“What is this?” Bro B roared. “That’s the key to the M-Ditsch’s room! I’d recognize it anywhere!”
Sam stared in amazement at the bauble that sat in the center of the napkin. Somehow, through some alien alchemy, the bit of cheese had transformed itself into a golden key.
Before Sam could utter a word of protest, the guards pulled him off the floor and dragged him down the hall, opened a door, and tossed him inside. Sam heard the key turn in the lock behind him as they left.
He looked around at his jail cell, if that is what it was. As far as he could tell this room was identical to the one he had just left, save that the humidity was substantially less. Sam walked cautiously to the huge chair, climbed carefully aboard so as not to explode the swelling dome of his skull. Once seated he tried to reason out the improbable chain of events from a stolen bit of cheese to discovery of the golden key, despite the throbbing of his temples.
Could he have been so drunk that he mistook the key for a snack? No, he was quite certain that he’d been sober at the time. Besides, even drunk he would never have made such a mistake. How, then, did the key get into the napkin and, his stomach reminded him, where the hell was the cheese? He debated the question until he fell asleep and dreamed fitfully of elephants and ants.
The question was still on his mind when he awoke hours later with only a minor headache. Why had the key caused such a reaction by Bro B? Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, that worthy came through the door in a rush, as if someone had pushed him. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.
“About time you explained what is going on around here,” Sam said indignantly. “I’ve been trying to figure out how that key managed to get into my room. I am not a crook! I did not take that key!”
Bro B shuffled over to the bed and sat down. “The taking of the key matters little,” he huffed. “What does matter is that the only way you could have gotten it was to enter the M-Ditsch’s chamber and remove it from his neck.”
“I haven’t been anywhere near his damned chambers. Besides, how could I get it off of his neck when I can barely reach up to even a short Bingnagian’s waist?”
Tears formed in Bro B’s eyes. “It would have been easy to remove it, considering that the M-Ditsch had no head at the time.” Bro B honked hard into a handkerchief the size of a bed sheet.
Sam rapped his translator. The machine had sure chosen a bad time to go on the fritz. “I thought you said no head,’” he repeated.
Bro honked again. “I did. Whoever took the key slit the M-Ditsch’s throat as he was sleeping.”
“He’s dead?” Sam said incredulously.
“Alas, that is what happens when someone removes your head,” Bro B said sadly. “Now there is no opportunity for me to slip a knife into his back like the good, loyal successor he wanted. Oh, the shame of it all!”
Sam was aghast. Without a Ditsch there was no hope of resolution with the Gormlies. How could he hope to resolve their dispute if there was no one on the Bingnagia side to sign an agreement? But why was he worried about that, as he went over what Bro B had said; there were more important things to be concerned about. “You think I did it!” he whispered with dawning amazement.
Bro looked down at him. “Of course I do. And it is my fault for inviting you into the keep where you could use your alien wiles to destroy our most adored Ditsch. I will be under the foot with you when the judgment is passed for my part in this crime.”
“Under foot?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Bro B replied. “The penalty is stomping.”
Gulp. “You did say we’d be stomped, didn’t you?” Sam had no desire to have his lifetime postage canceled by the heavy-footed Bingnagia judicial system. He was too young, too vital, too hutnan to die. No, there had to be a way out of this. He left the side of the disconsolate Bro B and began to pace the floor. “We need to think this through. First, I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t do what?” the translator blurted.
“Murder the M-Ditsch,” Sam replied absently. “You must know that.”
“Why should I?” the translator queried.
“Because they found the Ditsch’s golden key in my room after the murder,” Sam replied testily. “Why are you asking me these questions, Bro B?”
“Pardon?” Bro hooted. “Did you say something?”
“Just answering your questions,” Sam replied. “It surprised me that you would follow Earth’s Socratic method.”
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
Sam stopped. “You certainly did. I heard you with my own two ears.”
“You are imagining things. Must be a function of those tiny ears of yours.” Bro B said and laid down. In a few minutes loud snores emanated from the plank bed.
“How did the key get into your room?” the translator asked.
Sam glanced around. There was no one to be seen and he was certain that Bro B was not one to snore questions in his sleep. “Ghosts,” he said without conviction.
“Well, aren’t you going to answer my question?” the translator blurted impatiently Sam was astounded. In all the months he had used the Rix machine he had never realized that it was intelligent enough to have a conversation. Perhaps there were other aspects of Rix technology that he had not yet learned to appreciate.
“Yes, how the key got into my room is the, er, key to this whole mystery. Whoever put it into the napkin knew that would get me in trouble.”
“So all we have to do is discover who could have access to your room.” Sam considered. “Well, that would be all of the Bingnagians in the compound, plus the visiting Adrinns and the Gormlies. Matter of fact, I think I am the only one around here who didn’t want to kill him!”
“Then the questions are both motivation and who had access to the M-Ditsch’s sleeping chamber.”
“True,” Sam replied. “I don’t see how one could get into it. There were an awful lot of locks on that armored door and I’m sure that he didn’t welcome visitors. I can’t see how anyone could have gotten in there.”
“Then you will have to find out, won’t you?” the translator concluded. “Maybe Bro B has the answers to these questions.”
An awakened Bro B was indeed the source of the answer to the access question. According to the guards who had discovered the body, something had climbed through the chamber’s air duct, loosened the grille above the M-Ditsch’s bed, and dropped down. “The perpetrator left by the same means,” Bro B concluded. “Or maybe he left by the door, using that key you had.”
“Urk,” Sam said.
“Why couldn’t one of you go through the duct?” Sam asked. “All of you wanted to succeed him.”
Bro B laughed. “That would have been impossible. The ducts are far too small for anyone of my race. Besides, most Bingnagians are so claustrophobic that we wouldn’t dare enter such a confined space.”
“So they think that I crawled through the duct?”
Bro B nodded. “Yes, and they assume that we were in cahoots.”
“So I must have opened the M-Ditsch’s door for you? I assume that they also think that you killed him.” Bro B nodded agreement. “That couldn’t be true, Sam. Everyone knows that I’d stick a proper knife in his back instead of cutting his throat. No, I am not the killer.”
“Which means that it was either me or the Adrinns who did this,” Sam said.
“Couldn’t be the Adrinns,” Bro said. “They wouldn’t have the strength to slit the Ditsch’s neck like that. It took someone much stronger, much larger. Besides, I had the guards watching them every minute. No way they could have gotten out of their room to do this.”
“Which leaves me as the only candidate for stomping,” Sam concluded gloomily.