Bob Shaw - Vertigo

“Look at it this way,” Hasson said. “You came up here tonight to have a quiet drink and maybe a game of cards. Right? You didn’t come out to get yourselves mixed up in a murder enquiry. It’s a nasty business, and it could get even worse if this sort of thing was brought into it.”

Hasson leaned sideways and drew Werry’s pistol from its holster, holding the weapon between finger and thumb as if it was an object for which he had a deep distaste. He let the three look at it for several seconds, then lowered it back into the holster.

“I don’t want to start waving a gun in your faces and perhaps have it go off by accident,” he said. “I would hate that, and probably you would hate it even more, so why don’t you go home and let Reeve Werry get on with what he came here to do?”

“What the man’s saying is — take off while you’re still able,” Werry put in, rising to his feet. “It’s good advice.”

“We’ll go if you say so, Al,” one of the men growled. They lifted CG harnesses and suits which had been heaped untidily on a carved oak chest and filed out into the night. The last one out slammed the heavy door.

Hasson nodded to Werry, who was tentatively moving his shoulders. “Thanks, Al. I don’t think I was getting through.”

“Don’t start thanking me, Rob — I’m not stupid.” Werry brushed his uniform with his hands, picked up his cap and put it on. “I may be gutless, but I’m not stupid. Okay?”

“I don’t think you know what gutless means. Remind me to tell you some time.”

“Let’s drop the subject,” Werry said curtly, glancing at his communicator. “I wish I’d told Henry to keep in touch. I’d like to know if you’re right about this being a murder gig.”

“That was a dirty lie,” Pridgeon came in unexpectedly, raising himself on to one elbow. His voice was indistinct, slurred through swollen lips, and his face had the blackened, dehumanised appearance Hasson had often noted on the features of accident victims. He was gazing at Hasson through bruised eyes which registered a mixture of hate, bafflement and accusation. Hasson stared him down, concealing a growing sense of guilt over having yielded to a dark and prehistoric instinct. Werry picked Pridgeon up by the lapels and swung him on to the chair he had just vacated.

“He told a dirty lie,” Pridgeon mumbled. “You guys have some nerve coming in here and trying to make out that…

“He told the truth,” Werry cut in. “Somebody put a booby trap in the Chinook, and there’s one kid hurt bad and maybe others dead, and there’s only one man who would have had any reason to do a thing like that. Where’s Buck? Is he in the house?”

“Buck’s upstairs.” Pridgeon gripped Werry’s wrist and a plaintive note came into his voice. “Al, you wouldn’t kid me, would you?”

“I’m not kidding you,” Werry said impassively. “This is serious.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just some little old blank shells or bird frighteners or something like that?”

“It was a high explosive. Do you know something about this, Starr? Because if you do . .

“I made up the fuses,” Pridgeon said, wiping blood from his chin. “But Buck told me it was only…”

“Buck told you to keep your mouth shut.” Morlacher, looking anachronistic in a traditional-style silk dressing gown, stepped off the bottom of a staircase at the end of the hall and walked towards the group. “Haven’t you enough brains to know when you’re being conned?”

Werry turned to him. “There’s nobody being conned, Buck. Did you plant the bomb?”

“Of course not.” Morlacher stooped to peer into Pridgeon’s face, then gave Werry an incredulous smile. “Did you do that? You’ve just put yourself out of a job.”

“It wasn’t Al.” Pridgeon pointed at Hasson. “He took a swing at me when I wasn’t ready.”

Hasson nodded. “Four times he wasn’t ready.”

“What’s going on around here?” Morlacher said, frowning, switching his gaze between Werry and Hasson. “What do you two characters think you’re playing at?”

“I asked you a question, Buck.” Werry’s voice was firm. “Did you plant that bomb?”

“I told you — I don’t know anything about any bomb.”

“You don’t?” A light appeared in Werry’s eyes. “Well, I’ll tell you something about it. It has just set your frigging hotel on fire.”

Morlacher’s mouth contorted. “You’re a liar.”

“If you’ve got a pair of binoculars,” Werry replied casually, “you can look out the window and see the inn on a pin turning into the fire on a spire.”

“I’ve got to go there,” Morlacher said, a pink triangle standing out on each cheek against the sudden pallor of his face. He turned and strode to the wooden chest which served as a hall table and picked up a CG harness.

Werry crossed to the entrance door and stood with his back to it, looking hard and confident behind the immaculate uniform and the badges of office, transformed into the man Hasson had once imagined him to be.

“I’ll decide where you’re going,” he said. “After you’ve answered my questions.”

“You, Al?” Morlacher continued struggling into the harness. “You’re just a joke, and I’m in no mood for laughing right now.” He tightened the harness’s belt connection, took one pace towards the door and halted when he saw that Werry had drawn his pistol.

“What about the bomb?” Werry said.

“Now you’re turning into a bad joke. You’re not fooling anybody with that thing.” Morlacher started to walk again.

Werry squeezed the trigger. There was no sound — the pistol was of a type which used electromagnetic energy to expel its slugs — but a block leapt out of the parquet floor close to Morlacher’s foot and skittered to the far end of the hail.

“The next one will go right up your nose,” Werry promised. “Now — about this bomb…”

Morlacher took a deep breath, swelling hugely, as though sucking in elemental power for some Herculean feat of strength, then something seemed to break inside him. A driving force was neutralised, a puissance was withdrawn. He withered and shrank.

“For God’s sake, Al,” he pleaded, “what are you trying to do to me? Let me out of here. I’ve got to go to the hotel.”

“About this bomb…”

“It wasn’t meant to be a bomb.” Morlacher spoke quickly, making fluttering movements with his hands. “You don’t think I wanted to damage the hotel, do you?”

“What was it meant to be?”

“I just wanted to shake those punks up a bit. Scare them out of the place. Let me go now, Al.”

Werry signalled his refusal with a movement of the pistol. “What did you use as an explosive?”

“It was just an old piece of hidyne I got from George York out at the Bettsville quarry.”

“Hidyne! You used hidyne to scare kids?”

“Yes, but I cut it up into little squares.”

“How little?”

“Little ones. Little ones! What more do you want me to say?”

“What weight were they?” Pridgeon shouted, lurching forward from his chair. “You didn’t mention no hidyne to me. What weight were they?”

“How would I know?” Morlacher said impatiently. “Fifteen grams. Twenty grams. Something like that.”

“Oh, Christ,” Pridgeon quavered, turning towards Werry. “Al, I swear to you I didn’t know about this. If there’s anybody in the Chinook you better get them Out of there. He got me to make up about twenty fuses.”

“What sort of fuses are you talking about?” Werry said “Do you mean timers?”

“Proximity fuses, Al. They’ll fire off when anybody goes near them.”

To Hasson’s surprise, Werry seemed bemused by the incidental technicalities of what he had just heard. “But how could anybody work with a gadget like that? What’s to stop it going off in your hand?”