Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [11]
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” said Charlotte. “Can you get all that stuff down to the van and away without being seen?” “As long as the supervisor’s following instructions. Be seeing you.” Chai turned away to join her companions, who were waiting in the elevator car that had brought Lowenthal up to the thirty-ninth floor. There was just about room for her to squeeze in along with all the equipment and the plastic bags. Charlotte watched the door slide shut behind them, and stabbed the button that would summon the second car from the lobby. The display screen informed her that it had not begun to move.
Cursing under her breath, Charlotte punched out Rex Carnevon’s number on her beltphone, which was still plugged into the wall socket.
“You can liberate the second elevator car now,” she told him. “I’m ready to come down.” “I know,” the horrid little man replied smugly, “but I thought I’d better hold it. I was just on the point of calling you. There’s a man here who says that he’s got an appointment with Gabriel King. He’s anxious to get up there because he’s a little late—his cab got held up by a funeral procession, or so he says. I thought you might want me to bring him up—unless you’d rather talk to him in my office.” Charlotte was uncomfortably aware of Michael Lowenthal’s bright blue eyes. She dared not meet his inquisitive stare.
“What’s this man’s name?” she asked.
The smug expression on Rex Carnevon’s face deepened as he relished his petty supremacy. He gave himself the luxury of a three-second pause before he decided that he had drunk his fill of satisfaction and said: “Oscar Wilde.” Charlotte, although slightly stunned by the news, thought fast. Evidently the cab in which the self-styled Young Master had been traveling, unwilling to be disturbed even by the UN police, had been heading for Trebizond Tower—and the Young Master himself had been heading for Gabriel King’s apartment, to see the murdered man. Given that the girl who had probably carried out the murder had been carrying a bunch of Oscar Wilde flowers, and given that the murder weapon was also a flower, that put Oscar Wilde at the dead center of the puzzle.
Charlotte was very enthusiastic to talk to him—but the last thing she wanted to do was allow Rex Carnevon to eavesdrop on her conversation. It would be bad enough having Lowenthal looking on, even though she’d have had to hand over a tape in any case.
“Send him up,” said Charlotte tersely as soon as she had recovered her composure. “Alone.” This, she thought, was a golden opportunity to do some real detective work: to question a witness; to get to grips with a mystery; to play a significant part in cracking a case. Hal was a top-class fisherman—his average time for completing an investigation was two hours, seventeen minutes, and fourteen seconds—but he never had suspects turn up on his doorstep ready for questioning.
This case had already lasted longer than Hal’s average cracking time, and it seemed highly likely to set a new record. It would be a very good case in which to get more deeply involved, and Wilde’s unexpected arrival at the crime scene had to be reckoned a godsend to a humble site supervisor.
While the elevator car made its stately ascent, Charlotte tried hard to collect herself and focus her mind. Please let him be guilty! she prayed. If not of the murder, of something—something far more serious than programming his silver to block official phone calls. Beneath the silent prayer, however, was an uncomfortable feeling that she might be out of her depth. She was only what Lowenthal had