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

But there was still the question of motive. And why was Ka getting angry?

“Blackmail,” Druson replied promptly. “You’ve read the file. It’s obvious.”

It certainly appeared so. The major part of the American report was a digest of a CIA investigation which concluded that Captain Dieter Kaufmann of the Eurofed Air Corps had been selling NATO technology to the Arabs for the past decade.

It was detailed and unanswerable. And it hadn’t been compiled overnight.

“It would have been neighbourly to pass this information on a little earlier,” suggested Pascoe mildly. “Say three years earlier.”

It was three years since Kaufmann had joined the Europa crew.

“We like to be sure of our facts in such a serious matter,” said Druson.

Also, thought Pascoe, Kaufmann’s full-time transfer into the Eurospace programme had removed him from access to NATO information and left him with nothing to pass on but European astrotechnology which in American terms was yesterday’s news. With no threat to themselves, the Americans had decided to keep their information under their hat till they could make maximum profit from it.

Now that moment had come.

“Can we look at the body?” said Pascoe. “Just for the record.”

“Sure. But it ain’t very pretty.”

Dalziel had seen a lot worse.

“Not very big, is he?” said Pascoe.

“Depends where you’re looking,” said Dalziel.

He turned away from the body and picked up the Frenchman’s TEC, which was also on display.

“I bet he fancied himself too,” he said. “These little fellows often do.”

“Why do you say that, Andy?” asked Pascoe.

“His name tag, for a start.”

Instead of following a horizontal line, the adhesive name strip had been adjusted to a jaunty thirty-degree angle echoing the shoulder seam.

“Used to get buggers in the Force who tried to tart up their uniforms like that,” said Dalziel, sniffing at the headpiece. “And they usually wore aftershave that’d kill mosquitoes too.”

“Seems he did have a reputation for being a cocky little bastard,” said Druson, looking at Dalziel with a new respect.

Pascoe said, “And the circuitry was definitely interfered with?”

“Oh yeah. Clear as a fox among chickens. Rush job by the look of it. Well, it would have to be, in the Europa’ s hold. No time for finesse.”

“No,” agreed Pascoe. “Seen enough, Andy?”

“More than enough,” said Dalziel. “Did someone say something about a room with a bed in it?”

“Let’s go,” said Druson.

He led them to their quarters, two small bedrooms with a shared living room. When the door had shut behind him, Dalziel said, “Okay, lad. What do you reckon? Still a fit-up by the Yanks?”

“Open mind,” said Pascoe. “They’ve certainly put a reasonable case together. Maybe Kaufmann did do it.”

“Mebbe. I’d trust ’em a lot more if yon black bugger hadn’t managed to forget that Glenmorangie he promised me!”

Pascoe grinned and said, “A good night’s sleep will do you more good, Andy. Nothing more to be done till tomorrow. Then it’ll be straight down to the interrogations.”

“Hold on,” said Dalziel. “Scene of the crime, remember? Shouldn’t we fix up to visit the Europa before we do owt else?”

“Don’t worry,” said Pascoe. “I’ll be arranging a trip as soon as possible. But time’s too short to waste, so in the morning let’s get on with talking to the crew, shall we? Now I thought we’d work individually. I’ll take three and you take three, then we’ll swap over...”

“Swap away!” said Dalziel obstinately. “Until we’ve seen Europa what they say won’t make bloody sense, will it?”

There was a tap at the door. Pascoe didn’t move. Dalziel scowled at him and went to answer it.

A smiling young man handed him two litre-sized bottles, saying, “There you go, pops.”

“Pops!” said Pascoe as Dalziel closed the door. “You must be mellowing, Andy. Time was when you’d have nutted anyone who spoke to you like that.”

“That was when I was young and daft,” said Dalziel, removing the seal from one of the bottles. “At my age, anyone who gives me two litres of Glenmorangie can call me Mavis if he likes. You want a splash?”

“Only water,” said Pascoe. “I’ll have a shower. Then I’ll work out a schedule for the interrogations before I go to bed. Okay?”

He spoke defiantly. Dalziel stared at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“Fine,” he said. “You’re the boss now.”

“So I am,” smiled Pascoe as he left. “So I am.”

“And I’m to be Queen of the May, Mother,” murmured Dalziel raising the bottle to his lips. “I’m to be Queen of the May!”

Dalziel had a bad night. He dreamt he challenged Nurse Montague to the best of three falls and lost by a straight submission. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the dream had been erotic but it was merely humiliating and he woke up dry and droopy as a camel’s tail. Whisky only washed his black thoughts blacker and when finally there came a tap on the door and Pascoe’s voice invited him to go to breakfast, he snarled, “Sod off!”

Only the younger man’s offer to call the Village medics and have someone check him out got Dalziel out of bed. He was still running his portable electric razor over the shadowy planet of his face as they made their way to the Europa crew’s dome, and this at last provoked an honestly irritated response from Pascoe.

“For heaven’s sake, Andy, put that thing away. We are representing the Federal Justice Department, after all!”

With his first twinge of pleasure of the day, Dalziel slipped the slim plastic razor case into his breast pocket and followed Pascoe into the dome.

The six survivors of the Europa crew were an interesting assortment. It was almost possible to identify them by racial characteristics alone.

The two women were easiest. The Dane, Marte Schierbeck, was pure Viking, long-bodied, long-faced, and grey-eyed, with hair so fair it was almost silver. By contrast the Spaniard, Silvia Rabal, was compact and curvaceous, with huge dark eyes, full pouting lips, and a rather prominent, slightly hooked nose. Her jet-black hair was razored back above her ears and sculpted into a rose-tipped crest. The total effect was arrestingly beautiful, like some colourful exotic bird.

Of the men, a rather spidery figure with a face crumpled like an old banknote and eyes blue as the lakes of Killarney had to be the Irishman, Kevin O’Meara, while a Rembrandt burgher, solid of frame and stolid of feature, was typecast as the Dutchman, Adriaan van der Heyde. Only the German and the Italian ran counter to type, with the six-foot, blue-eyed blond turning out to be Marco Albertosi, which meant the black-haired, volatile-faced, lean-figured gondolier was Dieter Kaufmann.

Pascoe introduced himself formally, explaining Dalziel simply as his assistant. He made heavy weather of insisting on the serious nature of the affair and the absoluteness of his own authority, and by the time he finished, he had succeeded in relaxing the crew into a union of mocking anglophobia, which was precisely what he intended.

“We will start with individual interviews,” said Pascoe. “Herr Kaufmann, would you come with me? Mr. Dalziel...”

Pascoe had already decreed the order of interview, but Dalziel let his eyes slowly traverse the group with the speculative gaze of a sailor in a brothel. Then, with a macho aggression which should have sat ill on a man of his age, but didn’t, he stabbed a huge forefinger at Silvia Rabal and said, “I’ll have her!”

Space was short for special interview facilities so the interrogations took place in the newcomers’ rooms. Rabal sat on the bed without being asked. Dalziel eased himself carefully onto a frail-looking chair and began to open the second bottle of malt.