.”

“One moment, please.” There was a brief period of silence. “Mr. Oglevie has confirmed your identity, Mr. Crane. If you will step up to the computer once again, I will program it to recognize and respond to your retinagram.”

Crane did as he was told, standing in front of the computer's scanning lens.

“All right, sir,” said Lyman's voice. “You will have access to the tramway and the Home for the duration of your stay here.”

The gate slid back, and Crane stepped through to a small platform, where he boarded the enclosed tramcar. He commanded it to start, felt a slight pressure due to the rapid acceleration, and got off when it stopped at the airlock some 80 seconds later.

He took an escalator to the main level, found that it bypassed the airlock and let him off inside the Mall, and was shortly riding a slidewalk to the hospital.

There was a rather small woman waiting for him outside the hospital door. She wore an austerely-tailored burgundy gown, sleeveless and high-collared, on which a dragon had been embroidered in metallic gold thread. It spiralled around her body, and the head seemed to insinuate its way over her left shoulder and come to rest across her breasts, glaring at the world with jeweled eyes.

The woman herself had very short black hair that was touched with gray. She had managed to accumulate a few excess pounds over the years, but Crane could tell at a glance that she had once been quite beautiful. There was a hint of the Oriental about her face, though each of her features seemed Caucasian.