There is no reason why I may not be frank. You will surely have gathered that it is imperative that I explore and realize every sensation of the inhabitants of this planet. Only through this experience can I convey to the ships that follow a proper scout’s report on the symbiotic potential here. Every sensation which the host may undergo and force its symbiotic companion to share—I must know what it is like.
So I am turning off this machine, which has served its introductory purpose. But before I abandon it, I shall (curious how with practice it becomes possible to use them awake as well as asleep) use its fingers to type.
Respectfully yours,
(I believe that is the proper subscription?),
GANDOLPHUS
I took my time about refilling the steins. The photostats deserved some thought. I was not particularly inclined to argue with Fergus’ description of them as the damnedest document I’d ever read in my life.
“I suppose,” I ventured finally, “the knife did check—dimensions of blade, blood type and so on—with some known killing the night in question?”
“It did,” said Fergus. “An Italian peddler.”
“And the knife had only Harrington’s prints on it?”
“Of course.”
“The pattern’s clear enough. Obviously neurotic self-centered celibate entering the perilous fifties. Very self-revealing—pretty standard schizoid set-up, though I’ll admit that wild episode of philanthropy is a new one on me. Harrington’s death was natural, I suppose?”
Fergus grunted. “Syncope was the word the M.E. used. In English words, something turned off the machine.”
“It’s a good case,” I admitted. “One of the odder buildups to murder. But why on earth—”
“Why should it get me kicked out of the union? Because Bill Zobel dozed off.”
I said “So?”
“It was late and it kept getting later at the station while they piled up all these facts about knives and syncopes. And finally Bill dozed off. He woke up when a patrolman came in yelling he’d picked up a hot suspect in a recent series of muggings. Nothing to do with the Harrington business; but the muggings were Bill’s baby and he went off to question the suspect.
“The guy was guilty all right. Plenty of evidence turned up later. But he never came to trial. He died of the beating he got that night. . . from Bill Zobel, the tough straight cop who never stood for rough stuff.
“It got hushed up; there was nobody to make a beef. But I was there; I saw the guy before the ambulance came. It was an artistic job; that night Gandolphus learned everything he needed to know about sadism—he hadn’t tried that one yet; couldn’t, maybe, with Harrington’s body.
“Maybe you didn’t hear out in the West about the rest of Zobel’s career. The beating was bad enough. Then they began to watch him when they saw he was spending damned near his whole month’s salary on concert and opera tickets. Precinct captains aren’t exactly used to that in their men.
“The next month’s salary, and a pretty penny to boot, went to Chambord and Twenty-One and Giovanni’s and Lüchow’s. He was dining like Nero Wolfe as a guest of Lucullus, with Escoffier in the kitchen. He was also hanging around off-duty in some joints in the Village—the kind of joint a policeman never goes into except for a raid, when you don’t need a matron to search the sopranos.
“The talk that started died down a little when Zobel suddenly got engaged to his captain’s daughter—hell of a sweet kid; you could still smell the starch-andincense of the convent, but her eyes had a gleam . . . Later on, when the gleam was doused, she told me they’d never had a clinch you couldn’t show on a TV screen; our friend was learning that there was more to love than backaches. Her Bill, she said, was so groundlessly jealous he made Othello look like the agreeable husband in a Restoration comedy.
“The pay-off came when Zobel picked up a dope-peddler and went on a jag with the bastard’s bindles.
“His record up to then was so clean they let him down easy and fixed a psychiatric discharge. Next month he got picked up once as a peeping Tom and once for inciting to riot in Union Square. Gandolphus wasn’t missing a sensation.”
“But you see,” I interrupted, “we did hear about Zobel in the West.” It was a fine rich feeling to have the topper for the first time in my years of knowing Fergus O’Breen. “We even met him. He was a guest speaker at a meeting of Mystery Writers of America. He told us, and damned frankly too, about the nervous breakdown he’d had last year and the psychiatric discharge and the course of treatments that led the police psychiatrist to recertify him finally. Lieutenant Zobel’s happily married, professionally successful . . .”
Fergus looked glum and disgruntled. “So you knew the topper,” he said. “Yes, Bill’s a normal man again. This time the machine wasn’t turned off. Gandolphus just left. He’d found out what he needed. And like a good scout, he’s gone back with his report on our symbiotic potential.
“Care to make a small bet as to what that report is?”
Sriberdegibit
“May I be eternally cursed!” Gilbert Iles gasped.
The little man with the sketchy fringe of beard made further passes, reached out into the air again, and plunked a second twenty-dollar gold piece down on the bar beside the first.
“It’s beautiful,” lies announced solemnly. Hot buttered rum always made him solemn. “I’ve never seen such prestidigitation in my life. See: I can say prestidigitation.’ That’s what comes of having trained articulation. That’s beautiful, too.”
The little man smiled. “You’re an actor, colleague?” he asked.
“Not officially. I’m a lawyer. I won the Shalgreen will case today; that’s why I’m celebrating. Did I tell you about that case?”
“No. Was it interesting?”
“Most interesting. You see, the presumptive heirs— But the hell
