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

“Did you like Lemarque?” he asked finally.

“He knew his job, he did his work,” answered the German.

“Aye, but did you like him?”

Kaufmann considered, then said, “As a man, no. He was like many small men, too aggressive. Always compensating for his lack of height.”

“Give me an example.”

“Well, I recall during training, he found out that O’Meara had been a boxer in his youth, an amateur, you understand. All the time after that, he made jokes about it, pretended to fight with him, challenged him to a bout in the gym.”

“And did O’Meara take up the challenge?”

“Naturally not. Such things would not be allowed.”

“So what happened?”

“Nothing,” said Kaufmann. “O’Meara kept his temper, though I think it was difficult for him sometimes. Eventually Lemarque found a new target.”

“Which was?”

“Me, I think. The Germans in the wars of the last century, something like that.”

“And you kept your temper too?”

“Oh yes. Sometimes I imagined what I would like to do to the troublesome little creature, but it stayed in my imagination.”

“Oh aye. And can you prove that?”

The answer came unhesitatingly.

“All I can say is, if I had decided to kill him, one thing is sure. Everyone would have been quite convinced it was an accident.”

“He had a point,” said Dalziel. “But not just for him. How come with all their electronic know-how, whoever did it made such a pig’s arse of covering their tracks?”

“We’ve been through this, Andy,” said Pascoe. “It must have been done in a hell of a hurry. I gather there’s only room for one person at a time in the Europa ’s hold and the TV camera is blocked by the body. So the opportunity’s there. But if anyone spent an unusually long time down there, it’d stick out in the recordings at Control, and it doesn’t.”

“Aye, well, mebbe I’ll get the chance to see what it’s like up there for myself before we’re done,” growled Dalziel.

“Still thinking we’re not following proper procedure?” mocked Pascoe. “You’re such a stickler! It wasn’t always like that, I seem to recall. Incidentally, I checked the order they got themselves ready in. The bad news is Lemarque was last into the hold, so it could have been anyone who fixed his suit!”

“How does an Irishman get to be an astronaut?” asked Dalziel.

Kevin O’Meara cocked his head on one side in best leprechaun fashion and said, “Is it an Irish joke you’re after telling?”

“Sorry?”

“Do I say, I don’t know, and you say, he lights a rocket but doesn’t retire till he’s sixty-five? Or is it a real question?”

“That’s the only sort I know.”

“All right, then. Here’s the story of me fascinating life and hard times. I joined the air force at sixteen, not out of any sense of patriotism, you understand. I just wanted to learn to fly so I could become a commercial airline pilot, and make a lot of money, and spend me spare time pleasuring hostesses in palatial hotels.”

“Sounds fair enough to me,” said Dalziel. “What happened?”

“I grew up. Or at least I grew older. Young men should be given their heart’s desires straightaway.”

He threw back his head and carolled, “Oh, the youth of the heart and the dew in the morning, you wake and they’ve left you without any warning.”

“Don’t ring us,” said Dalziel. “From your file, I see you had a longish period of sick leave about four years back.”

“Is it me file you’ve got there? Then you’ll know more about myself than I’ll ever want to know.”

“It was after your wife died, right?”

“Let me think. Yes now, you’ll be right. Or was it after the budgie escaped? Drat this memory of mine!”

“Not much to choose between a wife and a budgie, I suppose,” said Dalziel. “All bright feathers and nonstop twittering. Your missus flew away too, didn’t she? Funny, that. You need to be a very cheeky sod to apply for sick leave ’cos that tart who dumped you’s got herself killed.”

“That’s me all over,” said O’Meara. “More cheek than Sister Brenda’s bum, as the saying is.”

“She’d run off with a Frog, hadn’t she?” persisted Dalziel. “Died with him in a car accident. Terrible bloody drivers, these foreigners.”

“Aha!” said O’Meara. “At last I’m getting your drift! And here’s me thinking you were just showing a friendly interest! Because my wife ran off with a Frog, as you call him, every time I see a Frenchman, I feel an irresistible desire to kill him, is that it? Sure now, it’s a fair cop. Except it happens in this case, the Frog she ran off with was a Belgian!”

“Let’s not split hairs,” said Dalziel.

“You’re right. Many things I am, but not a hair-splitter. Do I get a choice of wearing the cuffs in front or behind? And what happens if I want to go to the little boys’ room while I’ve got them on?”

“You pray no one’s been mucking about with your wiring. This sick leave you had, exactly what was it that was supposed to be wrong with you?”

“Oh, women’s trouble, you know the kind of thing.”

Dalziel slapped the file down on his knee with a crack that made the Irishman flinch.

“End of happy hour,” he snarled. “Let’s have some straight answers, right?”

“Oh God!” cried the Irishman, clenching his fists in a parody of a boxer’s defences. “You don’t mean you’re after fighting with the gloves off, is that it? I never could abide bare fists. Bare anything else you care to name, but not the bare fists!”

Dalziel looked at him thoughtfully and said, “Yes, I’d heard summat about you being a boxer. And about the little Frog taking the piss.”

“Now that’s what I call an unfortunate choice of phrase,” said O’Meara.

“I told you, lad. Cut the comedy! Let’s just talk about you and Lemarque and the boxing ring, shall we?”

“I thought we agreed to whip this lot through double quick,” said Pascoe irritably.

“Sorry. He bothered me, that one. Too many jokey answers and I got the feeling he was trying to steer me around all the time.”

“So what did you end up not getting answers about that you asked questions about?”

Dalziel considered, then said, “Hard to say exactly. One thing was why he got sick leave after his wife snuffed it, but that can’t have owt to do with anything, can it?”

“Unlikely. What was wrong with him, anyway?”

“Don’t know. That’s the point I’m making,” said Dalziel heavily.

“There should have been a medical report in his file. Hang about, I’ve still got it here. Sorry. Let’s see. Emotional trauma, blah blah; physical symptoms, insomnia, slight hypertension, blah blah; treatment, counseling and unpronounceable drugs; passed fit for duty, 7/10/06. Nothing there that’s relevant, I’d say. Maybe he just doesn’t like talking about that time. Stick this in his file, will you?”

Dalziel glanced at the medical report, shrugged, and said, “The bugger’s still not right. How’d you do with Danish bacon? Fancy a slice?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t fancy her or you don’t think she’s in the frame?”

“I don’t think that Miss Schierbeck would judge any man worth killing,” said Pascoe. “So. One each left. We’re not doing too well, Andy.”

“Come on,” said Dalziel. “You’ve scuppered the Yanks’ motive for Kaufmann being the killer, haven’t you?”

“Because he’s a EuroSec agent? We knew that before I left Earth. It would still be very embarrassing to have to make that public in his defence. No, the only thing that’s going to please my masters and cut the ground right from under the Americans’ feet is for us to come up with the undeniably genuine perpetrator. There can’t be any cover-up or fit-up. We need the real thing and we need it fast!”