The Questor Tapes (13 page)

“It is amusing to be friends with a machine, Mr. Robinson?”

“No . . . it’s not amusing at all.” Jerry smiled warmly, genuinely. “And, as friends, you should call me Jerry.”

“My friend . . . Jerry,” Questor said slowly. He thought it over, liking the sound of it—and liking Jerry’s friendly grin. Then he briskly turned back to business. “Will you establish the necessary relationship with Lady Helena, my friend Jerry?”

Jerry snapped a sharp look at him, then muttered, “Checkmate.”

Questor tilted his head to the right, puzzled. “Checkmate . . . a reference to the game named chess?”

“Also a reference to being had,” Jerry said ruefully. “You’re getting good, Questor.”

“Good at what?”

“Conning people.”

“I do not understand that reference.”

Jerry shrugged into his jacket. “Maybe I’ll explain it to you someday—but by then you’ll probably have figured it out.”

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T
he dining room was equipped with a table that would comfortably seat twenty. Jerry felt rather lonely seated at one end of the long table with Lady Helena and Questor. The dining room itself was pure elegance in muted tones of gold and white. An overhead chandelier shed soft light down on the Limoges china, the delicate crystal, the heavy silver flatware. Fresh flowers sent forth a gentle, sweet scent from their position as centerpiece. The food had been excellent, served silently and efficiently by two maids and a waiter under Randolph’s direction.

Conversation had been general, with Jerry and Lady Helena doing most of the talking. Questor had remained silent, concentrating on the food, interjecting only an occasional remark as Jerry answered Lady Helena’s questions about his background and career. She revealed little of herself but spoke knowledgeably about music, literature, history, and the world in general. Jerry had even begun to relax by the time the main course was ready to be cleared away.

“The chicken cacciatore was delicious, Lady Helena,” he said as he laid his napkin beside his plate.

She smiled graciously. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Robinson.” She looked over at Questor. “And you, Mr. Ques . . .” Her voice faded, followed by her smile as she stared at Questor’s completely cleaned plate.

Questor followed Jerry’s action and set his linen napkin beside his plate as he said, “Savory, madam.”

The waiter stepped up beside Questor to clear away the plates. The man stopped, puzzled, starting at Questor’s dish. It was clean. Where were the bones? Chicken cacciatore had bones in it. The waiter looked around the spotless table, then under the table. Questor watched him quizzically, not understanding the man’s distress. To him, and his stomach furnace, matter was matter. He had simply eaten the bones, not noticing that Jerry and Lady Helena had not. The waiter was now crawling around on the floor. Where the hell were the
bones?

Lady Helena stood abruptly, covering the moment, even though she, too, wondered about the disappearing chicken bones. “Shall we have dessert and coffee on the terrace?”

Questor and Jerry came to their feet as she rose, but Jerry almost sat down again when Questor spoke. “If you will excuse me, I have matters which require attention. And I am sure you will enjoy the company of Mr. Robinson, who is an exceptional human male.” He nodded politely to her and left.

Jerry smiled weakly at Lady Helena. She merely held out a hand toward the doors leading out to the terrace. “This way, Mr. Robinson.”

Randolph had set up a serving cart with a silver coffee service, cups and saucers, and a freshly baked cake ready to be cut. Lady Helena accepted a cup of coffee from him, but waved away the cake for the moment. She waited as Jerry received his cup of coffee and dumped both cream and sugar into it. Perhaps he
was
as interesting as Questor had said. The memory of Questor’s statement and Jerry’s startled reaction to it brought a gentle smile to her lips. “ ‘An exceptional human male.’ It must be gratifying to be called that, Mr. Robinson.” She led the way toward the wall at the end of the terrace, which overlooked another, lower garden. Jerry followed her, uncertainly.

“I . . . would be more gratified if you’d call me Jerry, Lady Helena.”

She smiled over her shoulder at him. “If I can be Helena to you, Jerry.”

They reached the waist-high quarrystone wall overlooking the abundantly flowering garden below. The night was clear, the sky glittering with stars, no moon. It was still comfortably, warm on the terrace, sheltered as it was by the great house. In the far distance, the lights of London cast a pale glow toward the sky. Helena looked even more exquisite than she had this afternoon. Her hair had been pulled back trimly into a French twist, held in place by a diamond hair clip. A white knit gown, simply cut and beautiful on her slim figure, needed no jewelry to enhance it. She wore an emerald ring on her right hand and a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. Jerry wondered about that; but as far as he had ever heard, Lady Trimble was not married.

Jerry took a deep breath, put his cup and saucer down on the stone balustrade, and turned to her. “Helena . . . to be here with a superbly beautiful woman like you, tonight . . . the fragrance of flowers . . . this incredible view . . .” He swept his hand around and knocked the cup and saucer flying. It shattered on the stones below, and Jerry cringed.

Helena felt Jerry’s embarrassment and mortification instantly and turned to him. “I’m delighted you did that,” she said cheerfully. “I detest this china pattern.” She tossed her own cup and saucer over the wall and listened to it smash below.

Jerry hesitated, studying her. She was so unlike what he had thought she would be. He decided to try again. “Helena, it’s not often in a man’s lifetime that he meets a woman who . . . who . . .” He stopped and started over. “I mean, like you and I here . . .”

Helena looked up at him and said softly, “You and I?”

Her eyes seemed to be melting into his, and Jerry suddenly realized he couldn’t handle it. Certainly not on a dishonest level like this. He abruptly pushed away from the wall. “Look, I’m not being honest with you. I’ve made some changes in myself recently, but . . . but trying to use people is one thing I don’t want to learn, even—” He looked at her . . . utterly beautiful, utterly desirable. He remembered the gesture of the coffee cup, and he knew enough about good china to know she had helped him smash a set at least fifty years old. He blurted out the rest of it. “—even if you are what people say you are. Which I’m beginning to doubt very much.”

Then he turned quickly and left, brushing past Randolph into the house. Helena watched him until he was out of sight, then she turned thoughtfully toward the steps leading to the garden below.

Questor had retired to the garden after leaving the table. Had he cared to, he could have adjusted his hearing to take in everything Jerry and Lady Helena had said; instead, he had deliberately busied himself cataloging the many varieties of plants and flowers in the garden. He stopped beside the free-form lily pond and stood for a moment, studying his image in the water. He had been outfitted in a white shirt and school tie, a trim black blazer, and gray slacks. Randolph had carried out the white socks and the shoes he had borrowed from the lab lockers, and Questor had not seen them again. Instead, he had been given black socks and comfortable walking shoes of Italian design. Randolph had chosen the wardrobe with an eye toward what looked best on the man . . . one of the reasons he had remained in Lady Helena’s employ for ten years. Questor had to admit that the new garments made him look much more like the smartly clad young men he had seen in London. There were many things his tapes had either overlooked or which had been erased.

He heard the crash of the china cup and saucer as Jerry knocked them from the balustrade. An argument? Questor automatically turned up the range of his hearing and heard Lady Helena’s light remark about hating that particular pattern. The crash of the second cup and saucer followed. They did not seem to be quarreling, and Questor thought smashing china was a most peculiar manner of expressing affection. However, he had complete faith in Jerry’s ability to accomplish his mission.

Questor puzzled over that for a moment. He had begun with a need for Jerry Robinson to fill the enormous gaps in the programmed tapes. As Questor assimilated, sorted, and cataloged various new inputs, he found his reliance on Jerry had become confidence in the young engineer. “My friend Jerry.” Those words had been a tremendous revelation to Questor. He knew the dictionary meaning: friend, one attached to another by esteem, respect, and affection. These were
feelings
that could be given to another. Jerry had given them to him, without reservation or question.

Suddenly he turned. Human ears would not have heard the very faint sound, but Questor had. Lady Helena had stirred some gravel underfoot as she approached from behind him. She paused on the walk, studying him gravely. Finally she took a deep breath and came to his side.

“Mr. Questor,” she said in greeting.

He nodded slightly. “You have an interesting variety of decorative flora, madam.”

“My husband was very proud of his garden. I’ve had it kept as he liked it.”

“My data does not . . . I mean to say, I did not know you were married.”

She smiled briefly, a sad expression flitting across her lips. “I’m a widow, Mr. Questor. Lord Trimble died ten years ago of a heart attack.” She paused, then went on softly. “I was very much in love with him.”

“I am sorry you were deprived of his presence and his affection. I am sure it was a great loss.”

“Yes.” She looked at him levelly. “Can you explain why you left Mr. Robinson with me?”

Questor began to move slowly down the path, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of some image his data banks had given him. Lady Helena moved beside him, watching him closely.

“Well?”

Questor saw no reason why he should not respond honestly. Certainly Jerry had accomplished his mission by now. “To secure information by making love to you. I trust you told him what you know of Vaslovik.”

Lady Helena stopped, her mouth open in an unladylike gape. Then she brought herself back into control and found her voice. “Mr. Questor, are you trying to be funny?”

“Humor is a quality which seems to elude me.”

She raised her eyebrows.
That
was an understatement—possibly the leading contender for understatement of the decade. She folded her arms and calmly resumed the walk along the white gravel path of the garden. “So this is what your friend could not be dishonest about,” she said, leading him.

Questor tilted his head to the right, puzzled. “He did not make love to you?”

She cleared her throat, faintly embarrassed. “Nor did he receive any information.” She glanced at him and decided to venture the next question as coolly as the female of the species was able. “Is it now your intention to begin where he left off?”

“If vital to an information exchange, I am fully functional. Is it required?”

Lady Helena stopped for the second time in the space of a few minutes—startled, puzzled, and intrigued by this man. He met her eyes with his own direct, bright stare; and she found herself demurely looking away. “I . . . I don’t believe I’ve ever had quite so much trouble knowing how to respond to a question.”

“I have merely answered your queries as factually as possible.”

She lifted her eyes and studied him for a long moment. She believed him completely . . . as she believed Jerry Robinson. But this man was not Jerry. This Questor was different in some strange and utterly fascinating way which she did not understand nor want to resist. “Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to deal with honest men,” she said finally. She leaned forward slightly, provocatively. “Suppose I were to admit I knew this Vaslovik of yours?”

“I would be gratified.”

Lady Helena felt her mouth falling open again and snapped it shut, annoyed. But the man was so obviously leveling with her, she fought down her irritation. Still, some of her annoyance showed in her voice. “You would be gratified? That would be the sum of it?”

“What was Vaslovik’s payment for the information you provided him?”

She was too startled to answer for an instant, then she said, “I would prefer to hear
your
best offer, Mr. Questor.”

Questor tilted his head to the right, considering it very carefully. Then he brought his gaze back to rest on her, and she noticed that his usually unreadable eyes had softened. “I have a . . . commodity which I did not know until recently that I could offer.” He held out his hand to her formally. “Will you accept my friendship?”

Lady Helena felt her heart jerk and begin to pound so wildly that she was positive they would hear it in the house. She could not speak around the lump that had climbed into her throat, so she simply put her hand in Questor’s. His touch was gentle and firm as he politely shook hands with her—and she wondered why she wanted to cry.

Some people said Scotland Yard never closed, never slept, never ceased to function for even a moment. Walter Phillips, Darro’s aide, was ready to believe it. Unlike Darro, he had never been able to sleep on planes; and by now, the time difference, jet lag, and plain lack of sleep had begun to catch up to him. He slumped in a chair, watching a police artist finishing a quite accurate sketch of Questor, as identified by the two stewardesses and the immigration official from the airport. Darro was prodding their memories further.