Arken said, "I'll keep looking if you want. There could be other things, papers, maps, old stuff like the book." He lingered on the word. "Was I right to buy it?"
"Yes."
"Should I buy more if I find them?"
"Not until I've seen what it is. Fifty, you said?"
An inflated price; Arken would be a fool not to have made a profit. His eyes widened as Dumarest thrust coins across the table.
"A hundred! But-"
"This closes our deal. If you find anything new let me know. Here." He dumped the cloak on the table. "A bonus."
"Thanks. It'll pay for some steam. Why don't you join me?"
"No need. I've got my own."
The bath and shower in his room which he yearned to use. The hotel admitted him without hesitation and he climbed the stairs too impatient to wait for the elevator. The corridor was empty aside from a woman busy with a broom who smiled then returned to her duties as he headed for his room. The door swung open to reveal the compartment with its window, furnishings, carpeted floor. The bathroom lay to one side and Dumarest headed toward it, jerking to a halt as he saw the bed.
The bed and the woman sprawled across it. Claire Hashein, naked, lying on her back, arms lifted, legs asprawl, a glint of metal in one hand.
Behind him the cleaner screamed as she saw the blood.
A ruby tide stained the sheets and painted the torso with carmine smears from the gash which marred the throat.
Chapter Three
Prisons held a universal sameness but the one on Erkalt was better than others Dumarest had known. His cell was a box containing a bunk, toilet facilities and nothing else. One wall was made of bars. But there was warmth and light and he was alone. They had taken his clothes and possessions, giving him a pajama-like garb of soft yellow fabric, but had allowed him to retain the book. A selfish act of charity; prisoners who were engrossed did not scream, yell their innocence, shout abuse. Noises Dumarest ignored as, lying on the bunk, he studied what Arken had found.
The book looked old, but age could be simulated. Acids could have browned the pages and faded the ink. Mechanical friction could have fretted the covers. Dyes could have added the stains. Celto Loffredo had dealt in antiquities and he would have wanted to maintain a supply of saleable items. If not found they could have been made.
Would it have been worth his while?
Collectors were willing to pay high for items they wanted and desire of possession would blind them to the possibility of forgery. Even on Erkalt such collectors could be found. Would a man, cold, hungry, living on the brink, have hung on to something of worth?
Or had the book meant more to its owner than the comfort its sale could have provided?
The pages made small whisperings as Dumarest turned them, frowning as he tried to decipher the crabbed, faded script. A journal, he guessed. A diary relating the important events of a man's life. A trader; many pages bore figures which could have been a record of profits and losses.
On one page, soiled by a stain which could have been caused by water or wine, he read barely discernible words.
* * *
"… loaded three bales of ossum… will try and get… passage on the Gillaus to… Blackheart ill and I sat with him. Fever, I think; he rambled on about… Crazy but some of it made an odd kind of sense. Will try___If true then___"
* * *
The light was too poor, the writing too faded for Dumarest to make out more. He turned the pages, tried to read another, his eyes moving over a column of figures, the last heavily underlined. As he frowned at it the bars rattled, the door sliding open beneath the hand of a guard.
"A visitor," he said. "Your advocate."
Shanti Vellani was small, neat, his face sharp, his eyes like those of a bird. Clear, brown, always on the move. He remained silent until the guard had locked him within the cell and had moved away.
"You're looking well, Earl. I'm pleased to see it. There's no sense in anyone beating their head against a wall."
"You've news?"
"Of course, but first a small matter of business." Vellani took a slip of paper from an inside pocket. "Your account to date. It includes expenses. If you'd like to authorize payment?"
Dumarest took it and studied the amount. It was high but the best did not come cheap and he needed the best. He rolled the ball of his thumb over the sensitized portion.
Handing it back he said, dryly, "I take it the news is bad."
"It could be better." Vellani tucked the slip into his pocket then sat down beside Dumarest on the bunk. "I'll be frank with you. On the basis of available evidence you haven't a chance. The prosecution has a watertight case."
"I didn't kill her."
"So you say." Vellani lifted a hand as if to still any protest. "But look at it from the other side. You and the victim were lovers. She was close to another, Carl Indart, and you could have wanted her to break with him. She refused, you lost your temper, there was a brief struggle and-" His shrug was expressive.
"That's assumption, not proof."
"The cleaner saw you enter the room."
"Which is proof that I wasn't in it. Hell, I wasn't even in the hotel that night. I told you that."
"Your alibi." Vellani pursed his lips. "As regards the hotel you could have left it anytime after killing the woman. All the porter can swear to is that you demanded entry shortly after dawn."
"So?"
"Claire Hashein was killed approximately three hours before sunrise. You could have sneaked out just before dawn and returned to establish your innocence. I merely relate the possibility."
"I've a witness."
"Brad Arken. All he can swear to is that he met you close to the hotel that morning."
"We met the previous night."
"And parted." Vellani shook his head. "It would have been easy for you to have returned to the hotel after leaving him. The public rooms were still open and, in the crowd, you wouldn't have been noticed. Then to your room, the rendezvous with the victim, the argument, the act, the attempt to establish your absence. It's speculation, true, and I could argue it out of court, but there's more. The report made by the examining investigator, for example. The victim was lying supine on the bed. She was naked. Her hands and arms were upraised. Bruises were found on her cheeks as if she'd been slapped. The fingers of the right hand clutched a key which fitted the lock of your room."
"I didn't give it to her."
"Can you suggest how she got it?"
"Borrowed a spare from the desk. Had a copy made-your guess is as good as mine." Dumarest added, bitterly, "Does it matter? The key didn't kill her."
But it may have led to her death. Dumarest imagined the scene, Claire, in love, wanting to surprise him. Entering his room, stripping, bathing, lying on the bed waiting for him to join her. Not knowing he was absent from the hotel. Falling asleep, perhaps, to wake and meet her death.
Who would have wanted to kill her?
Why?
Vellani said, "The collar of your tunic was scarred as if by a metal instrument. It could have been the key."
"It could have been many things. Assumption isn't evidence."
"Medical testimony is. The bed was soaked with blood. It must have sprayed from the severed arteries of her throat and traces were found on the carpet and far walls. The medical conclusion is that such a violent and sudden release of blood would have given the murderer no chance to have escaped contact." Pausing, the advocate added, "Tests revealed flecks of blood on your clothing. They are of the same group as the victim's. More blood was found on your knife and, it too, belongs to the same group. As far as the prosecution is concerned that's all they need."