Johannes Cabal the Detective

They walked down the silent corridor to Zoruk’s temporary cabin. As they approached, Cabal commented, “I notice you do not have a guard posted, Captain.”

“A guard? This isn’t a military ship. Besides, you’ve seen that cabin; there are no windows, and the lock is secure enough. I don’t think we have anything to fear, especially in light of Herr Zoruk’s apparent innocence.” He took out his key wallet and moved to unlock the door.

“That seems like very few keys for a vessel with so many doors, Captain,” said Cabal.

Schten held up the key he had selected. “Most of these are for my house.” He smiled. “This is a master key.” He inserted it into the lock and opened the door.

Cabal looked into the room as the door swung open, swore a short and bitter oath, and was through before the captain had even taken his hand off the handle. Cabal’s switchblade was in his hand in a thrice, and the blade out by the time he reached Zoruk’s dangling body. He climbed quickly onto the interview table, noted instantly that it would take too long to try and release Zoruk’s belt from either the light fitting at the ceiling or from around the hanging man’s neck, and instead sawed quickly through the taut leather. He kept the blade very keen for a variety of reasons, and was glad of it now. The belt parted quickly and Zoruk dropped to the floor, where he was caught and slowly lowered by Schten, who had overcome his own paralysis of shock.

Cabal checked Zoruk’s pulse at his throat and wrist, but the already cool skin told him it was a vain effort. He rocked back onto his heels, glaring angrily at the corpse.

“Stupid!” he spat. Schten thought Cabal was talking to him for a moment, but then realised Cabal was talking to the dead man. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Life is such a precious gift! To squander it … And for what? For some idiotic concept of honour? You fool! You utter, utter …” Words failed him, and he paced up and down, breathing hard with fury.

Schten perched on the edge of the table and looked at Zoruk. Hanging without much of a drop was a hard way to go. The young man’s face was mottled dark, his eyes bulging, his tongue pushed out of his mouth. The room stank: in extremis, Zoruk had voided his bowels.

“This whole voyage is cursed,” he murmured. “I’ve never heard the like. A disappearance, an attempted murder, a suicide. We can’t tell the other passengers about this, not yet. It will put the women in a panic, and then when the Senzans board …” He shook his head. “This must remain confidential until then. Just what is happening aboard my ship, Herr Meissner?”

Cabal ceased his pacing and looked down at the body. Schten noticed that he didn’t even flinch at such an awful sight. Civil servants were supposed to have ice water for blood, but surely even their sangfroid had limits.

“A murder, an attempted murder, and a suicide. I’m sure of it. I doubt we shall ever see M. DeGarre again.” Cabal held his chin in his hand and thought for a moment longer. “Possibly two murders.”

Schten looked up sharply at him. “What?”

“How secure is this room, Captain? There was no guard on the door; anybody could have walked in here and done away with Zoruk.”

“It was locked!”

“There are master keys.”

“Only three. The first mate’s, the purser’s, and mine. Mine has never been out of my sight since I boarded, and I can guarantee that the purser and the first mate can say the same about theirs. Bearing a master key is a serious responsibility, Herr Meissner. I can assure you that they are never left lying around. As for the characters of First Mate Veidt and Purser Johansson, I would trust my life to them. Unless,” he said, his brow clouding, “you suspect me also?”

“Yes, Captain, I do, but only for purposes of keeping an open mind, in exactly the same way that you should suspect me. As for serious suspects, well. Zoruk was all we had, and then only because of his wrist injury. Means, motivation, and opportunity eluded us. No, they continue to elude us.” A thought occurred to Cabal. “Tell me, Captain, did you ever complete your checks for similar wounds on anybody else aboard?”

Schten nodded. “Nobody. Zoruk here was the only one. You know, even if you’re right and DeGarre was murdered, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Zoruk did it, but he may still have been your attacker. His — ” He coughed. “His companion for the evening could have fallen asleep for some time. Not long, but long enough for him to find the vent open and go in to investigate.”

“Is that likely?”

“Not if the two events are unrelated, but what if Zoruk was in cahoots with somebody else? He allows himself to fall for — ” He coughed again. He did not seem able to mention Lady Ninuka’s name in direct reference to such sordid activities, as if it were somehow treasonable. “For his companion’s wiles, and that provides him with an alibi.”

“Which he doesn’t use.”

“Which he doesn’t need to use for the moment. He can hold off naming names until it is convenient for him, and will be regarded all the more as a gentleman for being so reticent until he had no choice.”

“It’s an interesting thought, but I perceive a problem.”

Schten was very taken with his hypothesis, and frowned at Cabal. “What problem?”

“The problem lying at our feet. If this was all part of his plan, why did he hang himself?” Schten had no answer, and shrugged.

“Sorry, Captain,” said Cabal. “The only reason I can think of is that he did not commit suicide but was murdered by this accomplice that you imagine, presumably to make sure Zoruk has no opportunity to turn coat. You tell me, however, that this room could not have been entered. If you are right, your theory founders.”

Schten stood up and looked across at the door, arms crossed. “Locks can be picked.”

Cabal nodded. “Indeed they can,” he said heavily, and a little ruefully, as if this was an unpleasant occurrence of which he had personal experience. He went to the door and examined first the lock itself, then the bolt and striking plate, and then the lock again. “If it has been picked, it’s been done by an expert. I can see no trace of pick scratches or anything else unexpected. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility that it was indeed picked by an expert.”

“An assassin,” said Schten slowly. Cabal looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “An assassin!” repeated Schten, warming to the idea. “A trained killer! He, or possibly she, was working with Zoruk. Zoruk makes himself the obvious suspect and then draws off the heat. But he doesn’t realise that he’s expendable!”

“You,” Cabal said severely, “should cut down on the caffeine and on reading pfennig dreadfuls. Highly trained assassins, indeed. No, we should harken to Friar William of Ockham and his entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. This appears to be a suicide and, if the only alternative involves bizarre orders of wraithlike assassins haunting the corridors of the Princess Hortense, then a suicide it certainly is. A young fool doing the decent thing, if you can dignify it thus. The only mystery extant in this corner of the affair is the wounded wrist. That remains puzzling.

“Come, let us leave this room before the stink settles in our clothing, Captain. You should inform your medical officer immediately, and then decide exactly what you are going to tell the Senzan authorities. There is little time left.”

CHAPTER 11 in which Cabal behaves despicably and inquisitively

Cabal, for his part, knew exactly what he was going to tell the Senzan authorities.

The Princess Hortense’s entry into the skies of Senza was marked by the appearance of a flight of military entomopters. As the passengers gathered in the salon to watch the machines zoom by in a whirl of metallic wings, Captain Schten was at pains to announce that the aircraft were there as an honour guard, come to escort them in style to Parila Aeroport in the long promontory of land that split Mirkarvia and Katamenia. Nobody believed it for a second. They all knew, or were told quickly enough by their fellows, that the escort was there to keep an eye on them. Nobody said what would happen if the aeroship deviated on its approach