There were a few other words on the paper, scribbled in the left-hand margin.
Alvar Kresh tossed the letter down on the desktop and stood up. Damnation. If only he had had the information in that letter sooner, then—
—Then it would not have made the slightest difference. That was the frustrating part of it. The information and advice from a dead man did little more than muddy the waters. Grieg gave him more questions when what he needed was more answers.
Donald. He could get Donald’s advice. Kresh had quite purposely not let Donald read the letter yet, so as to insure its contents did not bias the robot’s thoughts. “Donald,” Kresh called.
Donald’s eyes glowed a brighter blue, and he turned to regard Kresh. “Yes, sir?”
“What, in your opinion, was the motive for Grieg’s murder?”
“I can offer no thought on that until we have a great deal more information, as you know, sir. However, I think by this time we can begin to eliminate certain possible motives.”
“Can we, by the stars? Please, tell me which ones.”
“With every moment, it is less and less likely that the murder was intended as the first stage in a coup, or in the overthrow of the Spacer regime on Inferno.”
Kresh nodded. “We’re starting to get things back under control. If the plotters wanted to take over, they would have followed up with a military move or the equivalent by now. All right, so there is not going to be a coup. Go on.”
“Second, we can eliminate succession to the Governor’s office as a motive, except in respect to Shelabas Quellam. He might well have struck in order to assume power. If the new Designate had turned out to be Sero Phrost, or Simcor Beddle, that would be tremendously suspicious. As things are, there can be no such possible motive.”
“Thanks for the implied compliment, Donald, but I promise you a lot of people besides me have trouble believing I was the legitimate Designate. I haven’t gone looking, but I can promise you that if I did, I’d find a half- dozen rumors going around that I forged the Designation document and then killed Grieg myself. I did find the body, after all.”
“I assure you, sir, that I intended no compliment. I was, after all, right behind you as you entered Grieg’s bedroom. Unless you were carrying a blaster identical to Bissal’s, one that held precisely the same charge as Bissal’s, unless you were capable of extracting that blaster from some concealed pocket, firing it four times with great precision into Grieg and the robots, and then reconcealing the weapon, all in the space of a few seconds, you could not have done it. I suppose it might in theory be possible for you to do all that, but even then you could not have killed Grieg.”
“Why not?” Kresh asked.
“Blaster shots release a great deal of heat, and Grieg’s wounds, and the shots to the three SPR robots, were all at normal temperature by the time I arrived in the room. I know you did not do it because it would be physically impossible for you to do it. As to the rumors you describe, several such have been reported via the various tipster lines and so forth. However, rumors do not a case make.
“The main point is that you did not kill Grieg, and yet you became Governor. Therefore, unless the leader of the plot was under the mistaken impression that Quellam was the current Designate, succession to the Governor’s office cannot be the motive. And I do not believe in any plotters that incompetent.”
“Unless the plotters knew I was the Designate, and wanted me in power.”
“For what reason?” Donald asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Kresh said. “I admit it is rather implausible.”
“Yes, sir. In any event, there are several other classes of motive that are increasingly nonviable. Personal motivations, for example. If it were a crime of passion, the preparations were remarkably elaborate. Likewise if this was the work of someone who wished to be avenged. Also, someone acting out of such personal motivation would be unlikely to recruit so many co-conspirators. Finally, an examination of Grieg’s personal effects and letters reveals no hint of any jilted lover or jealous husband, or other such domestic complication.”
“So it wasn’t a coup, it probably wasn’t a would-be Governor, and it wasn’t a husband.”
“No, sir. Not if my analysis is sound.”
“Which it is. So what does that leave?” Kresh asked.
“Love, power, and wealth are the three classic motivations for premeditated crime. We have eliminated two, and have but one left.”
“In other words, someone killed Chanto Grieg in hopes of financial profit,” Kresh said.
“Yes, sir. I judge from your tone of voice that you had already reached such a conclusion.”
“So I had, Donald. But I feel much more comfortable in that conclusion having heard your reasoning.” Kresh sighed, and leaned back in the Governor’s oversized chair. It was a hell of a note that the only suspect Sheriff Alvar Kresh had eliminated so far was Alvar Kresh himself. And not everyone was ready to believe that, either.
Money as the motive. A very old-fashioned sort of motive, on a world like Inferno where robots could produce all the wealth you wanted and money didn’t have much meaning. But with the robot economy collapsing, with the terms “wealth” and “poverty” suddenly coming to have meaning again, with a money system making a comeback, money might well be the reason why. And there certainly were big profits, high stakes, in the terraforming business.
So who might have a money motive? Welton, Verick, Beddle, Phrost, some damned rustbacker—Cinta Melloy, if she were mixed up in rustbacking—hell, even the two robots might be in it for the money. Prospero needed cash to pay for rustbacking runs. Of course, from the New Law robot point of view, not being exterminated was certainly motive enough. And then there was Devray. What about him? Kresh had trusted him, after a few initial doubts. But why the devil hadn’t Devray told him about the bribery investigation of Verick? Maybe Devray was just being cautious—very, very cautious. Maybe he didn’t trust Kresh quite as much as he might. Or maybe Verick had finally managed to name Devray’s price. Damnation. If Devray was dirty, then he might well have financial motive enough to be in on the plot. And Kresh had made him privy to every part of the investigation.
Any of them—or any combination of them—would have had the resources, and the access to the know-how, required to rig the SPR robots and send Ottley Bissal in motion.
Ottley Bissal. The real killer. The one who had pulled the trigger. It was easy to forget him in the midst of all the big-name players. But no matter how many cut-outs and layers of security there had been in the operation, Bissal would have to know something. He could answer some questions. He was the one Kresh wanted. He needed Ottley Bissal, needed the information in his head. But Kresh knew, even if he did not want to admit it, that with every day—with every hour and moment that passed—it was becoming more and more likely that Kresh would not get him.
