Architects of Emortality - Brian Stableford [73]
Charlotte noted that Czastka’s eyes had narrowed, but she couldn’t tell whether he was alarmed, suspicious, or merely impatient.
“I don’t remember anything about those days,” Czastka said stubbornly. “Nobody does. It was too long ago. I hardly knew Kwiatek. I never knew any of them, really—not even King. I’ve had some dealings with his companies, just as I’ve had some dealings with Rappaccini Inc., but I haven’t set eyes on King for fifty years, and I haven’t seen Rappaccini since the Great Exhibition. I’ve seen Urashima’s work and I heard about the wireheading scandals, but that’s all.
Leave me alone, Oscar, and tell the police to leave me alone too. You know perfectly well that I couldn’t kill anyone—and I don’t know anything about Rappaccini that you don’t already know.” “What about his daughter?” said Wilde quickly.
If he intended to catch the other man by surprise it didn’t work. Czastka’s stare was stony and speculative, with more than a hint of melancholy. “What daughter?” he said. “I never met a daughter. Not that I remember. It was all a long time ago. I can’t remember anything at all. Leave me alone, Oscar, please.” So saying, the old man cut the connection.
Charlotte could see that Oscar Wilde was both puzzled and disappointed by the other man’s reaction.
“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?” she said, unable to resist the temptation to take him down a peg. “Did you really think he’d rather talk to you than to us? He doesn’t even like you. You should have left him to Hal—you’ve upset him now, maybe so badly that he won’t even take Hal’s calls, and you didn’t learn anything at all.” “Perhaps not,” Oscar agreed. “I certainly didn’t expect him to freeze up like that. On the other hand…” He trailed off, evidently uncertain as to what kind of balancing factor he ought to add.
“Have you changed your mind about the possibility of Czastka having set up the Biasiolo/Rappaccini identity?” Charlotte asked Michael Lowenthal.
“I don’t know,” said Lowenthal guardedly. “But I do wish you hadn’t told him about my suspicions, Dr. Wilde, however absurd you may think them.” “I’m sorry,” Wilde said, still taken aback by the nature of Czastka’s response to his call. “But if he were our stylish murderer, why would he react so churlishly to my inquiries? Surely he’d have made better preparation than that.” “Would he?” Lowenthal parried.
Hal’s face reappeared on Charlotte’s screen. “I just got notification of your little conversation, Dr. Wilde,” he said. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? I tried to ring Czastka, and I got that bloody sloth again, telling me that he’s unavailable, even though I know he’s sitting right there at his antique desk!” “I couldn’t stop him!” Charlotte complained.
“It wasn’t Charlotte’s fault,” Wilde obligingly added—although she could see that the intervention didn’t improve Hal’s mood at all.
“Well,” Hal said, “you’d better pray that this won’t cost us time and effort.
You might care to know that the money trail is getting clearer by the minute.
Some of Rappaccini’s pseudonymous bank accounts have been used over the years to purchase massive quantities of materials that were delivered for collection to the island of Kauai—that’s in Hawaii.” “So the man behind Rappaccini must live on Kauai,” Charlotte deduced, trying to remember the context in which she had heard the place name mentioned not ten minutes before. She could tell from the way that Michael Lowenthal had reacted to the name that he remembered—and as soon as she had mentally reviewed that observation, she remembered too. It was too late to say anything; Hal was already speaking again.
“Not necessarily,” he was saying. “The supplies were collected by boat. There are fifty or sixty islets west and south of Kauai, some natural but most artificial. Over half of them are leased to Creationists for experiments in the construction of artificial ecosystems. Oscar Wilde’s private island