“There too,” said the woman. “But I think what you are really asking is, ‘Was he jealous enough to kill?’ Perhaps. He is Italian, and their self-image permits crimes of passion.”
“Not much passion in fixing a man’s space suit so that first time he passes water he drops down dead,” sneered Dalziel, suddenly keen to pierce this icy carapace.
It was like spitting on a glacier.
She said, “To the Latin mind, it might seem... apt.”
Dalziel didn’t reply at once and the woman, mistaking his silence, tried to help him over his repression.
“Because the electrical connection that killed him would be through his sex organ,” she explained.
“Aye, lass,” he said irritably. “First thing they taught me at Oxford was to know when a tart’s talking dirty. I see from your file that you were the module pilot?”
“Yes. That surprises you?”
“I stopped being surprised by lady drivers a long time back,” he said. “And you landed safely? No bumps?”
“No bumps.” She almost smiled.
“Then what?”
“I extended the outside arm to set up the external camera to record this historic moment for posterity. Then Emile activated his TEC and entered the airlock. I opened the exit door and he began to descend. The rest you have seen.”
“Why was he the first out?” asked Dalziel. “Did you draw lots, or what?”
Now she definitely smiled.
“Certainly we drew lots,” she said. “Being first is important. Everyone remembers Armstrong, but who can remember the others? Can you, Mr. Dalziel?”
“Nowadays I can’t remember to zip me flies till I feel a draught,” said Dalziel. “Lemarque won when you drew lots, then?”
“Oh no. He did not even bother to take part. He knew it was pointless. Next day the decision came from above. He was chosen. No arguments.”
“Oh aye? How’d they work that out, then?”
She said, “Who knows? But perhaps you remember from your school days, in the playground there was always one little boy or girl who had to have first turn at everything. In Europe that child is France.”
“Was anything said in the module before he left?”
“Only trivial things, I think.”
“My favourites,” said Dalziel.
“Emile said something like, I hope the Yankees have built a McDonald’s. Even American coffee must be better than the dishwater we have to drink. Something like that.”
“What do you think he was trying to say before he died?”
She shrugged and said, “Who can know?”
“Oh mer... How about, Oh Marte?” said Dalziel.
“The vowel sound is not right,” she observed indifferently.
“Dying Frenchman pronouncing a Danish name,” he said. “What do you want? Professor Higgins?”
She took the reference in her stride and said, “It would be touching to believe his thoughts turned to me at such a time.”
Touching, thought Dalziel. Aye, mebbe. A hand on the shoulder in an identity parade, that’s touching!
But he didn’t bother to say it.
5.
“You don’t look happy,” said Pascoe.
“You do. Found the Paddy amusing, did you?”
“Oh, he’s a broth of a boy, sure enough.”
“Get you anywhere?”
Pascoe said uncertainly, “I’m not sure, I got a feeling he was trying to manipulate me... but you know how Irishmen love to wind up the English. Who do you fancy now. Van der Heyde or Albertosi?”
Dalziel said, “How come I suddenly get a choice? You made out the list and I’m down for first stab at the Eyetie.”
“Sorry. I got worried in case you thought I was being a bit rigid, pulling rank, that sort of thing.”
“Oh aye? Word of advice,” said Dalziel gravely. “Pulling rank’s like pulling bollocks; once you start, you’d best not let go.”
“Oh aye?” mocked Pascoe. “You’ve been at your Rochefoucauld again, I see. Well, one good maxim deserves another. Look before you leap on top of a touchy Italian. Albertosi’s psych report says he’s got a short fuse. He probably wouldn’t have made the trip if the other Italian nominee hadn’t fallen off his scooter and cracked his skull. So tread carefully.”
“No need to warn me, lad,” said Dalziel. “I’m a changed man these days. No more clog dancing. It’s all tights and tippytoe now, believe me!”
“Here’s something that’ll make you laugh, Marco,” said Dalziel. “From what’s been said so far, you’re looking to be the man most likely to have knocked off Emile Lemarque!”
The Italian’s English was nowhere near as good as the two women’s, but he had no difficulty with the idiom.
“Who has said this? What have they said?” he demanded angrily.
“General notion seems to be you and him were bonking rivals. You know, jealous of each other’s success with the ladies.”
“What? Me jealous of Lemarque? More chance I am jealous of a flea because he bites the woman I love!”
“Flea, you say? You want to watch where you get your women,” said Dalziel kindly. “But you were both after Silvia Rabal, weren’t you?”
“What? Oh yes, he bothers her. Is always flapping round her, calling her his little cockatoo, making jokes. But is all words like with all these Frenchman. Women like men who act, real men, big men. He is no bigger than she is, a midget almost! When a true man comes along, his little cockatoo soon jerks him off the nest!”
Dalziel hid a grin and said, “So what you’re saying is, Lemarque wasn’t worth bothering about, right? But he did bother you, didn’t he? So why was that?”
Albertosi grimaced and said, “You are right. I will not lie. I did not like the Frenchman. But not because of Silvia.”
“Why, then?”*
“Because he has a poison tongue! Because he makes slander about me.”
“They’re like that, these Frogs,” said Dalziel sympathetically. “What was it he said about you?”
“He said that I have injured my comrade, Giuseppe.”
“Eh?”
“Giuseppe Serena. We are Italy’s team for the moon shot, but only one of us will go, it is not yet decided which. Then my friend is riding back to the base on his scooter when a car forces him off the road. He is not badly injured, but bad enough to put him out of the running, you understand. Then this pig, this Frenchman, he says it is I who drive the car, I who hurt my friend so that I will be selected!”
“So you wouldn’t be too unhappy about Lemarque’s death?” said Dalziel.
“What do you say? I am not happy that a colleague dies, does not matter how I feel personally. But, how is it in English — pride comes, then a fall. He was so boasting he was to be the first to step on the moon. Only he doesn’t step, he falls!”
The idea clearly amused him.
“It bothered you, did it? Him getting the prima donna’s job?”
“Prima donna! That’s it! That is how he acts. But what important is it, stepping on the moon? It is more than forty years since Armstrong did it. Since then many more. No, this is not a first, not a real first.”
“No? What would you reckon is a real first, then?” asked Dalziel.
The Italian smirked knowingly but did not reply.
“All right. Let’s stick to facts. You and Silvia Rabal stopped on Europa and watched the monitors. Did you see anything unusual?”
This seemed to amuse Albertosi. First he internalized his laughter till his whole body was shaking. Then finally it burst out in a full-throated roar.
“Please, I am sorry,” gasped the Italian. “Go on. Ask your questions. It is reaction, you understand.”