The Questor Tapes (14 page)

The immigration man studied the sketch closely. “It’s getting close now, I’d say, sir. His hair may have been darker.”

“No,” Lydia Parker said. “If anything, just a bit lighter.” The other girl nodded in agreement.

Darro turned to the artist. “Lighter. I’ll trust the female eye on that.”

A Scotland Yard inspector entered the room and came to Darro’s side. Darro glanced at him questioningly. The inspector extended a paper. “Since you asked to see anything at all unusual, sir, here’s a report from a Soho district club. A rather remarkable run of luck.”

Darro snatched the paper from the man’s hand and examined it. “That’s not an extraordinary run of luck, Inspector. That’s an android using his computer at full capacity. Get me the people who saw him in there.”

“Mr. Darro, you’re talking about twenty or more people, some of whom would certainly not come forward.”

Darro turned on him, his big frame somehow menacing. “Inspector, I do not care how you do it . . . who you have to talk to, cajole, connive, or otherwise convince anyone who saw the android to come in here. But they are to be here in one hour flat. Is that understood?”

The inspector pulled his mouth in a grimace of distaste, but he nodded. “Yes, sir, I do. I can’t say I understand why you’re so upset about this robot, though.”

“If you had ever met this
android,
Inspector, you would. Believe me . . . you would.”

1 1

J
erry Robinson was only faintly aware of a knock at the door of the room. He sighed and curled a little deeper into the comfortable couch. He had almost made it back into the dream he had been enjoying when a hand tapped his shoulder gently.

“Mr. Robinson,” said Randolph. “Sir?”

Jerry shook off the butler’s hand, but Randolph did not give up easily. “Mr.
Robinson.”

Jerry finally managed to pry open his eyes and look around, disoriented, momentarily confused by his surroundings. He heard Randolph’s voice asking him some question, but he ignored it for the moment. He was fully dressed, except for the suit jacket, which he had pulled over himself as a blanket. He remembered returning to the guest suite after he had left Lady Helena and waiting there for Questor. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

“Will you take breakfast here or on the terrace, sir?” Randolph asked patiently for the third time.

Jerry realized that Questor was not in the sitting room area, nor did he seem to be in the bedrooms. Questor didn’t sleep; but, until now, he had always told Jerry where he would be. Jerry jumped up, pushing past Randolph, and looked into the adjoining bedroom. “Questor?”

“Mr. Robinson—” Randolph began again.

Jerry whirled back to him anxiously. “Have you seen Questor around?”

“Not this morning, sir.”

“Last night?”

Randolph nodded slightly. “Mr. Questor was in Lady Helena’s suite when I retired, sir.”

“In her
suite?
Is she still there? Alone, I mean?”

The butler gave him a very cool, disapproving look. “I really have no intention of inquiring, sir.”

Jerry grabbed up his suit jacket and bolted for the door. Randolph shook his head and sighed. Pity these Americans always seemed to take everything so personally. If Mr. Questor had not returned to the guest suite for the night, that was Mr. Questor’s business, not Mr. Robinson’s. But Randolph supposed he should go along to explain to Lady Helena. She did not appreciate being awakened so early unless it was a matter of importance.

Jerry careened down the curving staircase and along a many-windowed corridor that looked out on the garden. Helena had mentioned in passing that her suite was in the west wing on the ground floor because she liked being near the garden. He found the door and knocked agitatedly. There was no immediate response, and he stopped to shrug into the jacket before he rapped on the door again.

“Lady Helena!” He knocked louder. “Helena, it’s Jerry Robinson. Please, it’s important.”

Mueller’s cold, quiet voice interrupted him. “I shall ask this only once, sir. Leave that door immediately.”

Jerry started to turn angrily. “No!” His defiance vanished like a drop of water on a hot griddle as he saw Mueller reach toward that ominous bulge inside his jacket. “Oh now, look . . .” Jerry said placatingly. He stumbled through a smile, a shrug, and an attempt to make Mueller see reason. “I’m worried about my friend . . . and your mistress . . . and I can’t explain why to you!”

Randolph hurried toward them; but Jerry knew the elderly servant would be no match against the powerful Mueller, even if Randolph was of a mind to interfere. Mueller grabbed Jerry’s arm and started to twist it behind his back.

Lady Helena’s door opened, and she stepped partway out. All three men stopped, staring at her, as if frozen by her appearance. Her dark hair was down, curling loosely and attractively around her shoulders. Even without makeup, she glowed with a natural beauty—a beauty enhanced by the sheer pink negligee she wore.

Randolph moved first, stepping forward apologetically. “I’m sorry, Lady Helena, but this person—”

“I know what he wants,” she interrupted. “Please see to the breakfast arrangements, Randolph.”

The butler hesitated, then bowed, and started to back away. “Yes, madam.”

Her dark eyes moved to Mueller, who was still holding Jerry’s arm in a viselike grip. “I’ll speak to you later, Mueller.”

Mueller reluctantly released Jerry. He did not like the order, but his instinct was to obey Lady Helena instantly and without question. He nodded to her and left.

Now it was Robinson’s turn to come under the scrutiny of those lovely dark eyes. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed that searching look; but at the moment he was embarrassed and unsure as to how to proceed.

“You said it was important, Mr. Robinson.” Her tone softened. “Jerry?”

“I just . . . wanted to know if you were all right.”

Helena smiled faintly. “I’ve never felt better.”

Jerry hesitated; he felt like a small boy, and he didn’t like it. Then he realized that she was waiting for him to go on. “I wondered if you knew where my friend might be.”

She smiled again. “I do.” She opened the door slightly. “Would you like to speak with him?”

Jerry eyed the door, then nodded grimly. “Yes, I think I’ll have quite a bit to say to him.” He started to push inside the room, but Lady Helena caught and held it, stopping him.

“If you’ll wait just a few moments, I’ll get dressed and take you to him.”

Jerry backed off, mortified over what he had simply and unquestioningly assumed. “He’s not . . . ?” She shook her head, slightly amused by the blush that was beginning to crawl up his throat and into his face. “Look, I’m sorry,” he began weakly.

Helena smiled again, with just a touch of wry sadness at the edges of her mouth. “So am I.”

The Scotland Yard office Darro had appropriated on his arrival had changed only in the personnel who rotated through it during the entire night. Phillips had managed to grab an hour’s sleep and five minutes to shave. Darro had not taken any time out at all. Occasionally, Phillips wondered if Vaslovik had made a prototype model of the android and named it Darro. At the moment, the Project Questor chief was questioning a sleepy and rumpled croupier at a private club where two Americans had had “an unusual run of luck.” A British security man and a bobby stood unobtrusively in the background as Phillips exhibited the artist’s rendering of Questor. The croupier looked at it closely, then glanced up at the security man and Darro. He shrugged and shook his head doubtfully.

“Must be a hundred people roll dice at my table every evening, guv’nor.”

“But not many who win close to two thousand pounds in six rolls.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit unusual, but when it happens, guv’nor, you don’t look at the face. You look at the dice.” He gestured at the portrait of Questor. “Any kind of reward for him?”

The security man leaned forward. “Twenty pounds.”

The croupier looked at the picture again. “Twenty? No, can’t say I’ve ever seen him.”

A uniformed London Police supervisor entered quietly with another man. Darro looked around inquiringly. “Supervisor Perkins, sir.” The supervisor jerked a thumb at the other man. “He was the casino doorman on duty after midnight that night.”

Darro nodded. “Thank you. Please close down that establishment.” He waved a hand toward the croupier. “And put this man in jail.”

The croupier started up out of his chair, strangling out a protest, but the security man pushed him back into the seat. The supervisor did not change expression.

“On what charges, sir?”

Darro turned to Phillips. “And you’re to find another prisoner there who is willing to break both his legs for twenty pounds.”

Phillips rose and started for the door. “Yes, sir.”

That was too much, even for the supervisor. “Now, just a moment . . .”

Darro did not bother to look up at him. His voice coldly interrupted, “Your instructions from the home secretary’s office, Supervisor Perkins?”

“To cooperate in every way, sir, but—”

“Then please do so,” Darro said curtly.

The supervisor hesitated. He had been given specific orders to do anything and everything this man Darro wanted. It had been stressed that it was not merely a matter of “hands across the sea,” but a problem of such dimension that it could affect the entire country. He squared his shoulders and turned to the bobby. “Take him in.”

The croupier bounced to his feet and was grabbed by the burly policeman. “Now just a bloody minute,” he howled. “This is
England!
” The bobby ignored his struggles and handcuffed him, then began hauling him toward the door. “Can’t nobody take a joke these days? That’s the one who came in that night . . . that one there in the picture you got.”

“And this man?” Darro held out a photograph of Jerry.

“Yeah . . . yeah, him, too. They were together.”

Darro turned to the very impressed and slightly nervous doorman. “Perhaps you’ll be as helpful.” He showed him the drawing of Questor and the picture of Jerry. “Did you see these men come out of the casino that night?”

The doorman examined the two likenesses and nodded quickly. “Yes, sir! I waved in a taxi for this man and his friend.” He tapped the photo of Jerry. “I’m afraid I didn’t get the cab number, sir, but—”

Darro cut him off, addressing the supervisor, Perkins. “I want copies of that sketch and the photo in the hands of every London cab driver by noon, Perkins. Have the dispatchers concentrate on the evening-shift drivers.”

“By
noon,
sir?” Perkins said, startled.

“I assume you can do it, Perkins, or you would not have been assigned to this case. The home secretary promised me only the top men would be working on it.”

“Well . . . I suppose it might be possible, sir.”

Darro was already on his feet and heading for the door. Phillips picked up his briefcase and started to follow. Darro did not look around as he went out the door. “I’ll check at noon to make sure the dispatchers have enough to cover all shifts, Perkins.”

“Ah, yes sir,” the supervisor said. He was beginning to believe it could be done. In fact, he decided, it definitely could be done. Which was what Darro had known from the beginning.

Jerry followed Lady Helena down steep flights of steps through two subbasements before they reached the level which had been the original cellar. Jerry had had time to notice that she had not bothered with makeup but had merely tied her hair back with a pale blue scarf and slipped into a dark blue suede pantsuit. As they threaded their way back into the depths of a well-stocked wine cellar, Jerry reflected that Lady Helena was probably one of the few women of the world who would wear a designer outfit into a murky, dusty basement. She stopped at a wall completely covered by wine racks holding bottles of vintage years from every major European winery.

“Watch carefully which bottles I adjust,” she said. Very skillfully, not disturbing any dust, she pulled three bottles an inch out of their horizontal resting places.

“Here . . . here . . . wait five seconds . . .” She counted them off silently, and then she moved the third bottle. “. . . then here.”

She stepped back, glancing toward a section of the wall. Jerry could hear a faint motor hum, then a whole section of the wall wine rack hinged out, turning to reveal a dark recess beyond. Helena gestured at the wine bottle “combination” again.

“Memorize that. If the bottles are not pulled in that exact sequence, that concrete wall will slide down to hide this passage.” She looked at Jerry levelly. “Your friend assured me I can trust you.”

Jerry stepped partway into the dark recess and nervously looked up at the tons of concrete poised overhead. “Just . . . step under a hundred tons of concrete . . . and what?”

She reached out to touch his arm lightly. “Jerry . . . trust me. As you should have last night.”

“Questor told you you could trust me?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t . . . he
can’t
lie about things like that.” They exchanged a look—one of understanding and mutual respect. Jerry stepped into the recess. Lady Helena pushed the three bottles back into their original positions in reverse order. The motor hum was heard again, and the wine rack partition swung closed. Jerry was left standing in utter darkness . . . waiting.