A Borrowed Man (7 page)

“If the card for this room was on your brother's body, the people who killed him presumably have it now.”

Colette nodded. “I'm sure you're right. The police didn't give me anything. They must have taken everything.”

“You attended his funeral, didn't you?”

“Yes. You're thinking of the morticians. They didn't give me any cards, either. All right if I sit down?”

“Of course.” I moved aside, and Colette took the chair in front of one of the screens. I said, “What about another relative? Might not the morticians have given a few of your brother's possessions to someone else?”

She shrugged. “I doubt it. I was paying them. It cost a lot.”

“Who paid for your father?”

“Cob and I.” Colette sighed. “That one cost a lot, too. Cob picked out everything, but I paid half. It was before I got my inheritance, and it took almost everything I had.”

“Did he receive as much as you did?”

“More, really. A lot m-more. H-He got…” She had started to cry and was rummaging in her shaping bag for a handkerchief. I gave her mine and apologized.

“Oh, it's all right. Talking about it just made me think of—can I tell you? I need to tell somebody and there's nobody else.”

“Certainly. I wish you would.”

“We got the same amount of money, and it was a lot. A lot more than I'd expected. Not the stocks and bonds until we're thirty, and not the real estate except that Cob got this house, too. I suppose it was because he was a son and I was just a daughter, and he was older. He was still living close by, too; but I'd moved away and so forth. I really don't know why Father did it that way, but he did. I didn't say anything, but Cob saw how I felt. I'm no good at hiding my feelings. I'm sure you've noticed.” Through tears, her lovely violet eyes stared up at mine, seeking understanding.

I said, “Not at all.”

“Anyway, he came to me after it was all over, the reading of the will and the transfers, and he said he didn't think it was fair for him to get the house, too, so he was giving half to me. We'd see the lawyer again and have him arrange it. I said he was w-wonderful, which he was, and kissed him.”

I said her brother must have been a fine man.

“He was, only that wasn't the end of it. We went out to dinner together, after. While we were eating he said, ‘Now that you own half the house, Colette, I'd like to buy it from you. How much do you want?' I thought that he was teasing me at first, but he was completely serious. He was giving me half the house, but he wanted to buy it back. I—well, I said for him to make me an offer, but he wouldn't do it. Finally I said I'd have to think about it.”

“That was wise, I'm sure.”

“So I paid an appraiser to look at it. He gave me a valuation of two million five hundred thousand.” Colette paused. “Don't look so surprised.”

I managed to tell her that I knew nothing about real estate.

“There's the house and the hangar and the garage with space for four ground cars in it, and the barn for horses, and the greenhouse, and so on, and almost four square kilometers of pasture. The house doesn't have a ballroom, or even a private theater, but it's quite large and rather nice.”

I said I felt sure it must be worth at least as much as the appraiser had said and more.

She nodded. “So at first I was going to ask a million two hundred and fifty thousand. Then I felt bad about that when I remembered how generous Cob had been to me. So I made it one million even. Of course he took it and sent me the million.”

“Now you'll have the whole house, I suppose, and your brother's fortune as well.”

Colette nodded again. “I suppose so. I'm the only one left. Except that really we're all family, aren't we? Even you. All we humans have got to be related, however distantly. Humanity can't have evolved twice, or at least I wouldn't think so. I'll give some of Cob's money to charity. Quite a lot, I believe.”

I said it was good of her and went over to a file cabinet. “These are yours, too. Do you mind if I look?”

“Not at all. Please let me know if you find anything interesting.”

As I pulled out the uppermost drawer of the nearest file cabinet, I said, “I'm surprised that your father still had these, and all these papers to put in them. Isn't everything on screens now?”

Colette shrugged. “There are still things we've got to have paper for, stock certificates, for example. Deeds and affidavits and everything else that requires an actual signature.”

I was still thinking about the stock certificates. “Couldn't the company record your ownership?”

“It does, of course, because they have to know where to send your dividends. But suppose their screens were hacked?”

“There's still hacking?” I was surprised; no doubt my face showed it.

“Yes, quite a lot of it. I'm told—don't ask me to do this, I don't know how—that you can program your own screen to hack someone else's and alert you when it's gotten through.”

I pulled out a file. “Perhaps that's why your father had these.”

“What are they?”

“Articles from the
Hanover Journal of Astrophysics
. They look as though he printed them out. They aren't whole issues, simply individual articles he must have found of particular interest.”

Colette said, “He wasn't a scientist by training—or at least I don't believe he was. But he was interested in just about every science you could name. Physics was only one of them. Chemistry, too, and geology.”

A moment later I said, “Thus far I've found six pieces by a K. Justin Roglich. Can you look in that screen's address book for his name?” I spelled it.

I was reading one of Roglich's articles when Colette said, “Here he is, Ern. He's a Ph.D. and so forth. A full professor, too. He's on the faculty at Birgenheier, over in Owenbright. Are we going to voice him?”

“No, you are.” I had found a paragraph in one of his articles that had been highlighted. “Tell him who you are, and explain that your father's dead. Say that you believe—no, let me rephrase that. Tell him that you know your father consulted him, and that you'd like to consult him yourself. Say you'll be happy to pay him for his time and trouble.”

“All right, if you say so. I just hope you know what you're doing.”

I took a deep breath. “So do I.”

“You have a nice smile. Want to explain?”

“Not now. Voice Dr. Roglich, please, if you can get him. Leave a message if you can't.”

She did, and looked to me for further instructions when she had done it.

“One more thing. No, several more. First, I want you to turn up a list of print-on-demand sites. Pick one, and place an order for a copy of
Murder on Mars
. Will you do that, please?”

“By E. A. Smithe.”

“Correct. Tell them to send it here or to your place in Spice Grove. It doesn't matter.”

Colette did as I had asked, watched by me. I was nervous and trying not to show it.

There was a pause that seemed terribly long. Then a reply:
No such title.

She looked to me for further instructions. “They can't find it.”

I said, “Try another site, please,” and turned back to the filing cabinet and its many crowded drawers. I was not looking for anything in particular, just doing something to keep myself from staring at Colette and making her nervous. There were handwritten receipts for uncut gems, so I read a few of them.

She said, “Same thing, Ern. Apparently they haven't got the text.”

“That's not exactly the same. The first one said it didn't exist, which we know is wrong. Try the National Library in Niagara. See if they have a copy.”

That took a good twenty minutes. “They say they don't.”

I thanked her.

“Why are you smiling?”

“So I won't cry. I thought your father's locking up your copy of my book meant there was something in it that was exclusive to that particular copy. Now we've found out that it may be in all the copies—assuming that there are others. It's simply a rare book, in other words.”

Slowly, Colette nodded.

“Someone strangled your brother as he returned to this house. Is that correct?”

Colette nodded. “I told you about that. I … well, I'll never get over it. I'll never stop missing him.”

“Have you any reason to suspect that your father was murdered, too?”

“No, none. If—there was a medical examination. I'm told one's required whenever the dead person is under the age of one hundred. My father was only a little over half that.”

“I see. What was the verdict?”

“A blood vessel in his brain had burst. Isn't that what they call a stroke? I don't know the medical term.”

“Not exactly. Let's avoid the grim details. The point is, I think, that the people who visited us last night—the people who may be listening to this now—did not know that the secret of the book existed until after your father had died. Your father was afraid someone might find out, clearly; otherwise he would not have put it in his safe. Presumably no one did. Let's see … your father died, and you attended his funeral and the burial. How long after that did your brother die? It doesn't have to be exact. A quarter? A year?”

“Not that long. The reading of the will was a week—no, six days—after the funeral. Cob was murdered about two weeks after that.”

“Plenty of time.”

“For what?” Colette's eyebrows were up.

“For him to find something in this house. Something he didn't tell you about because he felt sure you wouldn't believe him. That could be it.” I was as puzzled as she looked. “Or because you might want to do something he felt would be dangerous. Or even because he was afraid you'd tell someone who couldn't be trusted.”

“I see. Only…”

“Only you can't imagine what it was he found. I think perhaps I can, a little. But we need to find out a great deal more. Plenty of time, too, for your brother to tell the person who betrayed him. It could've been idle gossip. Did he drink?”

Colette shook her head. Hard.

“In that case it was probably someone he consulted. Someone he confided in to some extent.”

“Don't you think…?” She cupped a hand behind her ear.

“Yes, I do. Not always rightly, but I think. I can't help it. Come with me.”

I left the overfurnished room that had been her father's office, went to the lift tube, and held the door open until she came.

The lift tube let us out in the long bright sunroom that ran along the south side of what appeared to be the oldest part of the house. Earlier, we had come into the house from the kitchen. Now we left through French doors. Without the least idea of where I was going, I walked off over the lawn.

“You're trying to get away from the listening devices, aren't you?”

“Certainly. But a little fresh air may do both of us good. It clears the head.”

“You did a whole lot of talking up there.”

“I did, with a purpose. Your father's secret is hidden somewhere in that book. Do we agree on that?”

“Absolutely!”

Colette was hurrying to keep up, and I slowed my pace accordingly. “Suppose we find it. Suppose we open those two doors or break them down. Suppose we learn exactly how your father gained his sudden wealth. What good will it do you if the people you fear have planted all these listening devices—the people who strip-searched us in your apartment—are still at large? I want to get them out into the open. If I'm guessing right about them, they won't dare kill us until they have the secret. But once we learn it, their learning it will be a snap. Capture either or both of us. Use drugs, torture, or brain scans. Any of the three ought to work quite well.”

“And I'm just a woman.” Colette's smile was a trifle bitter.

“They could wait until I'm back in the library and check me out.” I pointed. “There's a gate in that wall. Where does it go?”

“To the garden. Would you like to see it?”

“Not particularly, but we're approaching a fence. Perhaps we'd better go in.”

We did. There were trees and shrubs that probably bloomed in spring but now (at the dry height of summer) looked half dead. The flower beds were choked with weeds and the grass uncut. We sat in the shade on a granite bench in front of a marble fountain that no longer played.

“I'm going to fix this,” Colette declared. “I have all this money. I'll hire our old gardener back and tell him to find a couple of assistants.”

“Good. May I ask who cuts the lawns? Do you have a service?”

“No, the 'bots do it. They're based in the barn. They'll water and weed this if I tell them to, but they're not real gardeners. No planting or planning or anything like that. Do you want to talk to them?”

I shook my head. “The police will have questioned them. I know there's a 'bot in the house. What about human maids?”

“Not until Mother died. She couldn't stand them and Father didn't want them. People who've never had servants think you can just pay them and leave everything up to them, but in the real world they take a lot of supervision. Humans steal, gossip, drink, and snort dope. 'Bots are sick half the time. Besides, they do crazy things and think they're just fine. Have you ever argued with one?”

I smiled. “Once or twice.”

“Then you know how it is. If it's what they were programmed to do, they think it's perfectly fine no matter what the situation is. A friend of mine who survived a crash told me the steward kept passing out refreshments when their flitter had lost power and was headed for the mountains. I believe her! They can be exactly like that.”

I said, “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you're angry?”

“Yes!” Colette raised her fist. “Usually it's just before I hit them.”