House of Dou and against my allies and relatives, the Zoltans. He has ? had ? heavy investments in provinces controlled by the Dou clan. He chose to follow the dictates of his pocketbook rather than honor a friendship. On that basis alone, I am suspect. The fact that I also have an admittedly fetishistic love for knives and bladed weapons of every sort seems to be enough to condemn me out of hand.'
'Rest easy, my friend,' Trent said. 'Tyrene doesn't really believe you did it.'
'He doesn't? I wish he would be so kind as to point this out to me!'
'The investigation's far from over. He's not even at the hypothesis stage yet in choosing his suspects. Sure, you're on the list. So am I. Hell, lots of people hated Oren's guts.'
'I didn't! That's the irony of it. I didn't hold his political decisions against him. He was a friend, though I will be the first to admit that he had many faults. But he was… he knew how to have a good time. He was a jolly fellow, sometimes.'
Trent gave a half-shrug. 'I wouldn't know. We never socialized.'
'Yes, well, of course I understand completely why he was in bad odor with you. However, there is another disturbing fact that I wish to relate to you. I need advice.'
'Shoot.'
The count looked one way, then another. Leaning forward, he said quietly, 'I know who the knife belongs to.'
'You do?' Thaxton said, his eyebrows arching.
'I saw this person purchase the weapon when last I was in Helvius. It was at an open-air market in the village of Fliebas. I shall not name this person. At least not yet.'
'You don't know that the weapon you saw being bought was the murder weapon,' Trent pointed out. 'Those knives are pretty common. I had one like it once, long time ago.'
'Yes, but this was recently. True, my observation does not categorically establish the person's guilt, but this fact should be brought to light. I feel obligated to report it to Tyrene, compelled, if not by friendship for Oren, then by a sense of duty.'
'Then by all means tell Tyrene about it.'
'But… of course there is the inevitable odium attached to the act of informing.'
'I understand,' Trent said. 'But you shouldn't let that deter you.'
'Yes, I suppose you are right. I must give some thought to this matter.' The count rose, drawing Dalton and Thaxton to their feet.
'Thank you very much for the advice,' the count said to Trent.
'I'm sure you'll make the right decision,' the prince replied.
'I think I shall retire early this evening. Gentlemen, the pleasure was all mine. Good evening, Your Highness… my lady.'
'Good night, Damik,' Sheila said. 'Take care.'
The count bowed deeply and left.
'I'd hate to be in his shoes,' Sheila remarked. 'Especially if it was a friend I suspected.'
'I wish he'd told us who it was,' Thaxton said. 'But I suppose he couldn't go around making accusations, no matter how well-founded.'
'That knife is a very common make,' Trent commented. 'No doubt the murderer chose it for that very reason.'
'No doubt,' Thaxton said.
Trent suddenly got up. 'I forgot to mention something to Damik. I'll be right back.' He walked out of the dining hall.
Conversation shifted to lighter topics while Dalton demolished a roast sage hen. He claimed that the sea air had sharpened his appetite. Thaxton was in the middle of telling a story about grouse-shooting in Dorset when a scream came from the anteroom of the dining hall.
Everyone rushed outside.
There, in the middle of the foyer, stood Princess Dorcas. At her feet lay Damik, eyes closed. Trent was standing close by, along with Lord Belgard and Lady Rilma. All seemed stunned.
Thaxton and Dalton got to him first. He was lying face up, a red stain marring his white blouse.
'Dead?' Dalton asked.
Thaxton took his hand from the count's neck. 'Quite. The knife went right through the heart.'
Tyrene elbowed his way through the crowd. Thaxton stood up and stepped aside while the captain examined the corpse.
'Dalton, old boy?'
Dalton came to Thaxton's side.
'What is it?'
'I just kicked something.'
'You just kicked something?'
'As I stepped back, I felt my shoe hit something, and I heard something clatter. I don't see a thing, do you?'
Dalton looked around. 'Nothing for it to hide under. Are you sure?'
'Quite sure. What do you make of it?'
'Thaxton, old fellow, I don't have a clue.'
Thaxton stared at the count's body.
'I think I do,' he said.
Seventeen
Darby's Cafe
The greasy spoon was closed. A door at the side of the building gave onto stairs mounting to a landing, where three doors led to separate apartments. The stairs were dark, the bare light bulb over the landing burnt out.
'No numbers,' Carney said. 'Which one, Velma?'
'You got me.'
The building was quiet except for the far-off sound of a radio playing. Soft dance music.
Carney picked the first door on his left and knocked.
Nothing happened for quite a while. Then came sounds of latches being thrown. The door opened a crack, the chain still hooked.
Dim light inside, a woman's voice: 'Yes?'
'Does a Mr. Lemarr Hamilton live here?'
'Who're you?'
'I'd like to engage his services, if he's not too busy.'
'He in bed.'
'I realize it's late, but I'm in a great deal of trouble. Mr. Hamilton can help me. Can you please wake him?'
'He don't do that stuff no more anyway.'
'I can pay well. As I said, the situation is very urgent. In fact, it's a matter of life and death.'
The eye on the other side of the crack was unblinking. The door closed momentarily. Then it opened wide. Carney and Velma went in.
A tall woman in her forties closed the door. She was tall and slim in a green flower-print housedress and worn slippers. She gave her visitors a distrustful frown. 'Go on through there, into the parlor,' she said.
It was a railroad flat. They passed through the kitchen, then through another room where a blanketed form lay sleeping on a cot in the corner. There was a larger bed and several other pieces of furniture. Ragged holes marred the ceiling plaster, and water stains billowed across it. The place smelled of frying grease and mildew. Otherwise the apartment was well-kept.
