Cabal assumed that they took the
“Do you think your experience has anything to do with DeGarre’s death?” Konstantin asked Cabal.
Cabal decided to be noncommittal in the face of no definite evidence. “M. DeGarre is only missing, Colonel.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, man,” replied Konstantin dismissively. “You think he’s lurking in the hold with the potatoes? Of course he’s dead. Somebody did him in, came up with a half-arsed attempt at a suicide note, and threw him out of the window.” He ruminated for a moment. “Not necessarily
“And then escaped from a locked and barricaded room?”
“Well, I’m not pretending to know all the facts, Herr Meissner. I have to admit, I have no idea how that was done, but I must also admit that it does not concern or worry me. Y’see, in my experience the cleverer somebody tries to be, the more likely they are to come a cropper.” Cabal worked hard to maintain his composure, but the colonel had already moved on. “How a killer escapes from a locked room, that’s for a detective to work out. It’s a little wrinkle that I’m sure will become clear after the captain’s investigation is complete.”
Cabal wished that he could share the colonel’s sangfroid about the affair, but he could not, not after having been unceremoniously dumped out of the aeroship’s belly. His hackles were raised, and he wanted — he didn’t even pause inwardly to find some euphemistic way to call it “justice” — revenge. Nice, hot, juicy revenge. He and Count Marechal may have been miles apart in most aspects of their personalities, but this thing, at least, they had in common.
Furthermore, after his own interview with the captain earlier, he had received the distinct impression that Schten remained convinced, whatever his protestations about keeping an open mind, that DeGarre had committed suicide. The attack on Herr Meissner was something else again, and he seemed intent on turning all his enquiries in that direction. Cabal, in contrast, was convinced that DeGarre had been murdered, and that the killer had escaped from the room by some means that involved the underfloor ducting. The curious case of the defenestrated DeGarre and the adventure of the ersatz civil servant were inextricably linked, and it seemed that, if he didn’t get to the bottom of them, they would in all likelihood remain unsolved. Therefore, he would prosecute his own investigation, and so justice would be served, albeit in passing. The important thing was that Cabal would have discovered the perpetrator, and so be ahead of the game when it came to killing him or her.
In all fairness, Cabal’s vengefulness was as much a product of his lifestyle as his humours; in his career to date, he had long since discovered that rivals and enemies rarely simply shook their heads and wandered out of his life, older and wiser. Instead, they were inclined to go off to a dark corner and fester away on new plots and schemes that would explode all over his life like acidic pus. Johannes Cabal had far better things to do with his time than spend it dodging acidic pus, so he had realised early on that the best way to avoid assorted blowhards and rapscallions bursting through the door declaiming “We meet again, Mister Cabal!” or some such nonsense, was simply to kill them the first time around while they were handy and vulnerable. It wasn’t a perfect solution, he had to admit; his rivals and enemies tended to have access to the same sorts of forbidden arcane arts and unwholesome sciences that he did, and so having them sometimes come crawling out of their graves, intent on inflicting a messy postmortem revenge, was not unknown.
Still, as a working practise it had a great deal to recommend it. Even the trail of murder it left was of little import, since — first — most of his victims were already under sentence of death for crimes against God, Nature, and Humanity, and — second — Cabal himself was already under sentence of death for crimes against God, Nature, and Humanity, so another few corpses on the tally sheet would hardly concern him unduly. They could hang him only once.
He did not even hint that he meant to carry on his own investigation, however. Somewhere on this vessel was somebody who wished him harm, and he had no intention of handing out any bulletins about his plans that might reach unfriendly ears. He would move slowly and methodically, drawing together the facts until he had his attacker’s identity in hand, and when he did —
Cabal was just considering the best way to isolate and kill his prey when Leonie Barrow spoilt it all by approaching the little group at a fast clip and saying to him, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Herr Meissner! They’ve caught the man who tried to kill you!”
CHAPTER 8
in which a suspect is interrogated and an interrogator is suspicious
It is a nuisance to be preempted. All Cabal’s playful little plans to shove his hog-tied assailant out of the
Gabriel Zoruk did not look best pleased to be there. He was tousled and unshaven, his shirt was without tie or cravat, and his jacket was creased. He actually looked more like a revolutionary now than when he had been spouting ill-considered politicisms the previous evening, yet now, contrariwise, he was silent. He simply sat with his hands in his lap and glowered at Schten and, occasionally, at Cabal, who was sitting off to Schten’s right and a little behind him.
For his part, Schten sat in silence, reading some notes from a sheet of foolscap on a clipboard and pointedly ignored Zoruk’s glare. Unusually for the captain, his jacket was open, but this may have been to draw attention to the holster and revolver he wore, dark tan leather and acid-blacked steel against the white shirt and trousers. Zoruk could not have failed to notice it when Schten sat down.
When he judged that Zoruk had stewed enough, the captain deigned to look up from his notes. “Your hands, Herr Zoruk. Would you show me your hands, please?”
Zoruk kept his hands in his lap and replied quietly, “Am I under arrest?”
“Yes,” replied Schten without hesitation. “You are under arrest.”
“I haven’t been read my rights.”
“I am not obliged to read you your rights, Herr Zoruk. I am not a policeman. You are being held under the provisions of the Aeolatime Act pertaining to the safety of aerial vessels, crew, passengers, and cargo. You can have a copy to read later if you doubt it. Now … Your hands, sir.”
Zoruk’s gaze flickered from Schten to Cabal and quickly back again. “Why?”
Schten made a deep rumbling sound. To forestall the captain’s rising temper, Cabal said, “To be blunt, Herr Zoruk, you are suspected of attempting to murder me. I succeeded in wounding my attacker in the hand or the wrist. Therefore, if you have such an injury we would be very interested in hearing how you came by it. It is a simple thing. If you are uninjured, you may go. If you are injured and can provide a reasonable explanation, ideally with some corroboration, you will in all likelihood also be allowed to go. Truly, sir, if you are an innocent man, you have nothing to lose by helping the captain in his enquiries.”
Schten allowed Cabal’s words to sink in before repeating, “So … would you show me your hands, please?”
Zoruk was plainly nervous, and it took him a full five tortuous seconds before he finally placed both hands, fisted, on the tabletop. Cabal saw a bandage across the back of his right hand, about where the switchblade would have struck. Zoruk started talking the instant his hands hit the wooden surface.
“I can explain. I know what it looks like, but I can explain.” Schten raised his own hand to signal silence, his gaze on the bandage. “Explanations come later, Herr Zoruk. First, I should be obliged if you would remove that dressing.”
With obvious reluctance, Zoruk undid the gauze that held the bandage in place. When he had finished, he
