A Werewolf Among Us

head ranked among the others, posed between the snarling, wild-eyed boar heads…

Suddenly, thanks to the bio-computer, St. Cyr recalled that the suite had been in darkness when he and Dane had first entered — still was, for that matter. Taking his gun out of the holster again, he stepped off the patio into the sitting room again, called up the overhead lights, which reacted to vocal stimuli. In two minutes he had been in every closet in all three rooms and bath, and he had not encountered anyone.

He put his gun away once more.

He had known it would not be that easy.

Dane appeared in the doorway, still holding himself together, much to St. Cyr's surprise. 'I called the police.'

'How long until they'll be here?'

'Always been fast — other times. No more than twenty minutes by helicopter.'

'Tina?'

'She's in the corridor, with everyone else.'

'Keep her company.'

Dane went away, and no one else tried to enter. Alicia Alderban was sobbing loudly, and Jubal seemed to be trying to console her. Both of them sounded distant, faint. If Betty had been killed indoors, rather than on the open patio, the noise would never have carried far enough to alert anyone. The sound-proofing truly was excellent.

St. Cyr pulled a chair up next to the open glass doors and sat down to wait for the authorities. He did not join the family because he wanted time to think, to sort out these recent developments and decide what they meant

One thing: Dane must be innocent, for he was with St. Cyr when Betty was killed. Forget him as a suspect, then.

Do not completely forget him, the bio-computer qualified.

And why not? He could not possibly have torn the girl's throat out; he could not have been two places at once.

He could be an accomplice. If two persons are involved, it could have been Dane's responsibility to see that you were occupied during the murder — and to be certain that you quickly identified the screamer. Without him, you would not have reached her room as quickly, for you do not know the way without a map. He may have been assigned to lead you to the scene.

To what purpose?

The bio-computer shell, still tapped into his spine, its gossamer fingers still splayed throughout his flesh, offered no further postulation.

St. Cyr thought, forming the segments of the thought rigidly as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else: Dane would not have any reason to lead me to Betty's room if he were mixed up in the murders.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. This is merely a point that should be given careful consideration.

The more he thought about it, the more St. Cyr found that he had to agree. It was something to consider, all right. From the beginning he had doubted the sincerity of Dane's belief in werewolves, for he knew that the Alderban boy — like the entire family — was well-educated. Too well-educated to hold such silly superstitions easily. It had occurred to him that Dane was feigning these beliefs, acting out some role that, somehow, would protect him against accusation. Perhaps he felt that, playing the superstitious fool, his true reaction to anything that happened or anything that was asked him would be misinterpreted, and that his genuine intentions would therefore be obscured. This notion, atop the possibilities the bio-computer had just suggested, made it impossible for him to remove Dane from the list of suspects.

In the distance, the night was broken by the clatter of helicopter rotors turning at high speed.

St. Cyr rose and stepped onto the patio. Far down the valley but drawing swiftly closer, large yellow headlights burned three hundred feet above the valley floor.

St. Cyr turned and looked at the dead girl one last time.

She had not moved, even though he would not have been surprised to find her position changed.

Nonsense.

He bent and pulled her lids closed, one at a time, holding them down until they remained in place. It was a small gesture. He had not known the girl well enough to feel sorry for her, but since she had lost her classic beauty to the wicked tines that had torn her open, he felt that the least she deserved was a bit of dignity when the strangers started pouring in.

FIVE: A Policeman and a Girl

The federal police, with the aid of their limited-response robotic helpmates, spent more than four hours going over the suite, the corpse, the balcony, and the lawn immediately below the balcony. St. Cyr was convinced, after watching them sift and analyze even the dust in Betty's room, that they were not going to turn up anything worthwhile. In the first five minutes of the investigation they had discovered four animal hairs alien to the human body — three of them in the bloody wound and one under Betty's right thumbnail. Ten minutes more, and a mobile robotic lab had definitely matched them with the wolf hairs found on the previous corpse. After that discovery, they were all wasting time. It was almost as if every possible clue had been removed by the killer — who had then planted the four hairs especially for them to find. This one thing. No more.

The Inspector Chief assigned to the case was named Otto Rainy, a plump little man whose quick, pink hands were forever pressing his hair back from his face. He looked as if he had not gotten a haircut in six months, though more because he neglected his appearance than for any reason of style. His clothes were rumpled, his shoes unpolished, the cuffs of his coat frayed badly. He was, despite his appearance, a thorough investigator, careful with his questions, probing. St. Cyr doubted that he missed much.

'Cyberdetective,' he said, first thing, when he approached St. Cyr.

'That's right.'

'Does it really help?'

'I think so.'

'Government isn't so sure about them, though,' Rainy said. 'No one has issued a ban on them, of course. But if the fedgov really trusted them, the word would have come down long ago for every copper on every world to hook up soonest.'

'The government usually is a couple of decades behind science — behind social change, too, for that matter.'

'I suppose.'

'What have you found?'

Rainy wiped at his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose, wiped at his hair again. His blue eyes were bloodshot and weary. 'Nothing more than those four damn hairs.'

They were standing at the end of the side corridor that lead to Betty Alderban's room. The others, huddled outside the half-open door to the death scene, had ceased to talk among themselves. No one was crying any longer, either.

St. Cyr said, 'Theories?'

'Only that it must have gotten to her on the balcony.'

'From the lawn?'

'Yes.'

'How far is that from the lawn — thirty feet?'

'Thirty-five.'

'Climb it?'

'No handholds,' Rainy said. He brushed angrily at his hair now, as if he could feel it crawling purposefully toward his eyes, as if it were a separate, sentient creature. 'And no hook or rope marks on the balcony rail.'

'Suppose the killer didn't come over the balcony rail, though. Just suppose that he walked right in through her door.'