Home Fires (30 page)

“Are you saying you didn’t give Chelle your cabin card?”

“No, sir. I did, but it was the next day. I ran into her—I was out on deck where they’d fouled a halyard, and she came over to watch. So we talked for a minute or two, and I slipped her my spare card. Some girls really go for that, sir. They like being up here with an officer.”

“Mostly tourist-class girls, I would imagine.”

Brice shook his head. “I try to stay away from those.”

“You must know who was in this room when the shooting occurred.”

“No, sir. I was still in the infirmary.”

“Someone must have told you,” Skip insisted.

“No, sir. Nobody did, and I haven’t asked. I still feel pretty rocky. Weak, you know. That’s been on my mind a lot more than what happened up here.”

“I could name almost everyone who was in here when I regained consciousness, although I’m more interested in someone who wasn’t. Most of all, I’m interested in the one person I didn’t already know. If you can tell me who he is, I’ll be grateful. Extremely grateful.”

Brice shook his head. “I don’t know who any of them were, sir, except for you. You said you were here, that you were shot in here.”

“I was. This man is elderly. His hair is white. He wears glasses. He has a white mustache and a pointed beard long enough to cover the knot in his tie. They’re neatly trimmed. He’s thin, and a good ten centimeters taller than most men—about your height or a trifle more. He walks with a blackthorn stick and smokes a corncob.”

“How sure are you about all this, sir?”

“Certain. I talked with him, although not for long. I realized how tall he was when he stood up.”

“I don’t know him. I can’t think of anybody remotely like that, not even somebody I saw on tele. He was well dressed? You said something about a necktie.”

Skip nodded. “Seersucker suit. Blue stripes, I think. Soft white shirt. Navy-blue tie with a red figure. I couldn’t tell what the figure was, but it was probably some kind of animal. White wing-tip shoes, well polished.”

Brice grinned. “Socks?”

“White. His watch looked expensive, but I didn’t recognize the make. No rings. This isn’t helping you, and you’re not helping me. Let me try another question. Do you know anyone currently on this ship named White?”

Brice paused to think, his fingers drumming the arm of the couch. “No, sir. No, I don’t. I knew a White in the Naval Academy, sir. Bob White. I couldn’t tell you where he is now.”

There was a knock at the door.
“Steward.”
Brice rose to admit a short, dark man with a tray.

When the coffee and sandwiches had been apportioned, Skip said, “Someone called the man I described Mr. White. If—”

“I thought you said you didn’t know his name.”

“I don’t.” Skip took a bite of his sandwich, chewed, and rediscovered that he was ravenously hungry. “I heard him called that. It may not be his real name. If I were made to bet, I’d bet that it isn’t.”

Another bite of toast, turkey, and bacon gave Brice time in which to speak if he wanted it. He did not.

“I watched the people Mick Tooley brought get off Soriano’s boat,” Skip said. “I saw Soriano’s men, too. This man wasn’t in either group. Therefore ‘Mr. White’ is a crewman or a passenger. Would you know him if he were in the crew?”

“Absolutely. From what you say, he’d be the oldest crew member by far.”

“Then he’s a passenger. I’m not sure the purser’s office tells me the truth. Will you call for me, and let me listen in?”

Brice moved to the bed to use his computer. Settled there, he selected a number and touched the screen to turn up the volume.

“Purser’s office.”

“This is Lieutenant Brice. I’m looking for a male passenger named White—Mr. White. How many have we got?”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Brice waited.

“None, sir.”

“No passengers named White?” Brice looked at Skip inquiringly.

“Try Blue,” Skip told him.

Brice nodded and told the purser’s mate, “How about Blue? Mr. Blue. Anything like that.”

“I’ll check, sir.”

Brice waited again.

“We’ve got one, sir. Mastergunner Chelle Sea Blue, sir. Stateroom Twenty-three C.”

Brice glanced at Skip, who said, “Hang up.”

“Thanks,” Brice told the purser’s mate, and did.

Skip rose and began to pace.

“Sorry I haven’t been of more help, sir.” Brice rose, too.

“So am I. I want you to promise me that if anything turns up related to that shooting, or you learn anything you think might be of value to me, you’ll let me know.”

“Will you promise not to take me to court?”

“Yes. I will. I do.”

“Then I’ll help you all I can.” Brice returned to his sandwich and iced coffee.

“Good.” Skip smiled, and wondered how long it had been since he had smiled last. “I need more favors. Will you question your steward for me? Find out if he knows anything?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I’m going to go down to the infirmary to talk to Susan.” As he opened the door, Skip turned. “One more thing. Tonight’s Formal Night in first class.”

“I know.” Brice sighed. “Full-dress uniform, with decorations.”

“Come by our table. I don’t know which one it will be. You’ll have to find us.”

Brice nodded.

“Supposedly, this ‘Mr. White’ will be there. Have a look at him. Did I give you my card?”

“No. Maybe you could give me your phone number, too.”

REFLECTION 15

Summum Jus Summa Injuria

To be admitted to the bar is to be admitted to that area in the courtroom that is closed to everyone save the judge, the attorneys, and the witnesses. In times past, those ambitious to become attorneys attended court in order to familiarize themselves with the law, sitting as near as possible in order to hear better. When they were believed to have learned enough to practice, they were allowed to pass the bar that prevented spectators from intruding upon the workings of the court.

I passed the bar long ago, and have appeared in court more than a thousand times; yet I am not permitted to have even a small penknife on my person. I might (as the law supposes) produce that fearsome weapon, mount to the bench in a dazzling leap, and employ it to slice open His Honor’s gizzard. This in a city in which ten thousand dojos teach their students how to kill with their bare hands.

The bailiff is armed by law and custom, and everyone knows it. What far fewer know is that most judges have guns concealed by their robes. The police, who do know it, and who know too that it is a violation of the law, wink at it. If in an instant I were to become violently insane, I might slaughter one or two persons with my deadly penknife. The judge (judges assure us) will not yield to insanity, since judges never do.

I have known judges who thought themselves God; it would seem that they were right. I was in court when another ridiculed a woman because she was pregnant. A judge once ruled that fleeing from the police gave the police reasonable cause to arrest, question, search, and lock up the terrified boy who fled. Who wouldn’t flee from the police, if he (or she) thought he could escape?

There’s a common thread running through all this, or so it seems to me. It is giving in to fear, the surrender that used to be named cowardice. The boy was afraid of the police for good reason; but the police were afraid of him, simply because he feared them. The judge who ridiculed the pregnant woman had at last found someone he felt certain could never harm him, a victim who could not strike back under any circumstances. The judge who thinks himself God has found a fantasy that makes him safe, God being beyond the range of human weapons.

The judges who bring their pistols to court fear even disarmed men and women, knowing in their hearts that some of their decisions should get them lynched.

16

TABLE FOR FOUR

Susan was in a private room more cramped than Chelle’s. She smiled wanly when Skip came in. “I’ve been wondering when you’d get around to me.”

There was no chair, only a white-enameled stool. Skip sat. “I learned that you were in here about one hour ago, perhaps less.” When Susan said nothing, he added, “I was unconscious until eleven this morning.”

“We’ve all got to sleep. They keep shooting me full of dope.”

“Considering that you shot Dr. Prescott, I’d call it very kind of them.”

Susan was silent for half a minute or more, seemingly studying beige walls without portholes. At last she said, “You know about that?”

“It was obvious. There were three of you in there holding Chelle. The old man had no gun—he took yours to shoot Rick. Two guns had been used to kill Dr. Prescott. One had also been used to kill his nurse. Do I have to go on?”

“No.” The wan smile returned. “You’ve made one mistake already. Maybe you’d better stop.”

“You didn’t shoot Dr. Prescott?”

“I did it. I was supposed to kill him, and Rick was supposed to kill the nurse. I loved him, loved Rick. Or thought I did, and thought he loved me.”

Skip shrugged. “Perhaps he did.”

“He was a m-machine.”

“He was a cyborg, part human and part machine. They do it with accident victims when there aren’t enough limbs and organs available. I’ve met a few. Possibly they’re capable of love, or some are. I wouldn’t know.”

“I thought you knew everything.”

“A moment ago, you said I’d made a mistake already. Aren’t you contradicting yourself?”

“I suppose.” Her voice was weak. “Why did you come to see me?”

“There were three reasons, and it’s going to take me a while to go through all three. What was my mistake?”

The wan smile flickered again. “Give me the first reason and I’ll tell you.”

Skip smiled in return. “I’ll give you the first two—there would be no point in separating them. I care about you, Susan. I care about you, but I’ve treated you badly. I know that. I owe you damages.
Damnum absque injuria
is damage still. Is there anything at all I can do for you? Anything I can get you?”

Her head moved from side to side, five degrees one way and five the other.

“Then I’ll go on to the second. We’ll make port soon, and it could be as soon as tomorrow. An officer I spoke to thought it would be possible with fair winds and good luck. When we do, you’ll probably—probably, not certainly—be arrested. If you talk, you may be charged with murder.”

“Or even if I don’t talk.”

“Correct. Who killed the nurse?”

“Rick did.” Susan shut her eyes. When she opened them again she said, “He’d wanted me to. I said I didn’t think I could shoot another woman, so we traded. I shot the doctor. Then Rick shot him when he didn’t die right away.”

“Shot him twice.”

Susan’s eyes closed again. “Several times. I don’t know how many.”

“I’ll defend you, if you want me to, without fee. If you’d like to engage me, we need to get that settled right now. As things stand, it will be hard for me to withhold information from the police. On some matters it will be nearly impossible. Make me your attorney and it will get much easier. Once we’re ashore, I’ll resign the case and assign someone else to handle the trial.”

“I’d rather have you.” She was groping for his hand.

Skip made sure that she did not find it. “I’ll be a witness for the defense, so that’s out. Do you want me to represent you? Now?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then that’s settled. I’ll deal with the police to the best of my ability. You must insist upon having your attorney—Mick Tooley or me—present before you’ll talk to them. I can see you’re badly hurt, and that will make it difficult.”

Susan’s eyes closed. “Difficult is my specialty.”

“Fine. I’ll enlist Dr. Ueda if I can. She would be of enormous assistance to us.”

Susan did not speak.

“I think I know what happened to you. Do you want to tell me?”

“I thought he loved me.…” Susan’s voice hardly rose above a whisper.

“Perhaps he did. He was not simply a machine.”

“He used me.”

“So did I.” Skip’s voice was as soft as hers.

“Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

“I’ll have to leave soon, but I’m not leaving now. Who is the old man who shot Rick?”

“I don’t know. Why did he shoot Rick?”

“That’s one of the things I’m trying to find out. You called him Mr. White, and said Mr. White had said you could be the one to kill me.”

Susan nodded.

“Who is he?”

“He was Rick’s boss.…” Her voice faded away.

“Is he a passenger on this ship?”

“Rick did what he said to do. Except when he didn’t. Rick called him Mr. White, so that was what I called him. Can’t you see that none of this matters, Skip?”