were lovers. She was close to another, Carl Indart, and you could have wanted her to break with him. She refused, you lost your temper, there was a brief struggle and-' His shrug was expressive.
'That's assumption, not proof.'
'The cleaner saw you enter the room.'
'Which is proof that I wasn't in it. Hell, I wasn't even in the hotel that night. I told you that.'
'Your alibi.' Vellani pursed his lips. 'As regards the hotel you could have left it anytime after killing the woman. All the porter can swear to is that you demanded entry shortly after dawn.'
'So?'
'Claire Hashein was killed approximately three hours before sunrise. You could have sneaked out just before dawn and returned to establish your innocence. I merely relate the possibility.'
'I've a witness.'
'Brad Arken. All he can swear to is that he met you close to the hotel that morning.'
'We met the previous night.'
'And parted.' Vellani shook his head. 'It would have been easy for you to have returned to the hotel after leaving him. The public rooms were still open and, in the crowd, you wouldn't have been noticed. Then to your room, the rendezvous with the victim, the argument, the act, the attempt to establish your absence. It's speculation, true, and I could argue it out of court, but there's more. The report made by the examining investigator, for example. The victim was lying supine on the bed. She was naked. Her hands and arms were upraised. Bruises were found on her cheeks as if she'd been slapped. The fingers of the right hand clutched a key which fitted the lock of your room.'
'I didn't give it to her.'
'Can you suggest how she got it?'
'Borrowed a spare from the desk. Had a copy made-your guess is as good as mine.' Dumarest added, bitterly, 'Does it matter? The key didn't kill her.'
But it may have led to her death. Dumarest imagined the scene, Claire, in love, wanting to surprise him. Entering his room, stripping, bathing, lying on the bed waiting for him to join her. Not knowing he was absent from the hotel. Falling asleep, perhaps, to wake and meet her death.
Who would have wanted to kill her?
Why?
Vellani said, 'The collar of your tunic was scarred as if by a metal instrument. It could have been the key.'
'It could have been many things. Assumption isn't evidence.'
'Medical testimony is. The bed was soaked with blood. It must have sprayed from the severed arteries of her throat and traces were found on the carpet and far walls. The medical conclusion is that such a violent and sudden release of blood would have given the murderer no chance to have escaped contact.' Pausing, the advocate added, 'Tests revealed flecks of blood on your clothing. They are of the same group as the victim's. More blood was found on your knife and, it too, belongs to the same group. As far as the prosecution is concerned that's all they need.'
Motive, means and opportunity-and the damning evidence of the blood. A coincidence; the blood spraying from the thief he had killed had been of the same group as Claire's.
Dumarest said, 'If the murderer was stained he'd have to have washed off the blood. Were traces found in the bathroom?'
'Yes. Smears around the edge of the shower drainpipe.' Vellani added, 'It doesn't help. You- he-could have washed down but missed the traces later found.'
'My alibi?'
'It doesn't stand up. Sagoo Moyna denies he's ever seen you.'
'He's lying!' Dumarest looked down at his hand where it rested on his knee. It was doubled into a fist. Deliberately he forced himself to relax. As the hand opened he said, 'Others must have seen me. There was a man serving the food, and plenty used the shelter that night. They couldn't all have been asleep.'
'They weren't.'
'Then-'
'Listen to me, Earl, and follow what I say.' Vellani edged a little closer, his voice lowering as if he were afraid of being overheard. 'I'm not a fool. Scum like Sagoo Moyna will lie for the sake of it but he had a reason. I sent men to find out what it was. You killed that night. I'm not arguing how or why but it happened. Two men dead and Sagoo was paid by you to dispose of them. Do you honestly believe he's going to stand up in court and admit to that?'
'As long as he admits I was there.'
'It's too late for that. The prosecution will want to know why he's changed his story. They'll probe, use devices to check his veracity. Use them on you, too, once they are introduced. The truth will come out-but will it do you any good?'
He had killed an armed thief who had tried to rob him. Self-defense and so justified on the majority of worlds. Even on Erkalt where to kill was to commit the most heinous of crimes. But the other one? The old man?
Dumarest had struck out in unthinking reflex, killing before he had seen the face, recognized a deadly threat. To have delayed could have cost him his life-an assumption he was not permitted to make.
'You're in a bind,' said Vellani. 'If I get you off one hook you'll be stuck on another and the end will be the same. Twenty years' slave-bondage-need I tell you what that means?'
Locked in a collar which could tear at his nerves or blow off his head at the whim of the controller. One which would detonate if he tried to break it free. A life of helpless obedience.
'You'd be sold to a low-temperature laboratory,' said the advocate. 'If you manage to serve your time you'll be the first. The record is five years.' Pausing Vellani added, 'I've spoken to the prosecutor. He's willing to give you an out.'
'Such as?'
'You can volunteer for quarry.'
* * *
The games had started as fun, developed into a sport and were now a bloody slaughter. An attraction which brought tourists flocking to Erkalt during the season. Their money stimulated the economy and fed the parasites that fattened on the ritual; people like Meister and Travante who supplied gear for the hunters; Yegorovich and Mickhailovich who dealt in miniatures, souvenirs, mementos of the ritual; Pincho and Barrass and Valence with their tapes and stills and tips as to where the quarry could be found.
Entrepreneurs like Hagen.
Murderers like herself.
Karlene moved through the crowd like a silver ghost, tall, impassive, acknowledging greeting with a twitch of her lips, a gesture of a hand. Always it was like this before a hunt; the crowd gathered to discuss the prospects, assess chances, probable routes, odds, the time the quarry would be able to remain free, the moment when he would be run down and his blood sent to stain the snow.
But, more than the rest, they had come to see the man himself.
'Hard.' She heard the comment as she passed a man talking to a companion. 'I know the type. A killer, too, from what I hear. He'll make a run for it. It'll be good sport. You in for a place?'
'Who isn't?'
The initial raffle. A score would win and be charged extra for the privilege of taking part. Half their fees would be placed within the trophy; the prize for the hunter who won. Given to the quarry together with his freedom should he be lucky enough to make it. Some had gone free-a few spread over the years; enough to maintain the conviction that the quarry had a chance, though that was almost eradicated now by her talent.
'Karlene!'
Hagen waved to her from where he stood with a bunch of others. Hunters from their clothing and interest. She waved back, expecting him to join her, but he was too engrossed in conversation. Business, she guessed, he rarely wasted a moment in his determination to be the best. Alone she moved on to where a wide pane of clear
