Psychic Killer: 5/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter Six
Surprisingly, Alan slept. He awoke with sunlight streaming through the window and sat up blinking, wondering for a moment if the night's adventures had been a dream. Mark was pulling on one shoe, over a sock of an almost fluorescent purple. Alan blinked at it. Linley followed his gaze and grimaced.
"Jul bought 'em for me for our anniversary," he explained. "She packed 'em. This way, you can tell her the truth without fibbin' if she asks you if I wore 'em."
Alan grinned, shoving back the covers. He recognized the style as neo-Jil, fashions copied from those of the Jilectan designers by Terran arbiters of style. Julia, the daughter of a Terran diplomatic official, had spent her adolescent life on Riskell where such styles were prevalent, and saw nothing wrong with it. The fashion, however, had not become popular on most Terran worlds, except among the very wealthy. Mark, a former slum kid from the gutters of Shallock, didn't particularly care for it, but he forbore from telling Julia so. Interestingly enough, although Lyn had been born and raised on Corala, the daughter of a Patrol Base Commander, she didn't like it, either. Of course, her parents hadn't moved in diplomatic circles.
"If she asks, I'll tell her the truth," Alan promised.
Lyn emerged from the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel and wearing pink slacks and a pink and purple flowered shirt.
"Good morning, men." She glanced at Mark, who was donning his other shoe. "You know, Mark, I really don't think purple is your color."
Linley grunted.
Half an hour later, freshly showered and shaved, Mark, Alan and Lyn stepped from their room into the hallway. A security guard stood by the door and saluted smartly as they appeared. Alan paused to speak to the man.
"Have they found Osgood yet, uh ..." He glanced at the man's name tag.
"Corporal Greyson, *sir*!" The man saluted. "As far as I know, they haven't found him *sir*!"
Alan suppressed a grimace and smiled warmly at the man. He was probably no more than eighteen, his eyes wide as he gazed at the legendary Alan Westover. When someone obviously thought that much of you, you couldn't simply brush them off. He sketched a salute in return. "Thank you, Corporal. Weren't you one of the men here last night?"
"Yes *sir*!"
Mark grinned. "Wound up with sentry duty, huh? Anything happen after we went back to bed?"
"Not here, sir."
"Good thing, too," Alan said. "Go get some sleep, Corporal. You deserve it."
"Thank you *sir*!"
"Well, Osgood's got to show up eventually," Mark said, as they entered the lift. "Maybe you can trace him, if everything else fails."
"Maybe," Alan said.
They entered the Topsail Café, the little coffee shop to one side of the Molokai, and a young woman in a flowered muumuu seated them, filled their coffee cups and departed. Alan began to study his menu.
Someone cleared his throat behind Alan and he turned to see Jim Francois standing there. With him was a short, dark-haired man who, Alan surmised, was probably Colonel Baker of Havril Underground Station, and a tall, muscular Arcturian who was undoubtedly Colonel Finnar of Dravik Station.
"Hello, General Westover," Francois said, softly.
Alan rose to his feet, extending a hand. "Hello, Jim!"
Francois took the hand, smiling. "Didn't have much time to say hello last night, Alan. Can I still call you Alan, now that you're a general?"
Alan laughed. "You'd better, Jimmy boy!" He glanced past him to the others. Francois quickly introduced them.
"Alan, this is Finnar, as you probably know, and this is Lee Baker. I'm sure they know you, if only by reputation." He nodded to Mark, who had also risen. "And this is Colonel Linley. I don't believe I've met the young lady before."
Alan smiled. "Hands off, Jim. This is my wife, Colonel Lyn Westover. My partner."
"Ah!" Francois smiled in undisguised admiration at Lyn. "What a lovely woman you chose, General. May we join you for breakfast? I'd like to get better acquainted."
The waitress brought more menus, distributed and filled more coffee mugs and departed while they were sorting themselves out. From the expression on his face, Alan didn't think Colonel Baker was all too pleased with this development but the man said nothing, studying his menu with a slight frown line between his brows. Alan decided what he wanted and closed the menu, glancing across at Francois.
"Jim, I'd like to hear your version of this affair."
Francois closed his menu as well. "I thought you would. Dammit, Alan, this is the most uncomfortable situation I've ever been in." He made a face. "That's a stupid thing to say, isn't it? But you know what I mean. I'm sure that most of us here at this table have, at sometime in our lives, had someone shoot at us -- but when I realize that it may have been a friend of mine ..." He broke off as the waitress who had brought their coffee approached. The section of the coffee shop reserved for conventioneers was equipped with a privacy screen, but it ended at the divider. The woman took their orders, collected menus and departed. Francois resumed. "It makes you wonder about yourself, you know? I mean, what have I ever done to make someone ready to kill me?"
"I've been wonderin' the same thing," Mark said, a little dryly.
Francois glanced quickly across the table, his dark brows drawing together. He was a native of France, Alan knew, about forty Terran years of age, passionate and quick-tempered, but also warm and cheerful. He was a short man, as all psychics were, his face narrow and very Continental. Alan had always liked him and so had Mark, although the two had clashed during their early encounters.
Francois' brow cleared and he laughed, shortly. "Yeah, I guess you would, my friend, after last night."
"Lyn enticed me out of that bed and into her room about three hours before it happened," Linley said, grinning.
Lyn made a face at him. "Stop it, Mark. This is serious."
He stopped grinning. "It sure is. Lyn and Alan saved my life last night. Go ahead, Jim. Tell us what happened to you."
Francois took a swallow of coffee and spoke with the air of one who has repeated a story many times.
"The conference broke up at about 1730. I went to my room, feeling restless, and decided a swim before dinner was just what I needed to settle me down."
"You say you were feeling restless," Alan said. "Could it have been precognition? You are a pre-cog, aren't you?"
"Medium range," Jim said, nodding. "Looking back, I'd started feeling jumpy about half an hour before the meeting ended, so I guess it could have been. I can't say, now. Anyway, I put on my trunks and robe, collected a beach towel and headed for the lift. That must have been about 1805 or a couple of minutes later. The lift doors were just closing as I came out of my room. It may have been the Weavers, but I'm not sure. Anyhow, as I was waiting for it to come back, I got a flash of warning. That one was precognition, I know. I ducked -- instinctively, I guess -- I sure didn't have time to think -- and a needle beam hit the wall at the level where my head had been an instant before. I caught a glimpse of movement right at the corner of the intersection and dropped to hands and knees to present less of a target, and scrambled for the other intersection -- the one to the hallway where your rooms are located -- at the same time trying to identify who it was. I yelled, too, but I guess Dean couldn't hear me. Osgood and Meeks were already at dinner by that time. I couldn't see anything, but I really didn't have much opportunity for scanning. The guy fired again and creased my shoulder." He grimaced. "I've never been hit by a needle beam before. Man! Those things hurt! I made it to the intersection -- by sheer willpower, I guess -- and yelled again. I scanned too, hard, but I couldn't touch anything -- couldn't tell even if it was a man or woman or -- anything else," he finished, lamely. "At this point, a cleanup lady -- Mrs. Mann, her name was -- heard me and came running. Whoever it was must have taken off at that point. I sort of lost my cool when she arrived and started to babble a bit." Francois looked embarrassed and stared at his coffee. "Then a couple of security guards arrived and went to look, but no one was there. After that, they took me down to the dispensary. The hotel doctor fixed me up, and I guess the security men called Wanda, because she showed up a few minutes later and questioned me. I tried to be as clear as I could, but I'm afraid I acted like a fool. And that's about all."
"It sounds to me like you did all right," Lyn said. "At least, you're here to tell the story."
Francois smiled reluctantly. "There is that, Colonel. Thanks."
"Call me Lyn, please."
"All right." The Frenchman's smile widened. "I congratulate you on your wife, Alan. Your taste was impeccable, as always. She has not only beauty, but charm as well. A marvelous combination. I am utterly green with jealousy. My dear, I don't suppose you would reconsider your contract with the General and consider one with me, instead?"
Alan chuckled. "Sorry, Jim, she's taken." He watched Lyn's blush deepen.
Mark laughed. "These Frenchmen!"
"As bad as Shallockians." Alan spoke to Francois again. "Seriously, Jim, did you get the slightest impression from your scan? Anything might be helpful."
He shook his head. "I saw movement, nothing more. But I'll tell you one thing. That guy was a good shot. If I hadn't ducked, he'd have drilled me right through the head, and when he did get me, I was hardly holding still, yet he *did* manage to hit me and still kept pretty much out of sight. I'd say he's had training."
"And cool nerves," Mark put in. "Knowin' Jim's a psychic and would be scannin' like crazy for him."
"Cool nerves and a good shot, maybe." Colonel Baker spoke up for the first time. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched, with a sharp, grating twang -- unpleasant, Alan thought, but certainly a voice that would draw people's attention. "But I think everyone's missing a rather important point, don't you, General?"
The group had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at Baker.
Francois broke the silence. "What point, Lee? Out with it!"
He sounded, Alan thought, a little annoyed, and at the same time realized that there was friction between the two men, although whether it was of a longstanding nature or whether it had formed recently, he couldn't tell.
Baker ignored Francois' tone, as though completely unaware of it. "Just this. The guy who tried to kill you took one helluva crazy risk, Jim. The lift could have opened at any second, Dean could have heard the racket and come to investigate -- any number of things could have happened that would have resulted in discovery."
"You're right." Linley's voice was thoughtful. "Good thinkin', Baker."
"Of course, I'm right. The guy must have been either desperate to get rid of you, Jim, or else he was a complete wacko."
"Or," Finnar put in, unexpectedly, "he, too, wass a psychic and had scanned zee area, and knew zat Dean wass soundly asleep, zee lift wass far away and zat zere wass no one in zee immediate area to help."
Silence. The waitress arrived with the food and set plates before them. Alan thanked her, absently.
Baker and Finnar were both right, he realized. They had been here when the thing occurred, and had had more time to think it out. Baker might be an odd, abrupt fellow, but he was smart, and the Arcturian was no fool, either.
"Makes sense to me," Mark said. "What happened last night was the same sort of thing. Whoever tried to kill Lyn, he took a crazy risk. How could he know who was sleepin' in that bed? It could have been either Lyn or me, and in any case, he could have been sensed by two powerful psychics. Could be he's a psychic himself -- or maybe he's just gone off his beam."
"Cheerful thought," Lyn said. "If he has, *anybody* could be a target."
Baker raised an eyebrow. "And Osgood's still missing? In my opinion, that guy's just loony enough to try something like that."
Silence again. Mark cleared his throat and met Alan's eyes across the table. Lyn looked very uneasy, and her telepathic voice spoke in his mind.
*Maybe you should ask Mr. Baker where *he* was when Jim was shot at.*
*I'm going to -- later. I'm going to talk to Finnar, too, but not with all these people around.*
Henry Meeks entered the room alone and was seated in a corner booth. He met Alan's gaze and smiled reservedly. Alan spoke across the two-meter space separating them.
"Won't you join us, Mr. Meeks?"
"I don't want to intrude." The man's voice was low and uncertain.
"Please." Alan rose, feeling a little sorry for him. Meeks smiled again.
"Well, if you insist." He got to his feet, shaking the vase of artificial orchids that stood on the table with the motion.
Baker raised his eyebrows. Meeks seated himself between Linley and Finnar and the Arcturian scooted his pseudo-reptilian form over to make room for the man.
Meeks didn't comment. He frowned worriedly.
"Thank you, General," he said. "I'm really very worried about Mr. Osgood."
The waitress approached, the coffeepot in her hand. Meeks glanced up.
"Decaf, please, or perhaps I'll have orange herbal tea, instead."
"Zee Mandarin orange sspice tea iss excellent," Finnar recommended.
The Arcturian, of course, was not drinking coffee. Humans seemed to be the only species in the sector that could tolerate caffeine, with the exception of the Tormheits of Fomolhaut B, to whom it was an essential nutrient in their diet. To Arcturians, Loangi and Cetans, it was rank poison, to Jilectans it had an effect similar to cocaine in a human, and to Procyons it was an intoxicant. No restaurant ever served an Arcturian any food or beverage containing caffeine.
"That will be fine," Meeks said, quickly. "And bring me toast and jelly with it. No, thank you; I don't need a menu."
"Thank you, sir. Will that be all?"
Meeks inclined his head, handing the menu back. The waitress departed.
"So, Osgood still hasn't shown up, eh?" Baker's grating twang broke the pause.
"No." Meeks met the man's eyes. "And I'm afraid he might have ... oh, dear, this is really most distressing."
The man's effeminate mannerisms were far more noticeable this morning. Alan tried not to notice. "You have no idea where he'd go, Mr. Meeks?"
"None. He rarely had people oppose him, you know. He was quite upset after you confined him to the hotel, and ... Oh, thank you."
The waitress set Meeks' tea and toast before him. He sipped the tea, then began to spread jelly on a piece of toast.
Across the room, the Weavers appeared from a small alcove and crossed to them, accompanied by Terrence, Quade and a man Alan didn't know. He started to rise, but Weaver motioned for him to remain seated.
"Good morning, gentlemen." The Admiral surveyed the group without expression. "And lady. The steering committee will reconvene this morning to hammer out the final details. Of course, if General Westover requires any of you to aid his investigation, those persons will be excused." He glanced at Alan. "General, this is Colonel Tang Fu from Willahok, on Riskell."
The man nodded respectfully. "A pleasure, sir."
"Thank you, sir," Alan said, to Weaver. "I've interviewed all but three persons. If those three would remain behind ..."
Meeks finished his toast and drank his tea. "I think I shall go back to our apartments and see if Mr. Osgood has arrived." He stood up. "My respects, Admiral. I will be at the meeting punctually at 0900."
He went out. Francois was also concluding his meal. "Think I'll head out, too. Excuse me, Admiral Weaver." He rose and left, stopping at the cashier's counter to pay his check. A few minutes later, everyone had departed except Alan's group and the three men he had asked to stay.
Tang Fu took a seat, appearing perfectly at ease, and signaled the waitress for a cup of coffee.
"I assume," he said, with a hint of amusement in his voice, "that you want to question me about my whereabouts when these murder attempts took place."
Alan nodded. "Go ahead."
"Well, as to last night, I'm sorry to say that I slept through the whole thing. My room is in the next corridor from yours and down at the end of the hall, next to Admiral Weaver's. I heard nothing at all."
"And three days ago, when the attempt was made on Francois' life?"
The man sighed. He was a dark, slender man of middle height, probably in the middle of his first century. His eyes and facial structure showed traces of his Asian origins. "There, again, I'm afraid I have no alibi. When the conference broke up, I returned to my room, changed into my trunks and headed for the hot tubs next to the gymnasium on the sixth floor."
"Was it your routine to do this?" Alan asked.
"No, but I was still sore from an aikido workout the day before." Tang Fu smiled a little sheepishly. "In my position, you tend to sit behind a desk more than you should. I'd let myself get out of shape, I guess. Anyway, I fell asleep in the tub and was awakened at about 1900 by Colonel Blake's men, who were searching for me. After that, I learned about the attempt on Jim's life."
Alan nodded and turned to the Arcturian. "And you, Colonel Finnar?"
"Ah, yess." The Arcturian faced him across the table, his leathery crest erect, the slitted eyes glowing a deep amber in the fluorescent lighting. Two long canines gleamed prominently as his muzzle drew back in the Arcturian equivalent of a smile, and revealed a mouthful of sharp, white teeth. "I fear I haff no alibi, eizzer, Sheneral Westover." One of his flexible, jointless arms shifted, the emerald scales flashing like jewels. He gestured, helplessly. "When zee conference broke up at about 1730, I believe, I returned to my room to change, zen I met Colonel Terrence and Colonel Quade at zee lifts and went down wizz zem to zee luau. Zere I found a table ..." His eyes shone. "Of zee most delectable food I have ever tasted. I remained zere until Colonel Blake's security people discovered me, two hours later. Most delightful, ziss luau custom. I wish to introduce it on Ceregon."
"No one saw you?" Alan asked.
"Ah, Sheneral, many people saw me, but none stopped to speak. I fear zat when I am eating, I am not zee most affable of companions."
Alan smiled faintly. When Arcturians ate, they usually thought of little else. "Do you think any of them might recognize you?"
"I doubt it, sir." He gave a classic Arcturian gesture with his left hand, indicating mild frustration. "Zere are several Arcturians at zee hotel at present, and I fear zat your species, like mine, has some difficulty in discerning zee differences in appearance of members of our respective races."
"I see your point," Alan said. "And your story, Colonel Baker?"
Baker shrugged. "I'm not much for luaus. I went to my room and read, after the conference broke up. Had room service bring me dinner there."
"And you heard nothing?"
"No." Baker frowned. "My room is well to the end of the hall -- right across from Tang's." He glanced across the table at the man. "I had my door closed and the video was going." His frown deepened. "I didn't do it, General."
"When did you hear of the murder attempt?" Alan asked.
"About 1830 or so, Colonel Blake's men knocked on my door. Wanted to know where I'd been for the past hour."
Alan was picking up inflections from Colonel Baker that bothered him. He caught Lyn's glance across the table and sensed the sudden tension in the other members. Here was a man who was capable of violence -- even murder, if the situation arose. Tang Fu shifted uneasily, glancing at the Arcturian.
"Uh, I think I'll be going, General -- if you're finished with me?"
Alan nodded. "You and Colonel Finnar can go."
"Zank you." The alien rose sinuously to his feet, one taloned, four-fingered hand resting lightly on the chair back. "If you need me, I shall be in zee conference room on zee sixth floor."
He and Tang Fu departed. Alan looked back at Colonel Baker.
"Do you like Colonel Francois, Lee?" he asked.
Baker scowled at him. "You're scanning me, aren't you?"
"Of course."
"Yeah. Dammitall! If it had been anybody but him ..." The man broke off.
Mark leaned forward. "I take it you and Francois don't get along."
"We don't. I've kept quiet about it, but to be quite frank ..." His scowl deepened. "He drives me nuts. He's such a ladies' man. I know it's illogical -- a purely primitive thing on my part. I've got nothing against the man, personally. It's his attitude toward women that I can't stand." He looked down, then lifted his eyes to look squarely at Alan. "But I didn't take a shot at him, General Westover. That would be stupid. Whoever did this is either desperate or crazy -- and maybe a psychic, himself. It wasn't me."
"Everyone has someone who rubs him the wrong way," Alan said. "I have a couple of my own. I take it you were also asleep last night when the shooting took place in Lyn's room."
Baker glanced across the table at her. "Yes, I was. And, like Tang, I didn't hear a thing."
Alan nodded. "All right. Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel. You can go, now."
"Thanks," Baker growled.
**********
Chapter Seven
Mark, Alan and Lyn took the lift to Sixth and stepped off. Linley glanced, a little uneasily, toward the intersecting corridor to his left, from which the unknown assassin had fired at Jim Francois. He felt on edge. Man! Talk about your murder mysteries! This one was beginning to have all the earmarks of a real whodunit!
Alan was apparently thinking the same thing. "Sherlock Holmes would have loved this one," he remarked. "But, I guess he'd have it all figured out, by now."
"At least there ain't been a murder, yet," Linley said. "But if last night's an example, there will be if we don't find this guy. What about ol' Finnar? Did you have any trouble readin' him?"
"No more than usual when it comes to Arcturians," Alan said. "He had his shielding down."
"You sure he wasn't hidin' anything?"
Alan sighed. "As sure as I am of any of them."
And, Linley thought, that meant exactly nothing. Arcturian minds were more difficult to read than Terran ones. The mental makeup of the species was the cause of that. Only the most powerful of Terran psychics could accomplish the feat, and Jilectans couldn't read an Arcturian mind, period. Their thought processes were simply too different. This, of course, didn't sit particularly well with people that prided themselves on their mental abilities. It had the unfortunate result of making Arcturians highly unpopular with the ruling species, and coupled with their body odor -- which Linley had noticed at first, but to which he had long since become accustomed -- barely tolerated by the Jilectan masters. It also had the effect of sending the Arcturians more firmly into an unspoken alliance with the Terran Underground. Linley hoped that Finnar wasn't their man. He liked Arcturians. They were efficient and intelligent beings who had so far proven loyal friends of their organization.
Wanda Blake was waiting for them at the door to Osgood's room. When she saw them, she turned without a word and inserted her electronic key into the lock.
The room was the same as it had been last night: orderly and elegant, the bed made and showing no sign of occupancy. Wanda shut the door behind them and locked it.
Alan glanced at her. "Any word?"
She shook her head. "He's not in the hotel -- or, if he is, he's well hidden. There's a warrant for his arrest out, but no one has tried to leave the island. Island Security is on the alert for him, but so far, nothing has turned up. Meeks is quite upset. He thinks you precipitated it by disciplining Osgood, and now he's hiding somewhere."
"Spoiled brat like him might just decide to run off and sulk," Mark said, sardonically. "Make us sorry we were so mean to him."
"No, I don't think that's it," Lyn said, suddenly. "I think we'd better find him, fast. He might be in trouble."
"Okay, let's find him, then," Mark said. "Do your stuff, li'l pal."
Alan went to the closet, Linley beside him, and opened it, revealing an assortment of very modern, expensive clothing. The floor was a litter of equally expensive boots, shoes and sandals.
"Guy travels deluxe," Linley remarked, enviously. He'd never had that many shoes in his life, let alone all at once.
"That's for sure." Alan pushed the clothing aside, running his fingers over the material. Linley watched him.
"Anything?"
"Not yet. Check the dresser, will you? Maybe there's some sort of sentimental item there."
"If there is, I'm the Viceroy's sister. Osgood ain't the type to get sentimental."
"Oh, I don't know. Rich people get just as sentimental as the rest of us." Alan began to check the shoes.
"Rich people, yeah, but not sorts like him, rich or poor. They're too busy getting' their own way an' pushin' people around." Nevertheless, Mark went over to the dresser and opened a drawer, discovering a tangle of expensive clothing. He whistled. "Man, look at these!" He removed a pair of elastaskin swim trunks, disentangled them from a pair of silk undershorts, and held them up. "Nude pink, by Adrian of Paris! Betcha from a distance you couldn't tell he was wearin' 'em!"
Lyn, beside him, giggled. "Shall I tell Julia to get you a pair for your next anniversary, Mark? I like them better than the socks."
He glanced at her and grinned. Alan came over beside them, touched the trunks, then the tangle of clothing. He fingered a purple-flowered shirt for a moment, then discarded it and opened another drawer, revealing more underwear of all varieties and colors. Mark raised an eyebrow. "Woo woo!"
Alan surveyed the contents for a moment, then closed the drawer and opened the remaining one. It was empty.
"He must've run out of stuff," Linley commented. He picked up a bottle of men's cologne from the dresser top. "Mmm ... good stuff. Look at this."
Alan glanced at it. "Silver Stallion. Best you can buy." He lost interest and opened an expensive, carven case on top of the dresser, revealing two rings, sparkling with diamonds, and a gold chronometer.
"Ah! Maybe these'll be of some help," Mark said.
Alan touched them, his expression troubled. "If he was going somewhere, why would he take off his chronometer? He was wearing this last night when we talked to him -- and one of those rings, too."
Linley hadn't noticed. "Maybe he left in a rush."
"And his pajamas are missing, Mark."
"Huh! They sure are -- unless a guy like him don't use any. Still, I don't see nothin' that looks like a robe, either, and you'd think he'd at least have a robe and slippers." Linley went back to the closet and rummaged through the conglomeration of footwear, then went to check under the bed. "Nope, no slippers. You suppose he's hidin' somewhere in his nightgear?"
Lyn glanced at Alan, and Linley saw that both psychics were looking very worried.
"I don't like this," Alan said. "Wanda, would you call Mr. Meeks in here? I'd like to talk to him."
"Right away." She went to the videophone, spoke to the man who appeared on the screen and turned back to them. "He'll be here in a moment."
Meeks arrived in less than a minute. He must have really moved, Linley thought, to get here that fast. Wanda opened the door for him.
"Come in, Henry."
The man's grave, dark eyes moved from one to the other of them. "Have you found him?"
"No, not yet." Wanda gestured him inside. "General Westover's trying and he needs some information from you."
"Oh, certainly." Meeks turned to Alan. "How can I help?"
"What did Osgood say to you last night, after I left?"
Meeks looked uncomfortable. "He was very angry. He said you were a power hungry, little ... uh ... I don't recall the exact words, but I'm sure you understand."
"Yes," Alan said. "Was he preparing for bed at that time?"
Meeks shook his head. "No, he was fully dressed. I told him to calm down and let me call room service and order him a drink. He told me he wanted to be alone, and I went back to my own room. I was going to call room service, anyway, but just then he stuck his head in the door -- the one between our rooms -- and said he was going out for a while. A minute later, I heard the door to his room close, and footsteps in the hall. I tried to read, but he didn't come back. About 0200, I gave up and went to bed. I must have fallen asleep around 0230, but it was a light sleep, because I heard the commotion when the attempt was made on your friend's life. I put on my robe and came running."
"Then, you don't know if Osgood came back after leaving the room, and perhaps, went out again?"
"He could have," Meeks said, doubtfully. "I never thought of that, but he'd have had to be very quiet. I'm a light sleeper and I'm almost sure I would have heard him."
"All right." Alan still looked worried. "Thank you, Mr. Meeks. That will be all."
Meeks nodded and went out. Mark waited until the latch clicked and touched the locking button. "Well?"
His partner shrugged. "I was trying to scan him, but I couldn't pick up a thing. That shielding of his ..." He broke off. "Let's have a look at Mr. Meeks' room.
Wanda went to the adjoining door and tried it. "It's unlocked." She opened it and motioned them through.
As he followed his partner into Meeks' room, Linley glanced around, taking it in.
It was scrupulously neat, the bed smooth. A pair of sturdy, synthetic leather shoes sat side by side next to the closet.
Linley glanced at his partner. "Pickin' ... pick*ing* up any*thing*?"
Even concentrating on the psychometric impressions of the room as he was, Alan smiled. "Very good, Mark. Try to remember not to drop your 'g's." He ran his hands over the bedclothes, then across the top of the dresser. "A trace of anger, but nothing really wrong ..." His voice trailed off, and he opened the top dresser drawer. Linley glanced at the neat rows of briefs and undershirts.
"He likes the plain stuff, I guess."
The underclothing was neat and unpretentious, arranged in small piles on one side of the drawer. Beside it was a pair of socks, two plain, linen handkerchiefs and a neckerchief. Alan closed the drawer and opened the one beneath it, revealing neatly folded shirts and casual slacks. The bottom drawer disclosed two pairs of modest, dark blue pajamas and a pair of felt slippers.
"Hmm," Alan said. "I guess he didn't plan to do any swimming. I don't see a suit. Is there one in the closet, Lyn?"
"No." Lyn was examining the closet as she spoke. "Maybe he doesn't swim. He doesn't look like the athletic type." Revealed in the closet were two suitcases, standing neatly side by side on the floor. Over them, hanging on the rack, were several dress suits of a conservative black, a sweater and a light coat. Mark, looking over her shoulder, examined the articles with interest. Alan came over, glancing at the articles.
Lyn went into the bathroom, but Mark continued to examine the closet contents.
"You suppose he ever wears these things?" he said. "Who'd wear a coat in a place like New Hawaii?"
"Maybe he's cold-blooded and the air conditioning bothers him," Alan said. He went to peer into the bathroom, Mark on his heels.
Lyn was examining Meeks' bathing supplies, touching the bottles of shaving lotion and cologne.
"Frontier Passion. My goodness, this guy has no taste in scents at all." She sniffed the bottle and made a face. "Yes, he was wearing this, yesterday. Peeew!"
Linley remembered it, now that Lyn had brought it to his attention. It had made no impression on him at the time. Men in the Viceregal Patrol got used to strange smells, as Jilectan taste in perfume and cologne did not tally with that of Terrans. As he recalled, Lord Salthvor, the Jilectan who had most frequented Linley's battlecruiser, had favored a scent of Terran violets mixed with cinnamon and a faint hint of garlic. It never failed to make Linley sneeze. Of course, it worked the other way, too. Terran body odor was quite different than that of a Jilectan's and the Jils found the scent of Terrans offensive. Salthvor had required them all to wear some sort of ghastly perfume, if any of them were to be in close quarters with him for any length of time, he recalled, distastefully. Personally, he'd rather smell Meeks' Frontier Passion, any day.
He opened the medicine cabinet and blinked. "Four more bottles of the stuff up here. Man! He must pour it on!"
Alan picked up a small kit lying on the side table and flipped it open. Shaving supplies, Mark saw, and new, from the look of them. Alan closed the kit and opened a drawer. Toothbrush and paste, a comb and brush, and a bottle of hair tonic. He picked it up, opened it, sniffed and made a face. "Yuk! This is as bad as the cologne."
"Guy must have a lousy sense of smell," Mark said. "Personally, I wouldn't be caught dead wearin' it. You'd think a guy as fussy about his room as this one is would be more particular."
"Maybe he just likes it," Lyn said.
Alan closed the drawer. "Let's go."
They stepped out into the room again. Alan sighed, glancing at Mark. "I'm missing something. I can feel it."
Startled, Linley glanced around. "But, what?"
"I don't know."
Mark opened the door to Osgood's room for the others and closed it behind him.
It bounced open. He swore and closed it again, jiggling it to be sure the latch had caught. It opened.
Wanda had turned back. She heaved a sigh. "The lock is broken," she said, by way of explanation. "More convention damage. Just close it, Mark. I'll report it to the management, later."
Linley pulled the door to. The regular latch caught at once, but the knob turned easily under his fingers. He snorted. Why did otherwise responsible people turn into a bunch of wild men when they got to a convention? he wondered. Get 'em in a place like this and they did things a teenager would be ashamed to admit he'd done. He wondered suddenly if that could be the explanation behind the attacks. A practical joker?
After a moment, he dismissed the idea as silly. If it was a joke, somebody had certainly carried it much too far. Better to continue looking for other explanations until they had exhausted all the possibilities.
Alan turned away. "Mark, I *know* I'm missing something *important*!" Linley watched him roam aimlessly around the room twice more, touching articles lightly. At last, he shook his head.
"Well, I'm stumped. Wanda, I want to look at some of the other rooms while I have the chance."
Wanda nodded. "Of course, sir. It's an invasion of privacy, I suppose, but so is murder. Who would you like to check out first?"
"Osgood," Linley said. He grinned. "But, since we've already checked him, let's try Terry. He doesn't remember much of where he was when the deed was done."
"All right," Alan said. "Colonel Terrence it is."
They went out the door, turned left past the intersection where someone had shot at Jim Francois, to the next block of rooms just past it. Colonel Terrence's room was the first on the left, with Colonel Quade's room adjoining it, one door further on down the hall. Wanda inserted her passkey and the door slid open.
Terry was not a good housekeeper, a trait Mark felt he could not hold against the man, as housekeeping wasn't exactly his specialty, either. The bed was unmade, clothing was strewn around the room, and a dirty glass adorned the bedside table. In another thirty minutes, the housekeeping staff would have tidied the room out of recognition, Linley knew.
Alan crossed the room to the tumbled bed, examined the rumpled blankets without interest, touched the glass lightly and went over to the closet. Linley watched him ruffle through the clothes and turn around.
"Nothing. We're on the wrong track here. Name another suspect. Lyn, it's your turn."
"Baker," Lyn said.
"Baker!" Mark said. "What makes you think it might be him? He's last on my list."
"He's a man who is capable of violence," Lyn said. "He's got a lot of hidden hostility. He doesn't like Francois. He admitted that openly."
"I'm capable of violence," Mark said. "I couldn't have been a 'trol if I wasn't. And Jim's rubbed me the wrong way a few times, but I still wouldn't kill him."
"You aren't a suspect, Mark," Lyn informed him, sweetly. "You weren't here. With the limited suspects available, I put Lee Baker near the top of my list."
Mark shrugged. "Okay, baby, maybe so. Let's go have a look at his room."
They went down the hallway again to a room near its far end and once again, Wanda used her passkey.
Baker's room was neater than Terrence's, though still a bit untidy. The bed was made, but carelessly so, the spread dragging on the floor. A book lay face down in the middle of it, one of the cheap paper type, with a lurid picture on the cover. Linley picked it up.
"Huh! Murder mystery. 'A Killer Walks'. That's a good one. I've read it, myself."
Lyn glanced at Alan. "Somehow, Baker didn't strike me as the type of man to read stuff like this."
"Never can tell," Mark said. "I like a good whodunit, myself."
"Mark, you'd read the ingredients on a bread wrapper if you couldn't find anything else," Lyn retorted, referring to Linley's passion for the printed word in any form. "And, I repeat, *you* are not a suspect." She turned and went over to the room's dresser. A paperweight lay on the metal surface, shaped like a police special .38, one of the ancient firearms that actually fired a solid projectile.
Alan opened the closet door.
Baker's clothing hung from the racks, and a single pair of shoes lay on their sides on the floor. Beside them were his suitcase and a small, traveling bag. Alan hesitated, then opened the bag.
Inside was a small folder containing papers, credit vouchers and odds and ends. Among them was a certificate for marksmanship from the Terran Space Corps Military Police.
Alan fingered the paper. "Former Space Corpsman -- and a good shot, too."
"But you'll notice," Lyn said, "that when Jim was telling us at breakfast what a good shot our mystery man was, Baker changed the subject."
Mark shrugged. "Okay, I confess, the guy seems a little obsessed with firearms, but that don't mean he's a murderer. There still ain't no motive."
"Unless he's just plain crazy."
"In that case, it could be anybody," Mark said. "Baker ain't crazy. If anyone's crazy in this damned hotel, it's good ol' Travis Dean. I think we oughta check out his room next."
"I was going to suggest him," Alan said.
Wanda sighed. "Dean may not like psychics, but I don't think he's crazy. And *he* doesn't have a motive, either."
"Nobody does." Alan touched the certificate lightly. "There's emotional attachment to this. Baker's quite proud of it, I'd say." He stood up. "Let's go."
Wanda opened Travis Dean's room with her master key and stood beside the door, waiting.
The room was very neat, except for a pair of bedroom slippers that Dean had apparently forgotten to put away, lying halfway beneath the bed. A photograph of is wife, Harriet, holding their newest grandchild was propped against the bedside lamp, and another paper book lay beside it, closed, a marker protruding from between the pages. Alan picked it up, glancing at the title. He smiled.
"Another murder mystery, Mark. 'Moonlight and Murder'."
"I haven't read that one," Mark said. "Does it look good?"
Alan shrugged. "I guess so. I'm not a murder mystery fan." He shivered suddenly, and Linley saw him glance uneasily around the room. "There's been someone in here -- someone besides Dean." He turned to Wanda. "Does anyone else besides Dean, and you, have a key to this room?"
"The housekeeper," Wanda said, looking puzzled. "Mrs. Sing. She had an alibi, though, for the time the murder attempt took place. She was eating dinner in full sight of at least half a dozen people."
Alan shivered again. "What kind of person is she?"
"Late first century," Wanda said. "Nice lady. Her husband was killed by the Jilectans -- a psychic. Her kids are all grown. Two of them are married and live here on the island. The last is a psychic and lives on one of our bases."
"I'd like to meet her," Alan said. "I'm picking up a presence in this room -- a very angry, hostile person -- whose mind was unshielded, at least while he was in here." He paused. "Whoever this person is, he's quite capable of murder."
Mark felt his scalp begin to prickle, and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder for the ghostly presence. "Look, Alan, it don't -- doesn't --make sense. If this Mrs. Sing is the housekeeper, she'd have been in all the other rooms, too. But you didn't sense this character anywhere else."
"I know." Alan glanced at Wanda. "Are you *sure* no one else has a key to this room?"
"Well, no one else is *supposed* to," Wanda said, doubtfully. "Maybe I should check on our two employees who are minus alibis. I suppose it wouldn't be too hard to have a key made."
"You sure it isn't Dean?" Mark asked, hopefully. "You know he's hated psychics ever since his girl jilted him for one, way back when, and then -- well, that report you made --"
"I'm sure, Mark. Travis Dean isn't capable of cold-blooded murder. This person, whoever it is, *is* capable of it. I --"
He was interrupted. The communicator on Wanda's wrist beeped urgently. Wanda answered.
"Yes?"
"Colonel, this is West. You'd better come quickly. There's been an incident near the tennis court. One of our men attacked one of the dancers from the luau."
"On my way." Wanda sighed. "Oh, what next? Do you want to come?"
"I think we'd better," Alan said. "Our culprit is most likely young Brian O'Hara."
**********
(tbc)
