Charles Ardai - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 102, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 618 & 619, October 1993

It took the staid Autograph to say what all the French papers had agreed from the start — that Lemarque was merely exclaiming, like any civilized Gaul in a moment of stress, Oh merde!

All this Dalziel found rather less enthralling than nonalcoholic lager. But when the Spheroid scooped them all by revealing under the banner CASE OF THE EXPIRING FROG! that the Eurofed Department of Justice was treating Lemarque’s death as murder, he sat up and took notice, particularly when it was announced that the man in charge of the case was the U.K. commissioner in the Eurofed Justice Department, none other than his old friend and former colleague, Peter Pascoe.

“I taught that lad everything he knows,” he boasted as he watched Pascoe’s televised press conference from Strasbourg.

“Lad?” snorted Miss Montague, his new nurse, who could snatch and press her own considerable weight and whose rippling muscles filled Dalziel with nostalgic lust. “He looks almost as decrepit as you!”

Dalziel grunted a promise of revenge as extreme, and as impotent, as Lear’s, and turned up the sound on his new set.

Pascoe was saying, “In effect, what was at first thought to be a simple though tragic systems failure resulting in a short circuit in the residual products unit of his TEC, that is, Total Environment Costume, sometimes called lunar suit, appears after more detailed examination by American scientists working in the U.S. lunar village, for the use of whose facilities may I take this chance to say we are truly thankful, to have been deliberately induced.”

For a moment all the reporters were united in deep incomprehension. The man from the Onlooker raised his eyebrows and the woman from the Defender lowered her glasses; some scribbled earnestly as if they understood everything, others yawned ostentatiously as if there were nothing to understand. But it took the man from the Spheroid to put the necessary probing question — “You wha’?”

Patiently Pascoe resumed. “Not to put too fine a point on it, and using layman’s language, the microcircuitry of the residual products unit of his TEC had been deliberately cross-linked with both the main and the reserve power systems in such a manner that it needed only the addition of a conductive element, in this case liquescent, to complete the circuit with unfortunate, that is, fatal, consequences.”

Now the reporters were united in a wild surmise. The Onlooking eyebrows were lowered, the Defending spectacles raised. But once again it was the earnest seeker of enlightenment from the Spheroid who so well expressed what everyone was thinking. “You mean he pissed himself to death?”

Dalziel laughed so much he almost fell out of bed, though the nurse noted with interest that some internal gyroscope kept his brimming glass of Lucozade steady in his hand. Recovering, he downed the drink in a single gulp and, still chuckling, listened once more to his erstwhile underling.

Pascoe was explaining, “While there would certainly be a severe shock, this was not of itself sufficient to be fatal. But the short circuit would have cut dead all TEC systems, including the respiratory unit. It was the shock that made him fall. But it was the lack of oxygen that killed him, before the dust had started to settle.”

This sobered the gathering a little. But newsmen’s heartstrings vibrate less plangently than their deadlines and soon Pascoe was being bombarded with questions about the investigation, which he fielded so blandly and adroitly that finally Dalziel switched off in disgust and poured himself another glass of Lucozade. The nurse seized the bottle and raised it to her nostrils.

“I think this has gone off,” she said. “It smells peaty.”

“Tastes all right to me,” said Dalziel. “Try a nip.”

Miss Montague poured herself a glass, raised it, sipped it delicately.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you could be right.”

“I usually am,” said Dalziel. “Cheers!”

At nine that night the telephone rang.

“This is a recording,” said Dalziel. “If you want to leave a message, stick it in a bottle.”

“You sound very jolly,” said Pascoe.

“Well, I’ve supped a lot of Lucozade,” said Dalziel, looking at the gently snoring figure of Nurse Montague on the sofa opposite. “What’s up?”

“Just a social call. Did you see me on the box?”

“I’ve got better things to do than listen to civil bloody servants being civil and servile,” growled Dalziel.

“Oh, you did see it, then. That’s what we call diplomatic language out here in the real world,” said Pascoe.

“Oh aye. Up here it’s called soft soap and it’s very good for enemas.”

Pascoe laughed and said, “All right, Andy. I never could fool you, could I? Yes, this whole thing has got a great crap potential. To start with, we reckon the Yanks deliberately leaked their suspicion of foul play to bounce us into letting them take full control of the investigation. Now, we’re not terribly keen on that idea.”

“Oh aye? Don’t they have jurisdiction anyway?”

“Certainly not. Space is international by UN treaty. But they’re established up there with all the facilities, so on the surface it’s a generous, neighbourly offer, only... Look, it’s a bit complicated...”

“Come on, lad, I’m not quite gaga and I do read the papers still,” snarled Dalziel. “It’s this Eurofed summit thing, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” murmured Pascoe. “Do expound.”

“All right, clevercuts. There’s a lot of Euros fed up with having to compete with the Yanks in their own backyard, so they’d like to build up import tariffs like the Great Wall of China. Plus the soldier boys would like to give NATO the elbow and concentrate on a pure Eurofed force buying nowt but made-in-Europe military hardware. As usual, if France and Germany get together on this, they’ll railroad the rest. So anything that gets the Krauts and Frogs at each other’s goolies will be good news in Washington just now.

“Conclusion. The Americans have elected the German crew member number one suspect, and you reckon any investigation they mount will make bloody sure that’s where the finger points. How’s that for a bit of close political analysis?”

“Marvellous,” breathed Pascoe admiringly. “Who speaks so well should never speak in vain.”

“I don’t know about in vain, but I do prefer in plain English. So what have they got on this German, then?”

There was a long pause.

“Come on, lad,” said Dalziel. “They must have a pretty good case against him, else you’d not be so worried.”

“Yes, they do. But it’s not... Look, Andy. I’m sorry, but the thing is, security. You’re not cleared for this. It’s a need-to-know classification and the only people who need to know outside of government are the investigating officers. So I really can’t tell you any more. Not unless I appointed you an investigating officer!”

He said this with a light dismissive laugh, but Dalziel had had many years’ experience of interpreting Pascoe’s light laughs.

“All right, lad,” he said softly. “What’s going off? Spit it out and make it quick, else this phone goes back down so hard it’ll need a jemmy to prise it back up.”

“There’s no fooling you, is there, Andy?” said Pascoe. “Okay. Straight it is. I’ve been asked to take charge of the case, not because I’m the best, but because I’m not French, German, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Danish, or Irish. Meaning none of the countries actually involved in the Europa’ s mission will trust any of the others to give them a fair deal! They’ve given me a free hand. They’ve also given me four days to get a result.”