Master Sean O Lochlainn was not overly fond of the city of Paris. It was a crowded, noisy river port with delusions of grandeur brought on by memories of ancient glory.
That it had been the seat of the ancient Capetian Kings of France, there could be no denying; that the last of the Capets had been killed in 1215 by Richard the Lion-Hearted and that more than seven and a half centuries had rolled past since then were equally true facts, but Parisians would have denied both if they could.
One of the very few places Master Sean felt comfortable in all that vast city was here, in the International Bar of the Hotel Cosmopolitain. He was wearing ordinary gentleman's traveling clothes, not the silver-slashed blue that would proclaim him a Master Sorcerer, nor the insignia that would identify him as the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for Prince Richard, Duke of Normandy.
It was four o'clock of a pleasant October evening, and the shifts were just changing in the International Bar, a barman and two waiters going off duty and being replaced by their evening counterparts. It meant a lull in service for a minute or so, but Master Sean didn't mind; he still had a good half-pint of beer in his mug, and the stout little Irish magician was not a fast drinker.
It was not the best beer in the world; in the Anglo-French Empire, the English made the best beer, and the Normans the second best. There were some excellent wines available here, but Master Sean usually drank wine only with meals. Distilled spirits he drank only on the rarest of occasions. Beer was his tipple, and this stuff wasn't really bad, it just wasn't as good as he preferred. He sighed and took another healthy swig.
He had time to kill and no place else to kill it. He had to catch the 6:05 train west for the ninety-odd mile trip to Rouen, which gave him two more hours of nothing to do.
On the floor at his feet was his symbol-decorated carpetbag, which contained not only the tools of his profession but, now, the thaumaturgical evidence in the Zellerman-Blair case, which he had come specifically to Paris to get from his colleague, the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for His Grace, the Duke D'Isle. Anyone noticing that carpetbag closely would immediately recognize Master Sean as a sorcerer, but that was all right; he was not exactly traveling incognito, anyway.
"Would ye be ready for having another one, sir?"
Master Sean lifted his eyes from his nearly empty mug and pushed it across the bar with a smile. "I would indeed," he said to the barman. "And might that be the lilt of County Meath I'm hearing in your voice?"
The barman worked the pump. "It would," he said, returning the smile. "Would yours be the north of Mayo?"
"Close you are," said Master Sean. "Sligo it is."
There were not many people in the International. Six people at the bar besides Master Sean, and a dozen more seated at the booths and tables. The place wouldn't be really busy for an hour or so yet. The barman decided he had a few minutes for a friendly chat with a fellow Irishman.
He was wrong.
One of the waiters moved up quickly. "Murtaugh, come here," he said in an urgent undertone. "There's something funny."
Murtaugh frowned. "What?"
The waiter glanced round with warning eyes. "Come."
The barman shrugged, came out from behind the bar, and followed the waiter over to a booth in the far corner. Master Sean, as curious as the next man if not more so, turned round on his barstool to watch.
The room was not brightly lit, and the booth was partly in shadow, but the sorcerer's keen blue eyes saw most of the detail.
There was a well-dressed man sitting alone in the booth. He was in the corner of the booth, against the wall, and his head was bent down, as though he were looking intently at the newspaper which his hands held on the table before him. To his right was a drinking glass which was either completely empty or nearly so; it was hard to tell from where Master Sean sat.
The man neither moved nor spoke when the barman addressed him. The barman touched one of his hands to attract his attention. Still nothing.
Master Sean's common sense told him to stay out of this. It was none of his business. It was out of his jurisdiction. He had a train to catch. He had He had an insatiable curiosity.
A magician's senses and perceptions are more highly developed, more highly trained, and more sensitive than those of the ordinary man. Otherwise, he would not be a magician. Master Sean's common sense told him to stay out of this, but his other senses told him that the man was dead and that this was possibly more complex than appeared on the surface.
Before the barman and the waiter could further disturb anything on or near the booth, Master Sean grabbed his carpetbag and walked quickly and unobtrusively over to the booth.
But he found that he had underestimated the sagacity and quickness of mind of his fellow Irishman. Barman Murtaugh was saying: "No, we don't touch him, John-Pierre. You go out and fetch an Armsman and a Healer. I'm pretty sure the feller's dead, but fetch a Healer all the same. Now move." As the waiter moved, Murtaugh's eye caught sight of Master Sean. "Please go back to your seat, sir," he said. "The old gent here's been taken a bit ill, and I've sent for a Healer."
Master Sean already had his identification out. "I understand. I don't think anyone else has noticed. The both of us could stand here while John-Pierre's gone, but that might attract attention, were you to be from your post so long. On the other hand, I can stand here and pretend to be talking to him, and no one will be the wiser. Meantime, you can get back to the bar and take careful notice if anyone shows any unusual interest in what's going on at this booth."
Murtaugh handed the identification papers back to Master Sean and made up his mind. "I'll keep me eye out, Master Sorcerer." And headed back to his station.
The uniformed Men-at-Arms had arrived, made their preliminary investigation, and sealed off the bar. There were several indignant patrons, but they were soon quieted down.
The Healer, a Brother Paul, checked over the body, and, after several thoughtful minutes, said: "It could be several thingsheart attack, internal hemorrhage, drugs, alcohol. I'd have to get a chirurgeon to do an autopsy before I'd take an oath on any of them."
"How long would you say he'd been dead, Brother Paul?"
"At least half an hour, Master Sean. Perhaps as much as an hour. Call it forty-five minutes and you'd not be far off. Funny how he just sat there without falling over or anything, isn't it?"
Master Sean wished he had some official standing; he'd have his instruments out in half a minute and get some facts. "It's an old schoolboy's trick," he replied to the Healer's remark. "Surely you've done it yourself. You feel yourself getting sleepy, so you prop yourself up at your desk in such a way that you don't fall overas he's done in the corner, there. Then you put your forearms on the desktopin this case, tabletopand put your reading material between them, so that it looks natural. Then you let your head go forward. If you've done it properly, you can go right to sleep and look as if you're reading unless somebody notices you're not turning pages. Or gets at the right angle to see whether your eyes are closed."
"That suggests he felt the drowsiness coming on," said Brother Paul.
Master Sean nodded. "He'd not likely react that way to a heart attack. If a man's that full of alcohol, he usually doesn't have enough control or presence of mind to pull it off properly. A drunk just puts his head on his forearms and goes to sleep. How about internal hemorrhage?"
"It's possible. If the bleeding weren't too rapid, he'd begin to feel drowsy and might decide a little nap would be just the thing," Brother Paul agreed. "Certain drugs, of course, would have the same effect."
Around them, Men-at-Arms were taking statements from the patrons of the International Bar.
At that moment, the front door opened, and a smoothly-dressed, rather handsome man with a dapper little mustache entered, accompanied by another Man-at-Arms. He stopped just inside the door, looked all around, and then said: "Good evening, my sirs. I have the honor to be Plainclothes Sergeant-at-Arms Cougair Chasseur. I am in charge of this case. Where is the body?"
"This way, my sergeant," said one of the Men-at-Arms, and led the newcomer over toward Master Sean and Brother Paul. The Healer was wearing the habit of his Order, so Sergeant Cougair said, "It is that you are the Healer who was called?"
The Healer bowed his head slightly. "Brother Paul, of the Hospital of St. Luke-by-the-Seine."
"Very good." The sergeant looked at Master Sean. "And you, my sir?"
The stout little Irish sorcerer carefully took out his identification, and with it the special card issued by the local Chief Forensic Sorcerer. Sergeant Cougair looked them over. He smiled. "Ah, yes. It is that you work with Lord Darcy of Rouen, is it not?"
"It is," said Master Sean.
"It is that it is a very great pleasure to meet you, my sir, a very great pleasure, indeed!" he bubbled. Then his smile faded and he looked rather dubious. "But is it not that you are a little out of your jurisdiction?"
"I am," Master Sean agreed. The atrocious Parisian manner of mangling the Anglo-French language had always set his teeth on edge, and the fellow's manner didn't help much. "I was merely being of some small assistance until you arrived. I have no further interest in the case." When talking to a Parisian, Master Sean's brogue vanished almost without a trace.
The sergeant's face brightened again. "Of course. But naturally. Now let us see what we have here." He turned his attention toward the corpse. "Without a doubt, dead. Of what did he die, Brother Paul?"
"Hard to tell, Sergeant. Master Sean and I agree that the two most likely causes of death are internal hemorrhagepossibly of the cerebral area, more likely of the abdomen. And, second, the administration of some kind of drug."
"Drug? You mean a poison?"
Brother Paul shrugged. "Whether a given substance is a drug or a poison depends pretty much on the amount given, the method by which it was given, and the intent of its use. Any drug can be a poison, and, I suppose, vice versa."
"It is that it killed him, is it not?"
"We of the Healing profession, Sergeant, use the word 'poison' in a technical sense, just as you do the word 'murder.' All homicides are not murder. Death caused by the accidental administration of an overdose of a drug is not poisoning any more than death by misadventure is murder."
"Ah, I see. A nice distinction," the sergeant said, looking enlightened. "What, then, of suicide?"
"There, if the intent was deliberate suicide, then it was intent to kill. That makes it poisoning."
"Most comprehensible. Very well, then; if we assume poisoning in your technical sense, is it that it is murder or suicide?"
"Why, as to that, Sergeant Cougair," Brother Paul said blandly, "I fear that is your area of expertise, not mine."
Master Sean had listened to all this in utter silence. He had no further interest in the case. Hadn't he said so himself?
But Sergeant Cougair turned to him. "Is it that I may ask you a technical question, Master Sean?"
"Certainly."
"Is it that it is at all possible that the deceased was killed by Black Magic?"
For what seemed like a long second, there was no sound in the room except for the murmur of voices from the patrons of the bar and the Armsmen who were questioning them. The question, Master Sean knew, was loadedbut with what?
He shook his head decisively. "Not possibly. If Brother Paul's estimate of the time of death is correctand I tend to agree with himthen I was in this room when it happened. There is no way a death-dealing act of Black Magic could have been perpetrated against the deceased without my knowing it."
"Ah. I presumed not," the sergeant said. "I presumed that had you known of such you would have mentioned it immediately. But it was my duty to ask, you comprehend."
"Of course."
Then he turned to the Armsman who had been standing unobtrusively nearby, taking down everything in a notebook. "Is it that the body has been searched?"
"But no, my sergeant. We awaited your coming."
"Then we shall do so immediately. No. Wait. Has anyone identified the deceased?"
"But no, my sergeant. The barman and the two waiters claim never to have seen him before. Nor do any of the patrons admit to any knowledge of him."
"They have looked at him thoroughly?"
"But yes, my sergeant. We marched them by while Brother Paul held up the head for one to view."
"And none of them knew him. Incredible! Well, to work. Let us examine his person and discover what we may."
Before they could move the body out of the booth, however, a uniformed Sergeant-at-Arms came in through the door, spotted Sergeant Cougair, and hurried over. "A word with you, Chasseur?"
"Yes." The two of them walked to one side and talked for perhaps a minute in low tones. Even Master Sean's sharp sense of hearing could not make out the words. Psychically, all he could get was disappointment, frustration, and irritation on the part of Sergeant Cougair.
The uniformed sergeant departed and Sergeant Cougair came slowly, thoughtfully back to where Master Sean and the others were waiting.
"A disaster," he murmured. "Most unfortunate."
"What seems to be the trouble?" Master Sean asked.
"Alas! A family entire have been wiped out by gas. The illuminating gas, you comprehend. A most important family they were, toonot titled, but wealthy. All dead."
"A disaster, indeed," Master Sean agreed.
"What? The deaths? Oh, yes; that, certainly. But that was not the disaster to which I referred."
"Oh?" Master Sean blinked.
"But no. I referred to the fact that foul play is suspected in the deaths of the Duval family, and our entire thaumaturgical staff has been called upon to aid in the apprehension of the perpetrators of this heinous crime. I have no forensic sorcerer to aid me in my work. My case is considered of importance so small that I cannot get even an apprentice for some hours yet. Delay! My God, the delay! And meanwhile, one's prime piece of evidence slowly but most surely decomposes before one's veritable eyes!"
Master Sean glanced at his watch. Five after five. He sighed. "Why, as to that, my dear sergeant, I'll cast a preservative spell over the body if you want. No problem."
The sergeant's eyes lit up. "By the Blue! How marvelous! I will at once take you up upon your offer!"
"Very good. But clear the rest of these folk out of here. I don't want a bunch of undisciplined civilians gawping at me while I do my work."
"But I cannot let them go, Master Sorcerer!" the sergeant protested. "They are material witnesses!"
"I didn't say to let 'em go," Master Sean said tiredly. "I doubt if the Grand Ballroom of this hotel is being used this early in the evening. Get hold of the manager. Your men can keep them in there for a while."
"Admirable! I shall see that it is done."
Four men stood quietly in the echoing silence of an otherwise empty barroom. Three of them were Plainclothes Sergeant-at-Arms Cougair Chasseur and two of his Men-at-Arms. The fourth was Master Sorcerer Sean O Lochlainn. Brother Paul had, somewhat regretfully, returned to his duties at the hospital; having certified that the deceased was, indeed, deceased, he was no longer needed.
Master Sean looked down at the body. The Armsmen had shoved a couple of tables together and reverently laid the corpse upon them as a sort of makeshift bier. They had carefully undressed it, and, even more carefully, Master Sean had examined the late unknown. He was, the sorcerer judged, a robust man in his middle fifties. The body was scarred in several places; five of them looked like saber wounds which had been neatly stitched by a chirurgeon, four others came in pairs, front and back, each pair apparently made by a single bullet. The rest were the sort of cuts and scrapes any active adult might accumulate. All of them were years old. Master Sean marked the location of each on a series of special charts which he always carried in his symbol-decorated carpetbag.
Moles, warts, discolorations, all were carefully and duly noted.
There were no fresh wounds of any kind, anywhere on the body.
None of this preliminary work was necessary for a preservation spell. That sort of thing was usually left for the autopsy room. But Master Sean was curious. When a man dies of mysterious causes practically in your lap, as it were, even the most uncurious of men would be interested, and Master Sean, both by nature and by training, was more inquisitive than most.
When the superficial examination was over, Master Sean took from his symbol-decorated carpetbag a featureless, eighteen-inch, ebon wand, half an inch in diameter.
That wand was not a glossy black. It was not even a dull, flat black. It was a fathomless black, like the endless night between the stars. It did not merely fail to reflect the light that fell upon it, it seemed to absorb light as though it were somehow reaching for it.
Under the precise control of Master Sean's right hand and fingers and arm, that wand began to weave an intricate pattern of symbols, series after series of them, above and around the dead man.
Those watching could sense, rather than see, that within and through the body, filling its every cell to the outermost layer of skin and hardly half a hairsbreadth beyond, a psychic field, generated and formed by the master sorcerer's mind and will, began to form.
There was no visible change in the body as that eighteen-inch rod of light-absorbing night wove its fantastic spell, but every man there knew that the spell was having its effect.
When it was finished, the ebon wand slowed and stopped.
After a moment, Master Sean said, matter-of-factly: "There, now; he'll last as long as you need him to." And he put his wand away.
"Thank you, Master Sean," Sergeant Cougair said simply. Then, before he said another word, he took a couple of tablecloths from other tables and covered the body.
"I have seen that done many times, Master Sorcerer," the sergeant said then, "although never so quickly nor so gracefully. It has always seemed to me as a miracle."
"No such thing," said Master Sean rather testily. "I'm a thaumaturgist, not a miracle-worker. 'Tis simply a matter of applied science."
"Is it that I may ask what precisely happens?"
Sergeant Cougair did not know it, then or ever, but he had touched one of Master Sean's few weak spots. Master Sean O Lochlainn loved to lecture, to explain things.
"Well, now, that's very simple, Sergeant Cougair," he said expansively. "As you may know, matter is made up of tiny little particles, so small that they could never be seen under the most powerful microscope. Indeed, it has been estimated that a single ounce of the lightest of 'em would contain some seventeen million million million million of 'em. This theory of small particles was propounded first by a Greek philosopher named Demokritos about twenty-four hundred years ago. He called those particles 'atoms' and so do we, in his honor. His hypothesis has been confirmed by thaumaturgical theory and by certain experiments done by men learned in the Khemic Art."
"I comprehend," said the sergeant, looking as though he really did.
"Very well, then; these atoms are always full of energy; they vibrate and buzz about, which helps in their Khemic activity."
"Ah!" the sergeant, with a light in his eyes. "I comprehend! Is it that it is your spell which causes the cessation of all thisthis 'buzzing about', as you call it?"
"Good Heavens, no!" Master Sean fairly snapped. "Why if I were to do such a thing as that, the body would freeze solid in an instant, and everything about it would likely burst into flame!"
"My God." The sergeant was instantly sobered by the thought of this phenomenon. "Continue, if you please."
"I will. Now, pay attention. These atoms react with each other to form conglomerates, and these conglomerates can react to form other conglomerates, and so on. All substances are composed of conglomerates of atoms, d'ye see. They react because each conglomerate is seeking a condition which will impose the least strain upon itself."
"A most natural desire," Sergeant Cougair commented.
"Exactly so. Now, then, in a living human being, these processes take place under conditions controlled by the life force, so that the food we eat and the air we breathe are converted into the energy and the substances we need. But these processes do not stop when the life force has departed; simply, they are no longer controlled. The body no longer has any resistance to microorganisms and fungi. The body decays.
"Even without microorganisms or fungi, these activities continue uncontrolled. That's why meat hung in a butcher's ice house becomes tender as it ages; the flesh digests itself, so to speak.
"Now, what a preservative spell does is make those atomic conglomerates satisfied. They wish to remain at their present energy levels, to maintain the status quo at the time the spell was cast. They are satisfied."
"It is that it kills the microorganisms, is it not?" the sergeant asked.
"Oh, aye. They can't survive under any such conditions as that."
Sergeant Cougair gave a slight shudder. "I shudder," he said, suiting words to action, "to think what it would do to a living man."
Master Sean grinned. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The life force of more highly organized beings resists the spell easily. Why, if yonder gentleman has a tapeworm, I assure you the worm is alive. He may be getting pretty hungry, but I assure you the spell didn't kill him.
"The spell you see, is very unstable. It's a static spell, and so bleeds off in time, anyway, butoh, too much heat, for instance, would break the spell. The conglomerates would be dissatisfied again."
"Such as in the tropics?"
"It rarely gets that hot, even in the tropics. But a very hot bath, sayalmost hot enough to scaldwould do the job."
Sergeant Cougair raised his hands, palms out. "I assure you, Master Sorcerer, I have no desire to give a corpse a hot bathor any other kind." Then, more briskly: "And now let us discover what we may in and about the clothing."
There was the usual assortment of keys, a pipe, tobacco pouch, pipe lighter, coins in the amount of a sovereign and a half, forty-two sovereigns in banknotes, a fountain pen, and a brand-new notebook containing nothing but empty pages. The identification folder contained cards and papers showing that the bearer was Andray Vandermeer, a retired Senior Captain of the Imperial Legion. That, thought Master Sean, would account for the scars.
His present address was No. 117 Rue Queen Helga, Paris. An Armsman was instructed to go there and discover what he could. "If there is a wife, a child, or other relative, break the news gently. You do not know the manner of his death. It may have been a heart attack. You comprehend?"
"But yes, my sergeant."
"Positive identification can wait until we have arrived him at the morgue. Go."
The Armsman went.
"And now for this small object," the sergeant continued. He was holding an eight-ounce brown glass bottle full of liquid. "It has upon it the label of Veblin & Son, Pharmaceutical Herbalists. It contains, according to the same label, 'Tincture of Cinchona Bark'now what would that be?"
"An alcoholic solution of vegetable alkaloids from a certain tree of New France," Master Sean said promptly.
"A poison?"
"Or a drug," Master Sean said. "Remember what Brother Paul said."
"Ah, certainly. But it may have been what killed him. If so, it was suicide, for we found it in his own coat pocket."
"What killed him didn't come from that bottle," Master Sean pointed out dryly. "It's still full, and the seal of the stopper is unbroken."
"What? Oh. You are quite right. But perhaps there is another bottle. Lewie, go into the Grand Ballroom and tell Armand to have all the suspects searched. Bring John-Jack back with you, and we will search this barroom."
"But yes, my sergeant." And off he went, leaving Master Sean alone with Sergeant Cougair.
"Sergeant," the stout little Irish sorcerer said carefully, "I would not presume to tell you your business, but while all this searching is going on, you might find out more about that medicine if you checked with the pharmacist who filled the prescription, and with the Healer who issued it. The stuff is taken for the cure of malaria, one of the few diseases a Healer cannot handle without such aids."
"That will be done in due time, Master Sean," said the sergeant.
"Why not now? Veblin & Son is just across the arcade in this very hotel."
Sergeant Cougair jerked his head down and looked again at the bottle in his hand. "So it is! But yes! You are correct! I thank you for calling it to my attention."
"Think nothing of it." Master Sean looked at his wristwatch. "And now, if you'll pardon me, I fear I must say goodbye. If I don't hurry, I shall miss my train."
The sergeant looked at him in astonishment. "But most certainly you shall miss your train, Master Sorcerer! You are a material witness and a suspect in a murder case. You cannot leave the city."
"I?" Master Sean was even more astonished. "I?"
"Certainly. It is an axiom of mine that the least likely suspect is the one most likely to have done it. Besides, I shall need you for the autopsy, to determine whether or not murder has been done."
Master Sean could only stare at him.
There were no words to be found for the occasion.
It is not wise to meddle in the affairs of wizards, for reasons well known to the cognoscenti, and when Master Sir Aubrey Burnes, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for His Grace the Duke D'Isle, heard what Sergeant-at-Arms Cougair Chasseur had done, he definitely felt it was meddling.
Master Sir Aubrey did not hear about it from Master Sean. That stout little Irish sorcerer was perfectly capable of washing his own linen, but he had had to make a teleson call to Lord Darcy in Rouen to explain why he had missed his train, and he had used the official Armsmen's teleson to do it. And the grapevine is almost as efficient as the teleson.
That Chasseur was well within his rights to have detained Master Sean is not debatable; whether he should have exercised those rights is moot.
Having decided that it was partly his own fault for sticking his nose into the case in the first place, and still beset by curiosity in the second place, Master Sean decided that he might as well go ahead with the autopsy and with the similarity analysis of the contents of the bottle and the dregs in the glass.
He didn't do the actual operation himself, of course; that was not his area of competence. The actual work was done by a husky young chirurgeon from Gascony who looked more like a butcher's helper than a chirurgeon, but whose fingers and brain were both nimble and accurate.
By half past seven, the body had been all sewn up nicely, and was ready to be claimed by the wifeif and when she actually identified it as being that of S/Cpt Andray Vandermeer, LL., Ret. The Armsman who had been sent to No. 117 Rue Queen Helga reported that a servant had informed him that Goodwife Vandermeer was out shopping and was not expected to return until about eight.
Master Sean, meanwhile, pondered the data he had at hand.
The tentatively-identified Vandermeer had most certainly died of an overdose of some as yet unidentified drug. A similarity analysis showed that it was the same drug as that found in the dregs at the bottom of the glass found on the table near him. The prescription drug bottle had contained exactly what the label said it did, and was most certainly not the alkaloid that had killed Vandermeer.
Master Sean looked over the notes he had made during the autopsy. The internal condition of the body . . . the liver . . . the kidneys . . . those lesions on the brain. . . .
The whole picture rang a very small bell somewhere in the recesses of Master Sean's memory, but he couldn't quite bring up the data. He'd never seen a body in just this condition before, of that he was sure. No, it was something he had read or been told. But what? Where?
The beefy young chirurgeon rose from his desk across the room and came over to where Master Sean was sitting. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Here's my report, Master Sorcerer," he said politely. "If there's anything you'd like to add or change . . ." He let the sentence trail off and handed the magician the papers.
Master Sean read the report carefully, then shook his head. "No changes, Doctor Ambro, and the only thing I'd like to add is the name of the poison. Unfortunately, I can't as yet." He smiled up at the younger man. "By the bye, I should like to compliment you on your skill and dexterity with a scalpel. I've never seen a neater job. There are some pathologists who feel that just because theerpatient is dead, any old hack work will do."
"Well, Master," the chiruurgeon said, "I feel that if a man lets himself get sloppy with the dead, he'll soon get sloppy with the living. It generates bad habits. I owe a great deal to the Healing Art, and I feel that as a technician I should do my best to repay that debt. If it weren't for a great Healer, I wouldn't be a chirurgeon at all."
"Oh? How's that, Dr. Ambro?" Master Sean was curious.
Dr. Ambro grinned. "As a lad, I had my heart set on being a chirurgeon. I felt it was a useful and rewarding trade. Then I found I wasn't cut out for itno pun intended."
"Really?" Master Sean raised an eyebrow. "You seem singularly apt at the work to me."
Dr. Ambro chuckled. "I couldn't stand the smell. I couldn't even operate on the practice cadavers. Fresh blood nauseated me. Opening the abdominal cavity was even worse. And the dead? Forget it. And it was the smell. Nothing else. I couldn't even stand the odor of a raw steak or side of pork."
"Ah, I see," said Master Sean. "An unusual phenomenon, but by no means unique. Pray continue."
"Nothing much to tell, Master. A fine old Healer, Father Debrett of Pouillon, cast a mild spell on me. Now I find the scent pleasant enoughrather like roses and lilies, if you follow me."
"Oh, certainly. A well-known procedure," the sorcerer said. "Well, I'm glad it was done; it would have been a shame to let your skill be wasted."
"Thank you, Master Sean; thank you very much."
There was a knock on the office door, and it opened. A massive, totally bald head with a smiling face and bushy black eyebrows appeared around the door. "Hullo, chaps. May I come in?" the intruder asked in a pleasant baritone.
"My dear Sir Aubrey!" said Master Sean. "Of course! Do come in!"
Master Sir Aubrey Burnes, Chief Forensic Sorcerer for His Grace D'Isle, came the rest of the way into the room. He stood perhaps a hair under six feet, and was massive, not fat. He had been wrestling champion for Oxford University in 1953 and '54, and had kept himself in trim ever since.
"I didn't know if anyone connected with this office would be welcome," he said. "I'm frightfully sorry about all this, Master Sean."
"Come, come," said Master Sean. "Not your fault, my dear fellow. How has your gas poisoning case come out so far?"
"The Duvals? Sad case. Two brothers and their wives having a little party. Got a little drunk out, I'm afraid. The two men brought a keg of beer up from the cellar at one point, banged it against a gas line. Cracked the line. The servants had all been told off to go to the other wing and leave them alone, you see. By the time they had drunk a good part of the keg, plus assorted other inebriating beverages, the room was full of gas. They were too blotto to notice. By the time the servants smelled the gas and took alarm, it was too late. We're bringing in the bodies for autopsies to clinch the evidence, so Dr. Ambro will have more work to do, but there's really no question about what happened. Death due to misadventure." His smile came back: "How's your case doing?"
Master Sean told him, then added: "But I wish you wouldn't call it my case. Your Sergeant Cougair can have it."
"That consummate ass!" Master Sir Aubrey said with a scowl. "Well, well, what's done is done. The thing to do is for us to find out who did it and clear the thing up. I wish Lord Varney were here; our Chief Investigator's the man for this sort of thing. Unfortunately, he's laid up in hospital, as I told you earlier today."
Master Sean nodded. "Aye. How's he coming, by the bye?"
"Well as could be expected. He's a good investigator, but I don't think I'll go mountain climbing when I'm his age."
"No, nor I," Master Sean agreed. "Not even at my age. The African elephants may have crossed the Alps with Hannibal, but Irish elephants like meself stay on level ground."
Master Sir Aubrey chuckled. "And English elephants the same."
"Elephants?" said a voice from the door. "What is it that the elephants have to do with the case?"
It was Sergeant-at-Arms Cougair Chasseur.
"Nothing whatever, Sergeant," Master Sir Aubrey said coldly. "We were not discussing your case."
"No, indeed," Master Sean said smoothly. "We were discussing the case, two years ago, of the elephant theft from the Maharajah of Rajasthan in Jodhpur."
"Someone stole an elephant?" the sergeant asked in some surprise.
"Eight of them," said Master Sean. "Eight white elephants."
"My God! And how is it they were recovered?"
"They never were," Master Sean said solemnly. "They vanished utterly, without a trace."
"It seems hardly possible," Sergeant Cougair said in awe. Then his eyes narrowed and he glanced at Sir Aubrey, then back to Master Sean. "The solution is most obvious to the deductive mind. The elephants were stolen by a sorcerer. You may depend upon it."
"I wish," said Master Sir Aubrey, "that we could have assigned you the case."
"But of course," the sergeant agreed. "I dare say I should have found them easily. Elephants are very large, are they not? Not easily concealed. Well, it is of no consequence. I have a case at present to solve."
"How are you doing so far?" Master Sean asked.
"Indeed, I shall tell all," said the sergeant, "but first, is it that it is permitted that I ask the results of the autopsy? Is it that it is indeed a case of poisoning?"
"It is," said Master Sean, and proceeded to give the results of his labors.
Sergeant Cougair scowled. "Then it is indeed murder. No bottle or paper or box that could have contained the poison has been found. It has disappeared as if by" His narrowed eyes glanced covertly at Master Sean. "as if by magic." He let his eyes relax and looked down at his hands. "It is sad that we do not know what the poison was."
"I'm working on it," said Master Sean dryly.
"Most of a certainty," the sergeant said agreeably. "Now, as I promised, I shall tell you how we have progressed ourselves.
"We have thus far found no motive whatever. The twenty-two customers who were in the establishment have been released to their businesses or homes, but forbidden to leave the city. I have a list of them here, should you care to peruse it. The two waiters and the barman we are keeping for a while, since it is apparent that it is more likely that one of them poisoned the drink than any other. Equally, we have apprehended for questioning the two waiters who were on duty before the changing of the shift at four of the clock. We are still looking for the barman; he is a bachelor and has not yet returned home.
"We have questioned the Goodman Jorj Veblin, who is the 'Son' of Veblin & Son, and he has deposed that the Senior Captain Vandermeer has appeared at his establishment every Tuesday for the past three months with a prescription from the Reverend Father Pierre St. Armand, Healer, for a week's supply of the medicine.
"We spoke to the Father Pierre, a venerable old gentleman, who deposes that the said Senior Captain Vandermeer did, indeed, suffer from the malaria, as you conjectured. He appears to have obtained this disease while serving with the Imperial Legion in the Duchy of Mechicoe, upon the northern continent of the New World, New England."
Master Sean sighed. He needed no one to tell him that Mechicoe was in New England, nor that New England was the northern continent of the western hemisphere. Next the sergeant would be explaining that the square of seven was forty-nine.
There was a short silence, broken at last by Master Sir Aubrey. "Well? What else?"
The sergeant spread his hands and shrugged. "Alas! I greatly fear me, Master Sorcerer, that that is all the information we have obtained so far."
"Who benefits by his death?" Master Sean asked.
"So far as we have determined, his wife only. He has no children of record. But there was no woman in the barroom during that time."
"She might have disguised herself," said the Irish sorcerer.
"It is possible, but we have a description of her. She is youngnot yet thirtywith very long black hair, very tanned skin, and dark eyes. She is adjudged very beautiful, with a slim waist and a full figurea very full figure. Such a one would be difficult to conceal; it has been a warm day, so she could not have worn a cloak without attracting attention. Still, we shall, of course, check her every move during the afternoon. She is reported to be shopping. If so, we can find out where and at what times, do you comprehend."
"She might have paid someone to do it for her," Master Sean pointed out.
"Again, it is possible, but it has been my experience that a paid assassin does not poison his victims. The knife, the club, the pistol are his tools. Or, for some of the more clever, the accidental-seeming death. Poison is more the tool of the amateur."
Master Sean had to admit to himself that, for once, Sergeant Cougair was very likely right.
"The problem is," Sergeant Cougair continued, "that anyone could have done it. Distract a man's attention but for a few seconds, and the drink is poisoned. Our sole hope, I fear me much, is to find the poison container, for which we are even now searching diligently." He looked at his wristwatch. "I go now to search out the whereabouts of Cambray, the missing barman. It was, after all, he who mixed the deceased his drink, and perhaps he has information for us. With God, my sirs." And he left.
Master Sean stared at the door that had closed behind the sergeant for two full seconds before he said: "Now let me see. Cambray, the barman, poisons Vandermeer, goes off duty, drops the poison container into the Seine, takes the 4:22 to Bordeaux, and can be in Spain in the morning, safely away from extradition. But he may merely be able to give information, while I am a suspect. I admire his reasoning powers for their depth and complexity. No merely intelligent man could reason in that manner."
"I told you he was a consummate ass," said Master Sir Aubrey.
Sergeant Cougair had been right about another thing: The late Senior Captain's wife was beautiful, and had a very lush figure. In addition, she stood no more than five feet tall. No, Master Sean thought, it would not be possible for her to go into a bar and not be noticed, no matter what she was wearing.
There was another possibility, however. Did the woman have the Talent? If so, there were several ways she could have gone into that bar without attracting attention. The Tarnhelm Effect, for one. It did not, as popularly supposed, render a person invisible; it was merely a specialized form of avoidance spell. Anyone using the Tarnhelm Effect remained unnoticed because no one else looked in that direction; they would avoid the person with their eyes; they would look anywhere except at that person.
Mary Vandermeer had come in with three other people to identify the body: the late Senior Captain's manservant, Humfrey; the pharmacist, Jorj Veblin; and the Healer, Father Pierre. Humfrey was an old Vandermeer family retainer; he had helped bring up the child who was to become Senior Captain Andray. His old face was lined with worry wrinkles, as though the job had been far from easy.
Master Pharmacist Jorj Veblin was a competent-looking man in his early thirties, with regular, rather pleasant features and mousy brown hair which he brushed straight back and kept cut somewhat shorter than the current style.
Father Pierre looked, as the cant phrase had it, "ninety years older than Methuselah." He was taller than Master Sean, but very thin and frail-looking. His face had few wrinkles, and a benign smile, but the skin was tightly drawn over the facial bones, and the few white hairs on his skull looked like an aura in the gaslight.
One by one, separately, they were led into the room where the dead man lay. One by one, separately, they identified him as Andray Vandermeer.
Old Humfrey had tears in his eyes. "Bad, very bad. The Captain had a good many years in him yet, he did."
Goodwife Mary choked up and could say nothing but: "That's him. That's Andray."
Master Jorj looked both grim and sad. "Yes, that's Captain Andray. Poor fellow." He shook his head sadly.
Father Pierre looked long and carefully. "Yes, that's poor Andray." he said at last. Then, turning to Master Sean: "Has he been given the last rites?"
"He has not, Father," the sorcerer said. "And there is no thaumaturgical reason why he should not be given them. We have all the evidence of that kind we need."
Senior Captain Andray Vandermeer was given the last rites of Holy Mother Church. The wife, the valet, the pharmacist, and two Armsmen were present at the ceremony. Master Sean and Master Sir Aubrey were in another room, constructing a subtle trap.
Perhaps "subtle" isn't exactly the right word, but no other will quite do. In form, it was about as subtle as coming up behind a person who is pretending deafness and shouting "Boo!" in his ear. But in practice, it was such that only one person would be aware that anything out of the ordinary had happened, and then only if that person possessed the Talent.
The spell itself is simple and harmless. As Master Sean had once put it to Lord Darcy: "Imagine a room full of people, each one with a different kind of noisemakera rattle, a drum, a horn, a ball of stiff paper to crackle, a hissing through the teeth, every sort of distracting noise you can imagine. What would you do if you had to think?"
"Put my fingers in my ears, I should imagine," Lord Darcy had replied.
"Exactly, me lord. And there's not a Talented person alive who wouldn't do the psychic equivalent of just that, if that distraction spell were cast on him. A person with little or no Talent just becomes distracted and loses his train of thought. He hasn't the least notion that it came from outside his own mind. A person with a good, but untrained Talent will recognize the spell for what it is, but won't know what to do about it. A Person with a trained Talent will block it instantly."
"Can't the response be feigned?" his lordship had asked.
"It can, me lord, but only after the initial blocking. In order to think out a lie, a false reaction, you need at least a fraction of a second of peace. Which you can't get without putting up the block, d'ye see."
"How could that be detected by a sorcerer who's putting out all that mind noise?" Lord Darcy had wanted to know.
"He couldn't," Master Sean had explained. "That's why it takes two to spring the trap. One to say Boo! and the other to see if the victim jumps."
This time, Master Sir Aubrey would cast the quick-shock spell, and Master Sean would watch the victim.
"Fat lot of good it did us," Master Sir Aubrey said half an hour later. "I noticed no reaction from any of the three." They had not tested Father Pierre; there was no question about a Healer having the Talent.
"Master Jorj and Goodman Humfrey haven't got a trace of the Talent," Master Sean said. "The young woman has a definite touch of it, but it's undisciplined and untrained. If there's any magic involved in this killing, we haven't uncovered it, and we haven't found a magician, either."
Master Sir Aubrey looked at the wall clock. "Fifteen of nine. You should have been in Rouen by now."
Master Sean scowled. "And now I can just twiddle my thumbs. There's nothing left for me to do. Except think. I wish I could remember what there is about that poison. . . ."
"See here, old friend," said Master Sir Aubrey, running a palm over his smooth pate, "we've got a room upstairs, with bed and bath, for important visitors. You are a visitor, and you are the Chief Forensic Sorcerer for Normandy. You are, ergo et ipso facto, qualified to use that room. A good shower will make you feel better. Or have a tub, if you like."
"My dear Sir Aubrey," said Master Sean with a smile wreathing his face, "you have made yourself a deal. Let's see this room."
The big sorcerer led him up a flight of stairs to a narrow corridor on the upper story. He took a key from his key ring and unlocked a door.
The room was small, but comfortable, like those of a good country inn, with the added attraction of an adjoining bath.
"I couldn't ask for better," Master Sean said. "Fortunately, I always carry a change of underclothes in me carpetbag."
He put his symbol-decorated carpetbag on the bed, opened it, and rummaged around until he came up with the underclothes. "Socks? Socks? Ah, yes, here they are."
Master Sir Aubrey was looking at the bag, using more senses than just his eyes. "Interesting anti-tampering spell you've got on your bag," he said. "Don't think I've ever come across one with quite those frequencies and textures. What's the effect, if I may ask? I detect the paralysis component, but . . . hmmm . . ."
"A little invention of me own," said Master Sean, a bit smugly. "Anybody opens it but meself, he immediately closes it again, then sits down next to it and does nothing. He's in a semi-paralytic trance, d'ye see. If anybody else comes along before I get there, the man who tried to open me bag will jump up and down and gibber like a monkey. That attracts attention. Anyone seeing a fellow behave like that in the vicinity of a sorcerer's bag will know immediately there's something wrong."
Master Sir Aubrey laughed. "I like it! I won't ask you for the specs on the spell; I'll try to work out one of my own."
"Be glad to give 'em to you," Master Sean said.
"No, no; more fun to work it out myself."
"Whatever you say. Look, I'll freshen meself up, and I'll see you in, say, half an hour. Is there somewhere we can get a bite to eat? I haven't had a morsel since noon."
"Do you like German food?"
"With German beer?"
"With German beer."
"Love it."
"Good," said Master Sir Aubrey. "I know a fine place. I'll be waiting downstairs. Here's the key to this room. You can leave your bag here, if you like. Just shove it under the bed and lock the door. I'll post notice that the room is yours, and nobody but a fool would disturb it."
"Right," said Master Sean. "I'll see you atsay, twenty past nine?"
The Kolnerschnitzel at Hochstetter's was delicious, and the Westphalian beer was cool and tangy. In fact, the beer was so good that, after packing away the Kolnerschnitzel, the two magicians had another stein.
"Ahhh!" said Master Sean, patting himself three inches below his solar plexus. "That's just what I needed. I feel so good that I'm not even angry with Sergeant Cougair any more."
"Speaking of whom," said Master Sir Aubrey, "the sergeant came into the office while you were bathing. I didn't want to bother you with anything until you'd eaten."
"Oh? Is it something that should bother me?" Master Sean asked.
"Not particularly. More data. I just didn't want you to be trying to piece everything together until you had a cold beer in your hand and enough fuel inside you to power your brain."
"I see. What was it?"
"He finally found the barman who went off duty at four this afternoon. Fellow named Cambray. He knew the deceased by sight and name. Seems the Captain came in every week, had a few drinks and left."
Master Sean nodded. "I see. Came in every week to get his prescription filled and then had a few snorts at the bar before going home."
"Precisely. Regular as clockwork, it seems. Now, here's the peculiar thing: he always ordered the same drink, which is not peculiar in itself, but what he drank was a Mechicain liqueur called Popocotapetl. It's not much called for, and it's rather expensive, since it's imported from across the Atlantic."
Master Sean nodded. "I've tasted it. A former pupil of mine, Master Lord John Quetzal, gave me a few drinks from a bottle his father, the Duke of Mechicoe sent him. It's a semi-sweet liqueur made from some cactus, I think."
"This wasn't semi-sweet," said Master Sir Aubrey.
"No?"
"No. Sergeant Cougair impounded the bottlethe only bottle they had, by the wayand tasted it, the idiot. He reports that the drop on his fingertip was as bitter as potash."
Suddenly several things came together in Master Sean's mind. "Coyotl weed!" he snapped.
The other sorcerer blinked. "What?"
"Coyotl weed," the Irish sorcerer said more calmly. "I was told about it by Lord John Quetzal while he was studying forensic sorcery under me. It's an alkaloid extract of the weed, actually. Been used as a poison in Mechicoe for centuries. Lord John Quetzal said it has no pharmaceutical uses, at all. I doubt if we could get a sample of the stuff to do a similarity analysis with. The Mechicains used to use it for poisoning rats, but since they've got trained sorcerers now to handle that problem, the stuff has been declared illegal except for research purposes. So someone put it in the bottle of Popocotapetl, eh?"
"Yes, and that makes the whole case crazier than ever," Master Sir Aubrey said. "It could have been put in there at any time previous to the murderdays before, even. And it would have killed anybody who drank it. Anybody, not just Captain Andray Vandermeer."
Master Sean said: "We might be dealing with a psychotic individual. Or, possibly, someone who wants to ruin the reputation of the International Bar or the Cosmopolitain Hotel. Your Sergeant Cougair has his work cut out for him."
"Oh, the sergeant has his theories," Master Sir Aubrey said dryly. "You see, since the barmen and waiters all agree that nobody came behind the bar except for themselves, then whoever put the poison in the bottle must have been invisible. According to the sergeant, I mean. And that means a sorcerer, and that means you."
"Me?" Master Sean managed to keep his voice under controlbarely.
" 'Least Likely Person Theory,' he calls it," the big magician continued. "But I think it's more than that. This case really has him baffled. He can't understand what happenedcan't see how the trick was done. The more data he comes up with, the more mysterious it gets, and the more confused he gets. Not his type of case, really."
"What is his type of case?" Master Sean asked. "Nursery riddles?"
"No." Master Sir Aubrey chuckled. "Nothing that complicated. Street killings, bar killings, brawls, that sort of thing. The knife drawn in anger, the sudden smash of a club. Such things are usually pretty much open-and-shut. But this one is beyond his mental equipment. And instead of admitting it, he's trying to bull it through. If it weren't for your presence there, he'd probably have already rushed off and arrested the widow as the most likely suspect."
"What's my presence got to do with it?" Master Sean said irritatedly.
"To him," said the English sorcerer, "if there's no obvious answer at hand, then there's sorcery afoot. And you're the sorcerer. He still can't find that bottle of poison, and he thinks you magicked it away somehow."
With great care, Master Sean lifted his beerstein and drained it slowly without stopping. He put it down. "I will not," he said calmly, "let that blithering jackass upset me digestion. Let's get back to the station and see what new developments have come about, if any."
They paid their bill and strolled leisurely the quarter-mile back to the Armsmen's station, discussing several subjects that had nothing to do with the murder case.
It was twenty-five of eleven when they went into Master Sir Aubrey's office.
Lord Darcy was waiting for them.
Lord Darcy, Chief Investigator for His Royal Highness, Richard, Duke of Normandy, looked up from the book he was reading and took his pipe from his mouth. "I trust you gentlemen had a good meal," he said in a mild voice.
"Me lord!" Master Sean's voice showed a touch of surprise. "When did you get in?"
"Fifteen minutes ago, my dear Sean," said Lord Darcy, with a wry smile on his handsome face. "When you informed me that the Parisian authorities had you in open arrest, I took the next train east. We have to have that evidence on the Zellerman-Blair case in court on the morrow. How are you, Master Sir Aubrey?"
"As well as could be expected, my lord. And you?"
"Well, but impatient. Whom do I see to get Master Sean released on his own recognizance?"
"Justice Duprey keeps late hours. When he hears Master Sean's side of the case, against Sergeant Cougair's, he'll release Sean on the instant. But you'll have to bring the motion; I can't, naturally, since I'd be going against the . . ."
"I understand," Lord Darcy cut in. "Nor could Master Sean without representation. Very well; we'll have this Cougair and Master Sean up before the Justice as soon as possible. The problem is that nobody around here has seen Sergeant Cougair for the past hour, and nobody seems to know where he is. Naturally, he'll have to appear to tell his side of the story or the Justice won't hear it."
"Oh, I'm sure he's around somewhere," Master Sir Aubrey said. "Wait a little. When's your train back to Rouen?"
"There's a slow one at two-five," Lord Darcy said. "We'll have to be on it. The express doesn't leave until five-twenty, and it will get us in very late for a six o'clock court.
"However, I'm sure we can make it. Would it be asking too much for you two to tell me what this farrago is all about?"
"Aye," said a voice from the door. " 'Tis a story Ah'd like tae be hearing', masel'!"
The tall, lean, well-muscled man in the doorway looked rumpled. His black-and-silver uniform was neat enough, but his thick thatch of dark, curly hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb for weeks, his firm, dimpled jaw was bluely unshaven, and his deepset, piercing blue eyes looked rather bloodshot beneath their shaggy brows.
All three of the men in the room immediately recognized Darryl Mac Robert, Chief Master-at-Arms for the City of Paris. They gave him a ragged chorus of: "Good evening, Chief Darryl."
Chief Darryl grinned but shook his head. "Nae; 'tisna that. Ah was oop a' the nicht last nicht wi' the Pemberton robbery; nae sleep this mornin' because o' the Neinboller swindlin' case; oop a' the afternoon wi' the Duval gassing. Ah try tae get soom sleep o' the evenin', and Ah find that a routine death in a bar has snowballed as if it were rollin' down the Matterhorn. Nae, lads, 'tis nae a guid evenin'. But 'tis guid tae see yer lairdship."
"I quite sympathize with you," said Lord Darcy. "Well, do come in and sit down, my dear Chief. Master Sean, would you begin at the beginning and proceed therefrom to the present?"
"Glad to, me lord."
The telling of it took nearly three quarters of an hour, but every detail, every nuance had been told when Master Sean was through. When it was over, Lord Darcy thoughtfully smoked his pipe in silence. Chief Darryl looked grim. "It looks," he said, "as if we hae us a madman loose i' the City."
Lord Darcy took his pipestem from his mouth. "I disagree, Chief Darryl. This was a carefully planned and carefully executed murder aimed solely at one man: Senior Captain Andray Vandermeer."
"D'ye ken who did it, then?"
"The evidence we have all points in one direction. If my theory is correct, we only need a little more data, and the thing will be quite clear."
"Then let's get it, mon! Ah need the sleep!"
"Well, it's hardly my place to tell your Sergeant Cougair how to conduct his own case," Lord Darcy replied carefully.
"As o' this moment, Ah'm takin' charge o' the case masel'," Chief Darryl said firmly. He looked at Master Sean. "And ye'll nae have to take Chasseur before the Justice. He'll drop the charges."
"I'm afraid, however," Lord Darcy said, "that we shall have to trouble the Justice after all. We need two search warrants."
"Ah'll get 'em. For what places?"
"One for the residence of the late Captain Andray, and another for the pharmacy of Veblin & Son."
Chief Darryl was making notes on a pad he had taken from his uniform belt. "Wha' are we tae search for, yer lairdship?"
"A bottle of Popocotapetl that hasn't been opened, and a bottle of poison that has."
Chief Darryl murmured to himself as he wrote. "Liqueur at Andray's home. Poison at pharmacy."
"No, no!" his lordship said sharply. "There will undoubtedly be a few bottles of the liqueur at Andray's home, and there are poisons galore in any pharmacy. No, it's the other way round; liqueur at pharmacy, poison at Andray's."
"Verra well, me laird. Anything else?"
"Find out who sold the Popocotapetl to the International Bar, and pick him up. I want the man who made the delivery, not the merchant, unless they are one and the same."
"Och, aye. Anything else?"
"One more thing. Bring in Mary Vandermeer, Jorj Veblin, and, following Sergeant Cougair's theory of the Least Likely Suspect, I fear you must bring in Father Pierre."
"Surely he couldn't have had anything to do with this murder, me lord!" Master Sean said in astonishment.
"I assure you, my dear Sean," Lord Darcy said solemnly, "that without Father Pierre's Talent, this murder could never have happenedat least, not in this way."
"Ah'll get some men on it," Chief Darryl said heavily.
Midnight. Three men stood in the thaumaturgical laboratory at Armsmen's Headquarters.
Chief Darryl put two bottles on the lab table. "There they are, just as ye said, yer lairdship. Item" He picked up a pint-sized, stoppered brown glass bottle. "a bottle found in a closet in Goodwife Mary Vandermeer's bedroom. Three-quarters empty, it is." He put it down and picked up the other, a tall quart bottle full of golden yellow liquid. "Item, a bottle of Popocotapetl, seal unbroken." He put it down. "And we got the woman and Veblin in holdin' cells. You wanted to see Father Pierre and the spirits man?"
"Not just yet. I want to be sure that what is in that brown bottle is what killed Vandermeer. Will you make a similarity analysis, Master Sean?"
"Aye, me lord, I'll have to go up and get me bag."
"No need," said Master Sir Aubrey, coming in through the door. He held Master Sean's symbol-decorated carpetbag in one hand. "I took the liberty of fetching it myself."
"Ah, fine. Thank you. If ye'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'll get about me work."
Lord Darcy and Master Sir Aubrey followed Chief Darryl out of the lab, down the hall, and into the Chief's office.
"Sit ye doon gentle sirs," he said with a wave toward a couple of chairs. He planted himself firmly behind his desk. "Ah'd like tae know, ma laird, why ye eliminated the barmen as suspects, if ye dinna mind."
"Because the bottle itself was poisoned," Lord Darcy said promptly. "If a barman wants to poison a customer, he can put the stuff in just one drink. He wouldn't have to poison a whole bottle of good liquor."
"But suppose he were a madman who didn't care who he killed?" Master Sir Aubrey asked. "If he wanted to kill a lot of people, wouldn't poisoning the bottle be easiest?"
"Possibly. But in that case, he'd poison a bottle of brandy or ouiskie, something that was called for regularly, not a rare liqueur that's little called for and very expensive. And certainly he would have chosen another poison than the coyotl-weed extract. No, that poison was intended for Vandermeer and none other. He was the only customer they had who drank Popocotapetl."
"But, ma laird," the Chief objected, "anyone could ha' coom intae the International and ordered the stuff. Some Mechicain micht hae come in, for instance."
"True," Lord Darcy said, "but he would be in very little danger of being poisoned. Consider: one usually sips a semi-sweet liqueur, especially an expensive one. One doesn't just knock it back against the tonsils as if it were cheap apple brandy. One sip of that stuff, and the customer would spit it out and complain loudly to the barman. It's a very bitter substance."
There was a pause. Suddenly, Master Sir Aubrey said: "Then why, in God's name, did Vandermeer drink it?"
"Aha! That's precisely the question I asked myself," said Lord Darcy. "Why should"
He was interrupted by the entrance of Master Sean. "No doubt about it, me laird," he said firmly, "that's the stuff that killed the Captain."
"Excellent. We progress. Chief Darryl, will you have one of your men bring in Father Pierre?"
Father Pierre, looking benign but somewhat puzzled, was led in by a uniformed Armsman a minute later. Chief Darryl said: "Ah'm sorry to have inconvenienced ye, Reverend Sir, but we hae a most heinous crime tae clear oop."
"Oh, that's all right, I assure you, Chief Darryl," the old priest said. "I am happy to be of any assistance that I may."
Master Sean was mildly pleased to hear that the priest's Parisian accent had been smoothed and made less harsh by time, travel, and education.
"Verra well, Reverend Sir. Ah thank ye. Lord Darcy here would like tae ask ye a question or two."
"Of course." Father Pierre turned his soft eyes on the Chief Investigator. "What is it, my lord?"
"You were treating the late Captain Andray for malaria, I believe, Father?" Lord Darcy asked.
"Yes, I was, my lord."
"Do you know where he contracted the disease?"
"In Mechicoe, while he was serving with the Imperial Legion."
"And you were treating him with an herbal prescription?"
"Yes, my lord. Tincture of Cinchona. It is a specific for the disease."
"How did you get him to take it regularly, Father? It's a rather bitter drug, is it not?"
"Oh, yes. Very bitter." The priest glanced at Master Sean and Master Sir Aubrey. "You sorcerers are acquainted with the spell, I am sure. It's a matter of shifting modes of sensory perception."
"Aye," said Master Sean. "I was talking to a man a few hours ago who had had his sense of smell subtly altered so that an otherwise nauseous smell would smell sweet to him."
"Just so." Father Pierre looked back at Lord Darcy. "I cast a similar spell over the Captain, so that the bitterness would register as sweetness, you see. Mixed with a little lemon juice and water, a spoonful of the tincture became quite a pleasant drinkto him."
"Would that apply to just the tincture, or to anything bitter?" Lord Darcy asked.
"Oh, anything that was bitter would taste sweet to him. No getting around that. I'd warned him of it. He was not to accept anything as being sweet unless he knew for a fact that it was sweet, unless he knew that it actually contained sugar or honey. He was a very careful man, was Captain Andray."
"A lesson one learns in the Legion," murmured Lord Darcy. "Thank you very much, Father. I think that's all for now. Thank you again."
When the Healer had gone, Lord Darcy looked at the others. "You see? Of all the many people who might have come into that bar and ordered Popocotapetl, only Captain Andray Vandermeer would have sat there and quietly sipped that bitter potion without raising a fuss. He knew the liqueur was supposed to be sweet, and never noticed the coyotl extract."
"But why use a bitter poison like that?" Chief Darryl asked. "Wouldna it ha' been easier to use something more palatable?"
Lord Darcy shook his head. "That poison has one very important quality. Master Sean, you said it was used as a rat poison. Why?"
"Because it's painless," Master Sean said. "It puts the victim quietly to sleep before it kills. Rats are pretty smart creatures; if they know a bait is poisoned, they'll avoid it, and they know if it kills a few friends in agony. For some reason, the bitter taste don't bother 'em if the stuff is mixed with bran and a goodly dollop of sugar-cane syrup."
"And how did the poison get i' the bottle i' the first place?" the Chief Master-at-Arms asked.
"That worried me, too, for a few moments," Lord Darcy admitted. "How could an unauthorized person get behind the bar, poison a bottle of expensive liqueur, and leave, without being seen? The International never closes, so it couldn't have been a burglary job. Obviously, then, the bottle, when it was brought into the bar, was already poisoned!" He waited while they absorbed that, then said, "Chief, will you have the liquor man brought in?"
The man who delivered potable spirits to the International Bar was a rotund, red-faced man named Baker who looked as though he smiled a lot when he was not caught up in the hands of the law.
"Master Sean," Lord Darcy whispered to the sorcerer, "would you go fetch that bottle of Popocotapetl?"
Master Sean nodded and left without a word.
Again Chief Darryl went through the preliminaries and then turned the questioning over to Lord Darcy.
"Goodman Baker," his lordship began, "I understand you make deliveries of spirits regularly to the Cosmopolitain Hotel."
"That I do, my lord." Baker spoke Anglo-French with as pronounced an English accent as Lord Darcy did, but it was pure middle-class London.
"To what other establishments do you deliver besides the International Bar?"
"Well, my lord, of the usual drinkin' spirits, that's the only place."
"You say 'the usual drinking spirits.' What other kind do you deal in?"
"Well, there's the high-proof clear spirits, what I delivers to the pharmacy of Veblin & Son. They uses 'em to make medicines, d'yer see. And they also takes the special medicinal brandy."
"I thought as much. Now, I want you to think hardvery hardabout my next question. Did anyone at Veblin & Son order anything out of the ordinary in the past few months?"
"Don't have to think too hard on that one, yer lordship," Baker said with a self-satisfied air. "He boughtyoung Master Jorj, that ishe bought a quart of that Mechicain stuff, the Popey-cottypetal. Very dear it is, yer lordship, and as we being the only importers of it in Paris, I remembered his buying of it."
"And when was this?" Lord Darcy asked.
"Four weeks ago Friday last."
"And when was the last time you made a delivery to Veblin & Son?"
"Friday last."
"How very gratifying," Lord Darcy murmured with a pleased smile. "And did you deliver a bottle of Popocotapetl to the International Bar on that day?"
"I did, my lord. I suppose they told you that."
"As a matter of fact, they did not. I deduced it. I shall make a further deduction: that you always and invariably make your deliveries to Veblin & Son before you make your deliveries to the International."
"Why, that's true as Gospel, my lord! I always park my delivery wagon to the rear of the hotel and my helper holds the horses while I takes the deliveries in on a hand cart. From the rear door, the first place you comes to is the pharmacy, so I makes my delivery there first."
"Bringing your hand cart in with you, I presume?"
"Oh, indeed, my lord. Leave it out in the corridor, and likely there'd be a bottle or two missing when I came out."
"And you carry the delivery into the rear of the pharmacy, leaving the hand cart in the front room?"
"I do. Master Jorj keeps an eye on it for me. He'd not steal from it himself, nor let anyone else do so."
"I dare say not," Lord Darcy agreed. "Then you go on to the International and deliver their orders."
"I do, my lord."
By this time, Master Sean had returned with the bottle of Popocotapetl. Lord Darcy extended a hand, and the little Irish sorcerer handed him the bottle. Lord Darcy put it on the desk in front of Baker. "Is this the bottle you sold to Master Jorj Veblin four weeks ago Friday last?"
Baker looked at the bottle. "Well, now. I couldn't swear as to that, my lord. Them bottles are all pretty much alike, and . . ."
Suddenly he picked up the bottle and looked more closely at it. "Wait a minute, my Lord. This ain't the bottle I sold him."
"How do you know?"
Baker pointed at some small figures written on the label. "The date's wrong, my Lord. This is from the shipment we received from Mechicoe two weeks ago."
"That's a stroke of luck!" said Lord Darcy. "Master Sean, bring in the bottle we found in the bar."
Master Sean returned within a minute, bearing the poisoned bottle. Lord Darcy took it, and without letting it out of his hands, showed the label to Baker. "What about this bottle?"
"Well now, I can't positively identify it as being the one I sold to Master Jorj, but it's got the proper date on it."
"Very well. Thank you very much for your help, Goodman. You may go home now."
When Baker had gone, Lord Darcy picked up his pipe and lighter, and puffed the pipe alight before speaking. "And there you have it, gentlemen. I daresay, Chief Darryl, that a little probing into the activities of Mary Vandermeer and Jorj Veblin over the past several months will reveal a greater intimacy between them than has heretofore been suspected. Vandermeer was much older than his wife, and it may be that she decided to dispose of him in favor of a younger manVeblin, to be exact. If the Captain was like most Legion officers, he left her a small, but comfortable, fortune."
I'm afraid I don't quite see the whole picture," said Master Sir Aubrey. "Exactly what happened?"
"Very well. Some years ago Captain Andray married his present wiferather, widowwho was a woman of Mechicain descent. He probably married her over there. At any rate, he brought her with him when he retired. And she brought with her a bottle of a coyotl extract. We can't be certain why, at this time; perhaps she was planning his murder even then.
"Exactly how she met Veblin, and how they made their arrangements, is something you'll have to get your men to dig out. Chief Darryl, but that's routine legwork."
"But how did ye know 'twas them?"
"Who else knew that he was under a Healer's spell that would make bitter things taste sweet? He undoubtedly told his wife, and the pharmacist would certainly guess it.
"At any rate, she gave Veblin the poison. She knew of the Captain's taste for Popocotapetl, and so informed Veblin. Veblin thereupon bought a bottle of the stuff, laced it with poison, and waited until Baker delivered a fresh bottle to the International Bar. Then, while Baker was unloading the medicinal spirits in the back room, Veblin switched bottles so that the poisoned bottle was delivered to the bar. Then it was simply a matter of waiting until the following Tuesdaytoday" He glanced at the clock. "Yesterday," he corrected himself, "the Captain comes in, orders his drink as usual, and that's that."
"But why did he keep the good bottle after the switch?" Master Sean asked. "Why not get rid of it?"
"Because he knew that eventually the investigators would find the poison in the bottle and check with the importers. They would inform us, as they did, that he had bought a bottle. It was his intention to say, 'Oh, yes, I did, and I still have it.' He didn't know that importers of spirits put the date on the goods when they are received."
"It seems tae me," said Chief Darryl, "that a pharmacist would have plenty of poisons on hand withoot havin' tae use a special import frae Mechicoe."
"That's just the point," said Lord Darcy. "If he had used any of the normal pharmaceuticals, any competent forensic sorcerer could have identified whatever poison he used, which would increase his chances of being found out. He was hoping that there wouldn't be a man in Europe who could identify coyotl extract. Any other questions?"
Chief Darryl thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That aboot covers it, ma laird. Since we know how it was done and who did it, the rest is simple." He looked up at the clock at the wall. "Where the De'il is Sergeant Cougair? Ah hae a few words to say to that wee mon."
"Why, as to that," Master Sir Aubrey said, almost offhandedly, "the last time I saw him was in the upstairs bedroom."
Chief Darryl shot to his feet. "What the Hell is he doin' oop there?"
"Sitting. Just sitting."
"Armsman Stefan!" bellowed the Chief Master-at-Arms. The door to the corridor popped open, and a Man-at-Arms stuck his head in.
"But yes, my Chief?"
"Go oop the stair tae the visitor's bedroom and fetch me Sergeant Cougair Chasseur."
"But yes, my Chief!" The door closed.
Master Sean looked at Master Sir Aubrey. Master Sir Aubrey looked at the ceiling. Lord Darcy looked puzzled.
Man-at-Arms Stefan returned. It was obvious from the contortions of his face that he was attempting to control a giggle. "My Chief, it is apparent that the Sergeant Cougair has taken leave of his senses. When one speaks to him, he leaps up and down and gibbers like the monkey."
"He does?" Chief Darryl headed toward the door. "We'll see aboot this. Coom wi' me!"
In half a minute, there were loud voices and laughter coming down the stairwell.
Master Sean sighed and opened his carpetbag. He took from it a small four-inch wand made from a twig of the hyssop plant. "I'll go up and remove the spell," he said. "You didn't by any chance tell him the poison bottle was in me carpetbag, did you, Master Sir Aubrey?"
"Of course not," the sorcerer said indignantly. "Quite the contrary. I absolutely forbade him to look there at all."
Master Sean left. Lord Darcy said nothing; he had the Zellerman-Blair case to worry about, and he had no wish to meddle in the affairs of wizards.