Ron Goulart - Suicide, Inc

“Five trudollars is a bit dear,” observed the cat-woman as she bought her ticket. “But the day’ll be well worth it, I fancy.”

“And the money, dear lady, goes to a good cause.” Although Saint had forgotten exactly what charity was to benefit, he assumed it must be a worthwhile one.

“Yes, that’s certainly true.” She rubbed her paws together. “Well, me for the jumble sale. And you, sir?”

“I shall stroll about for a bit.” Giving her a slight bow, he moved off along a pathway paved with yellow gravel.

Three small catgirls, each in a crisp pink frock, came running at him across the grass. “Please, sir,” said one meekly, “where do you suppose the Children’s Mixed Chorus has gotten to?”

Saint leaned down closer to the trio. “Would you little ladies be strayed members of that organization?”

“Yes, and we’re supposed to start singing right now and it’s not in the tent where we rehearsed yesterday or the day before either.”

Straightening, Saint took a careful look around the front acres. “I fancy I see what looks to be the makings of a mixed chorus flocking into that orange-and-blue tent up yonder.”

“Where, where?” The fuzzy little singer stretched up on tiptoe.

Saint lifted her up to his shoulder. “Next to the lemonade stand, do you see?”

“Oh, yes, and that’s Mrs. Dubay, the Assistant Leader, standing out in front of the tent and looking like she doesn’t know where to set that plate of watercress sandwiches someone’s handed her.”

Lowering the little catgirl to the grass, Saint said, “You’re no longer lost, ladies.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He strolled on.

The calliope was slightly off key, but the merry-go-round was a handsome thing. There were gilded neowood horses, grouts, giant snergs, wolos, unicorns, bears.

“Jove, that must be the woman in the case,” Saint told himself, slowing.

Coming down the brix steps of Horizon House was a young woman who was, judging by photos he’d seen, Jennifer Westerland Arloff. She wore a simple suitdress and did not appear to be especially happy.

Saint paused at a display of homebaked pies and cakes, still watching Jennifer as she made her way onto the grounds. “Not a bad looking creature, although on the slender side,” he decided. “Yet hardly the type, one would think, to drive a man to ruin and despair. Yet she did just that to Smith…or rather Smith did that to Smith and blamed this young lady. Seriously doubt she’d have that effect on me, though, of course, I’m a bit more hardhearted than is Smith.”

“…hooglyberries,” the plumpish lizardwoman behind the bake table was saying to him.

“Beg pardon?”

“The pie you’re admiring is made from fresh hooglyberries.”

“Ah, indeed? One’s mouth commences watering,” he informed her. “Ere I depart, I’ll purchase it.”

“Best do it now, since hooglyberry pies sell exceptionally well.”

“Reluctantly I must take my chances, since I don’t wish to be burdened with it as yet.”

“I could put it aside, sir, with your name on-”

“What you could do for me, my dear,” confided Smith, “is answer a rather personal question.”

She blinked. “Well, I suppose if it’s-”

“Can you tell me where to find the restrooms?”

She pointed toward the big house. “They’ve been set up on the north side of the mansion.”

“Thank you so much.” He smiled, bowed and moved on.

On the north side of the house, according to the map Smith had drawn for him, there was an entry to a part of the house Saint very much wanted to see.

Saint paused in the silent shadowy hallway to admire the thick patterned carpeting he was treading on. “Quite charming,” he murmured.

From his breast pocket he took Smith’s drawing of the Horizon House floorplan for this section of the sprawling mansion. The first room he wanted to get a look at ought to be just around the next turning.

“Oh, I say, this will never do,” said a thin, rattling voice behind him. “No, no, dear me, not at all.”

Executing a slow about face, the green man found himself confronting a large chromeplated robot butler “Were you addressing me, my man?”

“These fetes, these fetes. Such low types come flocking,” sighed the butler. “And when one of them actually intrudes upon-”

“There appears to be some misunderstanding,” said Saint with a smile. “I happen to be, and I’m rather puzzled at your not recognizing me, Beemis, Count Japhet Seagate. I am a longtime chum of dear old Mrs. Westerland and-”

“No, you aren’t. You’re nothing more nor less than a seedy gatecrasher, no doubt intent on making off with the plates after tracking up the runners.”

Saint gave a resigned little smile. “Well, you’ve certainly seen through me.”

“Now then, march your squatty form out of here at once,” ordered Beemis. “Or I’ll be forced to…um…that’s…odd…”

“Eh?”

“I seem to be…yes…having…trouble remembering…”

“Don’t fret about that, old thing,” advised Saint. “I’m simply using my telek powers to diddle with your brain. The idea being that you’ll forget all about my visit.”

“You…shan’t…”

“It’s not difficult at all to manipulate the components of your thinking system,” Saint explained. “You’ll remember my hasty visit not at all. And you’ll remain here, glued to the spot as it were, with that barmy expression on your moon face for exactly one-half hour. Understand?”

“Yes…understand…”

Saint resumed his prowl.

“You ought to cultivate the ability to relax,” suggested Cruz, who was reclining in a wicker armchair in the shady arbor at the rear of their countryhouse.

Smith was pacing the grass, twisting a short length of vine between his fingers. “Saint’s overdue,” he said.

“No doubt he dallied to kiss a few hands. These charity bazaars draw exactly the sort of well-to-do matrons among whom he shines. No need to-”

“Here he comes.”

The green man was sauntering toward them from the direction of the house. “One sincerely hopes one hasn’t kept all and sundry waiting,” he said. “I paused within to shower and change.”

“Did you get into Horizon House?”

Saint, who was wearing a two-piece off-white lounge-suit, arranged himself on a neowood bench and, carefully, crossed his legs. “All went according to plan,” he answered. “I had a peek at Mrs. Westerland’s parlor, Jennifer’s study and both the Horizon House computer rooms. I had to temporarily incapacitate one robot butler, two robot guards and an android housemaid who was actually named Fifi. None, of course, will recall my brief intrusion.”

“So now you can, since you’ve had a look at the layouts, teleport anything that’s in-”

“By the bye, I caught a glimpse of Jennifer,” added Saint. “She’s looking rather wan and-”

“Mrs. Westerland’s files first,” Smith told him.

Nodding, Saint locked his hands over one knee and shut his eyes. “Won’t take a moment,” he promised.

There was a faint popping, then a thin plazcovered folder materialized on the bench beside him.

“Better allow me to peruse it first,” offered Cruz, reaching over to pick it up. “In case it contains the triggering phrase, Jared. Just looking at it might cause you to pop into a trance state.”

“Go ahead.”

Cruz settled back into his chair, leafed through the several sheets of faxpape. “Only one item of interest herein,” he announced finally. “Triplan, Ltd. is actually owned by Mrs. Westerland, Jennifer Arloff and her husband. Seems the late Doctor Westerland formed this company on the sly some years ago.” He closed the folder, passed it over to Smith.