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

The Italian’s English was nowhere near as good as the two women’s, but he had no difficulty with the idiom.

“Who has said this? What have they said?” he demanded angrily.

“General notion seems to be you and him were bonking rivals. You know, jealous of each other’s success with the ladies.”

“What? Me jealous of Lemarque? More chance I am jealous of a flea because he bites the woman I love!”

“Flea, you say? You want to watch where you get your women,” said Dalziel kindly. “But you were both after Silvia Rabal, weren’t you?”

“What? Oh yes, he bothers her. Is always flapping round her, calling her his little cockatoo, making jokes. But is all words like with all these Frenchman. Women like men who act, real men, big men. He is no bigger than she is, a midget almost! When a true man comes along, his little cockatoo soon jerks him off the nest!”

Dalziel hid a grin and said, “So what you’re saying is, Lemarque wasn’t worth bothering about, right? But he did bother you, didn’t he? So why was that?”

Albertosi grimaced and said, “You are right. I will not lie. I did not like the Frenchman. But not because of Silvia.”

“Why, then?”*

“Because he has a poison tongue! Because he makes slander about me.”

“They’re like that, these Frogs,” said Dalziel sympathetically. “What was it he said about you?”

“He said that I have injured my comrade, Giuseppe.”

“Eh?”

“Giuseppe Serena. We are Italy’s team for the moon shot, but only one of us will go, it is not yet decided which. Then my friend is riding back to the base on his scooter when a car forces him off the road. He is not badly injured, but bad enough to put him out of the running, you understand. Then this pig, this Frenchman, he says it is I who drive the car, I who hurt my friend so that I will be selected!”

“So you wouldn’t be too unhappy about Lemarque’s death?” said Dalziel.

“What do you say? I am not happy that a colleague dies, does not matter how I feel personally. But, how is it in English — pride comes, then a fall. He was so boasting he was to be the first to step on the moon. Only he doesn’t step, he falls!”

The idea clearly amused him.

“It bothered you, did it? Him getting the prima donna’s job?”

“Prima donna! That’s it! That is how he acts. But what important is it, stepping on the moon? It is more than forty years since Armstrong did it. Since then many more. No, this is not a first, not a real first.”

“No? What would you reckon is a real first, then?” asked Dalziel.

The Italian smirked knowingly but did not reply.

“All right. Let’s stick to facts. You and Silvia Rabal stopped on Europa and watched the monitors. Did you see anything unusual?”

This seemed to amuse Albertosi. First he internalized his laughter till his whole body was shaking. Then finally it burst out in a full-throated roar.

“Please, I am sorry,” gasped the Italian. “Go on. Ask your questions. It is reaction, you understand.”

“All right. Silvia Rabal says that she noticed nothing unusual on the monitor.”

But he was off again, turning red in his effort to suppress his amusement.

For a moment Dalziel felt nothing but a schoolteacher’s exasperation in the face of a giggling adolescent. Then it began to dawn on him what this was all about.

“Oh, you dirty sod!” he said slowly. “That’s it, isn’t it? That was your first! While Lemarque and the others were in the module heading for the surface, you and Silvia were bonking in space. You dirty sod!”

He began to chuckle and a few seconds later his laughter mingled with Albertosi’s in a saloon bar chorus. It took the pouring of a couple of large scotches to calm things down.

“So neither of you was watching the monitor?” said Dalziel.

“When Albertosi makes love, who watches television?” said the Italian complacently.

“And this electrical storm that knackered the transmissions to Earth was just a happy coincidence?”

“A slight adjustment of the controls,” smirked Albertosi. “A man must protect a lady’s modesty, hey? Down there these bureaucrats watch us all the time but this they were not going to watch.”

He sipped his drink with a look of ineffable self-congratulation. Dalziel regarded him with an admiring envy which was mainly, though not entirely, assumed. It would be nice to puncture this inflated self-esteem, he thought, but that wasn’t the name of the game. The way to a man’s mind was through his pleasures.

He leaned forward and said confidentially, “Just a couple more questions, Marco. First: floating around up there, what was it like?”

“Break for lunch now,” said Pascoe. “Then we’ll swap.”

“Fine. How was the Dutchman?”

“Phlegmatic. And the Italian?”

“A bit up in the air,” said Dalziel. And laughed.

The Europa crew ate together in their dome, segregated partly by choice, partly by command. Druson had invited Pascoe and Dalziel to join him in the central mess.

“So how’s it going?” asked the American.

“Early days,” said Pascoe. “The crew are naturally eager to get this over and get back to work. Would you have any objection to a limited resumption of duties? I think we ought to have at least one of our people back on Europa. We’ve tied up your man long enough.”

Druson looked doubtful.

Dalziel, who was carving a steak like a Sunday joint, said, “What’s up, Ed? Scared we’ll pick the killer and he’ll make a run for Mars?”

“Funny. Yeah, okay, why not? Anyone in mind?”

“Rabal, the Spaniard’s the obvious choice. She’s the pilot. Also, though I’ve not talked to her myself yet, Andy here reckons she’s in the clear and I’ve never known him wrong.”

You lying bastard! thought Dalziel, chewing on his steak. He got the feeling that Druson, for all his street-wisdom, was being edged into doing exactly what Pascoe wanted.

“Okay,” said the American after a pause for thought. “Why not? I’ll arrange for one of our pods to make the transfer. No need to play around with that steam-powered module of yours!”

Dalziel noted the transfer of irritation. You’ve got the feeling you’ve been stitched up as well, my lad, he thought. And you’ve no idea how or why!

Pascoe pushed aside his almost untouched omelette and stood up.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “Couple of things to do. Back to work in, say, fifteen minutes, Andy?”

“Whatever you say,” said Dalziel.

They watched him walk away, a slim, upright figure, from behind very little changed from the young detective-sergeant Dalziel had spotted signs of promise in so many years ago.

“Hard man, your boss,” opined Druson. “And in a hurry. Man in a hurry can make mistakes. Now if you’ll excuse me, Andy. Anything you want, just ask, okay?”

He’s getting worried about the lad wandering around free, thought Dalziel.

He said, “Aye, there’s one thing you could tell me, Ed. What do you lot do about sex up here?”

Back in their dome after lunch Dalziel said, “Nice guy, Druson. Quite bright too, for a Yank.”

“Indeed,” said Pascoe. “This afternoon, Andy, let’s whip them through at a fair old pace. Don’t give them time to think. How does that sound to you as a strategy?”

It was the old Peter Pascoe’s voice, easy, friendly, slightly diffident. But running through it now like a filament of high-tensile steel was the unmistakable tone of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

“Sounds fine,” said Dalziel.

He followed Pascoe’s instructions to the letter with Kaufmann, hitting him with rapid-fire questions, all of which the German handled with the assurance of a man well grounded in the interrogative arts.