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

“Aye. I take it, from what you’re saying, you haven’t clamped the Kraut in irons? Not even for flogging secrets? He did do that, I take it?”

“Oh yes, no question. He doesn’t deny it.”

Dalziel considered, then said gently, “Now that should be a great big plus for the Yanks’ theory that he knocked the Frog off. So why do I get the feeling it’s nowt of the sort?”

Pascoe regarded him blankly. Time was when Dalziel reckoned he could have followed most of his old colleague’s thought processes along a broad spoor of telltale signs, but not anymore. Perhaps time had dulled his perception. Or perhaps it had honed Pascoe’s control.

Then the younger man smiled and was his old self again.

“I’m glad to see the nose is getting back into shape, Andy,” he said. “The truth is, I knew all about Kaufmann’s relations with the East long before Druson told me. As usual, the CIA have only managed to get half a story. The more important half is that Kaufmann’s been working under orders from EuroSec. He never sold anything very important, and his contacts with the Arabs plus their shopping lists gave us a great picture of what they were up to. We even got a lot of stuff about the Yanks through the back door!”

He laughed, inviting Dalziel to join in his amusement. But the fat man was not to be manipulated so easily.

“Sod this!” he said angrily. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Need-to-know, remember, Andy? Look, for all I knew, the Americans had got it right, Kaufmann was the killer, and I was into damage limitation. I didn’t see a need to load you down with classified stuff that wasn’t necessary.”

Dalziel digested this, then shook his head unhappily and said, “Oh, Pete, Pete. Listen, lad, I’m far too old a dog to be learning new tricks. If this is a good old-fashioned killing because some bugger’s been dipping his hand or his wick where he shouldn’t, that’s fine. But if it’s spies and politics and that kind of crap, better beam me down to the twilight zone.”

Pascoe smiled and said in a kindly tone, “I think you’re mixing your programmes, Andy. And if you’re going to try for pathos, better lose a bit of weight. Look, why do you think I brought you along? I’ve learnt enough new tricks to deal with the politics, but some of the old tricks may have gone a bit rusty. If it is just a good old-fashioned killing, and it could be, I’m relying on you to sort it out. You’re my fail-safe, Andy. Okay? Now let’s get on. I’ve got the Irishman and you’ve got the Dane. And try to hold back on the Hamlet jokes, won’t you?”

Marte Schierbeck was a very different proposition from Silvia Rabal. The atmosphere had changed from Mediterranean heat to Nordic coldness, but a native Yorkshireman knows better than to trust in mere weather. He said, “Was Emile more jealous of Marco than the other way round, do you think?”

She expressed no surprise but simply asked, “What has Silvia said?”

“Does it matter?”

“The truth matters. We must tell the truth, mustn’t we? Especially to policemen.” She spoke with no apparent irony.

“It helps,” he said. “So what about Marco, then? Was he very jealous of Emile?”

“All men are jealous of their successors. That is why they hate their sons.”

“Jesus,” said Dalziel.

“There too,” said the woman. “But I think what you are really asking is, ‘Was he jealous enough to kill?’ Perhaps. He is Italian, and their self-image permits crimes of passion.”

“Not much passion in fixing a man’s space suit so that first time he passes water he drops down dead,” sneered Dalziel, suddenly keen to pierce this icy carapace.

It was like spitting on a glacier.

She said, “To the Latin mind, it might seem... apt.”

Dalziel didn’t reply at once and the woman, mistaking his silence, tried to help him over his repression.

“Because the electrical connection that killed him would be through his sex organ,” she explained.

“Aye, lass,” he said irritably. “First thing they taught me at Oxford was to know when a tart’s talking dirty. I see from your file that you were the module pilot?”

“Yes. That surprises you?”

“I stopped being surprised by lady drivers a long time back,” he said. “And you landed safely? No bumps?”

“No bumps.” She almost smiled.

“Then what?”

“I extended the outside arm to set up the external camera to record this historic moment for posterity. Then Emile activated his TEC and entered the airlock. I opened the exit door and he began to descend. The rest you have seen.”

“Why was he the first out?” asked Dalziel. “Did you draw lots, or what?”

Now she definitely smiled.

“Certainly we drew lots,” she said. “Being first is important. Everyone remembers Armstrong, but who can remember the others? Can you, Mr. Dalziel?”

“Nowadays I can’t remember to zip me flies till I feel a draught,” said Dalziel. “Lemarque won when you drew lots, then?”

“Oh no. He did not even bother to take part. He knew it was pointless. Next day the decision came from above. He was chosen. No arguments.”

“Oh aye? How’d they work that out, then?”

She said, “Who knows? But perhaps you remember from your school days, in the playground there was always one little boy or girl who had to have first turn at everything. In Europe that child is France.”

“Was anything said in the module before he left?”

“Only trivial things, I think.”

“My favourites,” said Dalziel.

“Emile said something like, I hope the Yankees have built a McDonald’s. Even American coffee must be better than the dishwater we have to drink. Something like that.”

“What do you think he was trying to say before he died?”

She shrugged and said, “Who can know?”

“Oh mer ... How about, Oh Marte?” said Dalziel.

“The vowel sound is not right,” she observed indifferently.

“Dying Frenchman pronouncing a Danish name,” he said. “What do you want? Professor Higgins?”

She took the reference in her stride and said, “It would be touching to believe his thoughts turned to me at such a time.”

Touching , thought Dalziel. Aye, mebbe. A hand on the shoulder in an identity parade, that’s touching!

But he didn’t bother to say it.

“You don’t look happy,” said Pascoe.

“You do. Found the Paddy amusing, did you?”

“Oh, he’s a broth of a boy, sure enough.”

“Get you anywhere?”

Pascoe said uncertainly, “I’m not sure, I got a feeling he was trying to manipulate me... but you know how Irishmen love to wind up the English. Who do you fancy now. Van der Heyde or Albertosi?”

Dalziel said, “How come I suddenly get a choice? You made out the list and I’m down for first stab at the Eyetie.”

“Sorry. I got worried in case you thought I was being a bit rigid, pulling rank, that sort of thing.”

“Oh aye? Word of advice,” said Dalziel gravely. “Pulling rank’s like pulling bollocks; once you start, you’d best not let go.”

“Oh aye?” mocked Pascoe. “You’ve been at your Rochefoucauld again, I see. Well, one good maxim deserves another. Look before you leap on top of a touchy Italian. Albertosi’s psych report says he’s got a short fuse. He probably wouldn’t have made the trip if the other Italian nominee hadn’t fallen off his scooter and cracked his skull. So tread carefully.”

“No need to warn me, lad,” said Dalziel. “I’m a changed man these days. No more clog dancing. It’s all tights and tippytoe now, believe me!”

“Here’s something that’ll make you laugh, Marco,” said Dalziel. “From what’s been said so far, you’re looking to be the man most likely to have knocked off Emile Lemarque!”