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"We don't know whose bodies these are," Inspector Lopez said curtly at the doorway of the abandoned storage building. He looked through the open portal and registered his disgust with a small grunt. "They were only found maybe one-half hour ago. Would you care to look?"
"Perhaps," Guy Marlborough said, poking his head through the entryway to look at the floor of the storage room, where two bodies lay bloodied and mutilated. He quickly turned back, stifling a wretching sound and gulping down the crisp winter air. "Perhaps not. Why is there so much blood?"
"Multiple gunshot wounds," the Inspector replied, sullenly. He kicked a pebble with his foot. "Multiple stab wounds." From down the alleyway other people, onlookers, began to trickle, curious about the police presence. The other side of the alley had small, poor shops; this side was storage facilities and, on the other end, small warehouses. "Numerous bruises."
"They put up a fight," Marlborough mused, strangely appreciative of the victims' efforts.
"Their hands and feet were tied." The Inspector heaved an enormous spitwad into a dead bush at the building's entrance. Other police officers started walking out, their own jobs at the crime scene done, ready and willing to leave the remaining tasks to others. The sun was just beginning to allow the first shadows of afternoon into the alley, and a chilly wind clipped in rather suddenly. Marlborough shivered amidst this landscape and began to worry afresh about his case.
Who were these new victims and what had they done? The brutality of the crime made sense to Marlborough, but the location confused him. This was a squalid area, a storage building in an indistinct alley far from the important areas of Caracas. Only the sheer quantities of blood indicated to him that these deaths were related in any way to the others. Their heads were still attached, but it still seemed better to the detective that he assume a pattern existed, than assume that no pattern existed.
He was, though, very disappointed that the bodies were of unknown victims. Although he knew it was wrong to do so, Guy Marlborough began to find himself wishing the next body would belong to someone at an altogether higher station of life.
The slowly dying afternoon found President Cipriano Castro in his office, with no sign of his work letting up. Then of course there was the international pressure, the deep terrifying crisis in which his nation found itself. It was almost enough to make one wish for a quiet life in the countryside. He was beyond trudging through stacks of paper now, had moved on to the afternoon's work of writing letters and holding meetings, and now it was time to have a few private conversations with his ministers. The crisis had by now long passed the point where Castro could remember everything, keep track of all the German and British and French threats and the deaths within Caracas, which seemed to emanate from some combination of the foreign spy rings - a terrifying thought - and a shadowy interior enemy - an even worse possibility to behold. President Castro was now relying, it seemed, on the collective memory and efforts of his trusted advisors and staff.
The Foreign Minister stepped into his office five minutes late. His president paid the fact no heed.
"My dear foreign minister," Castro began, "it has come to my attention that a Mr. Wendell Paley has been captured by agents of British intelligence. This is a highly risky seizure for us, Minister, and I am sure you will understand if I outline it only very quickly. Mr. Paley was a German secret agent and spy, and his return to German soil has been authorized personally by me. If the Germans do not find him, as they expect, returning to his homeland, and soon, they will suspect foul play.
"So will I, Foreign Minister. It is now your first priority to rescue Mr. Paley from the clutches of the British intelligence and return him to Germany safely. If we do not do so, I fear the disappearance of Mr. Paley will provide a pretext for invasion. It is just the excuse they are looking for."
A question floated across the Foreign Minister's face, but he seemed to decide against it. "Yes, sir," he replied.
Outside the sunlight began to fade and the city lights flickered on, as the streets of Caracas dwindled into unnatural silence and ships of war from a hemisphere away floated ever closer to shore, almost visible through the mist of the bay.
"Perhaps," Guy Marlborough said, poking his head through the entryway to look at the floor of the storage room, where two bodies lay bloodied and mutilated. He quickly turned back, stifling a wretching sound and gulping down the crisp winter air. "Perhaps not. Why is there so much blood?"
"Multiple gunshot wounds," the Inspector replied, sullenly. He kicked a pebble with his foot. "Multiple stab wounds." From down the alleyway other people, onlookers, began to trickle, curious about the police presence. The other side of the alley had small, poor shops; this side was storage facilities and, on the other end, small warehouses. "Numerous bruises."
"They put up a fight," Marlborough mused, strangely appreciative of the victims' efforts.
"Their hands and feet were tied." The Inspector heaved an enormous spitwad into a dead bush at the building's entrance. Other police officers started walking out, their own jobs at the crime scene done, ready and willing to leave the remaining tasks to others. The sun was just beginning to allow the first shadows of afternoon into the alley, and a chilly wind clipped in rather suddenly. Marlborough shivered amidst this landscape and began to worry afresh about his case.
Who were these new victims and what had they done? The brutality of the crime made sense to Marlborough, but the location confused him. This was a squalid area, a storage building in an indistinct alley far from the important areas of Caracas. Only the sheer quantities of blood indicated to him that these deaths were related in any way to the others. Their heads were still attached, but it still seemed better to the detective that he assume a pattern existed, than assume that no pattern existed.
He was, though, very disappointed that the bodies were of unknown victims. Although he knew it was wrong to do so, Guy Marlborough began to find himself wishing the next body would belong to someone at an altogether higher station of life.
- - -
The slowly dying afternoon found President Cipriano Castro in his office, with no sign of his work letting up. Then of course there was the international pressure, the deep terrifying crisis in which his nation found itself. It was almost enough to make one wish for a quiet life in the countryside. He was beyond trudging through stacks of paper now, had moved on to the afternoon's work of writing letters and holding meetings, and now it was time to have a few private conversations with his ministers. The crisis had by now long passed the point where Castro could remember everything, keep track of all the German and British and French threats and the deaths within Caracas, which seemed to emanate from some combination of the foreign spy rings - a terrifying thought - and a shadowy interior enemy - an even worse possibility to behold. President Castro was now relying, it seemed, on the collective memory and efforts of his trusted advisors and staff.
The Foreign Minister stepped into his office five minutes late. His president paid the fact no heed.
"My dear foreign minister," Castro began, "it has come to my attention that a Mr. Wendell Paley has been captured by agents of British intelligence. This is a highly risky seizure for us, Minister, and I am sure you will understand if I outline it only very quickly. Mr. Paley was a German secret agent and spy, and his return to German soil has been authorized personally by me. If the Germans do not find him, as they expect, returning to his homeland, and soon, they will suspect foul play.
"So will I, Foreign Minister. It is now your first priority to rescue Mr. Paley from the clutches of the British intelligence and return him to Germany safely. If we do not do so, I fear the disappearance of Mr. Paley will provide a pretext for invasion. It is just the excuse they are looking for."
A question floated across the Foreign Minister's face, but he seemed to decide against it. "Yes, sir," he replied.
Outside the sunlight began to fade and the city lights flickered on, as the streets of Caracas dwindled into unnatural silence and ships of war from a hemisphere away floated ever closer to shore, almost visible through the mist of the bay.
Hmmm...unknown victims. That is disquieting. However, I am sure they are known to someone and the sooner Guy finds that out, the closer he'll be to the perpetrator.
Does President Castro (or his advisors) know the whole story? I suspect not or they would know the British will be reluctant to just hand over Paley and will not be in the mood to negotiate. While I'm sure the forces of the state could easily overpower a small consulate/embassy that would be very much a frying pan/fire situation.
The other alternative is that the President is just a pawn for the forces inside the government and so doesn't know the full value of Paley to both sides. Interesting moves indeed. Great update!
The other alternative is that the President is just a pawn for the forces inside the government and so doesn't know the full value of Paley to both sides. Interesting moves indeed. Great update!
Good to see the British intelligence network doing their job
The two bodies have thrown an interesting angle on this, unknown, and murdered in a different way..
The two bodies have thrown an interesting angle on this, unknown, and murdered in a different way..
This could break the case open. Once we obtain some clews about who these bodies once were, of course.
All this fuss over Mr Paley! I am beginning to think the chances of him surviving all this are getting remoter by the second.
Why use both a gun and a knife? One thing it tells us is that there are probably two murderers out there, maybe more. As I think one would use only a gun or a knife, not both at the same time. Furthermore the brutallity and fact that they were both killed in a different way (thus by different killers) sugests to me that these are very eager/sadistic murderers, someone who might easily lose his temper. As far as I know we haven't yet met anyone who easily loses his temper but then again appearances might be deceiving.
Warning: Gut feeling.
The recent murders are a red herring. No one connected to the case has died, someone is delaying our hero from solving the case. Who wants Guy bogged down in investigative work?
TheExecuter
The recent murders are a red herring. No one connected to the case has died, someone is delaying our hero from solving the case. Who wants Guy bogged down in investigative work?
TheExecuter
Thickening murders, sickening plot (or is it the other way around? ). Would the Americans voluntarily provide the Germans with a pretext, only to have the pleasure to beat down some pesky European power?
). Would the Americans voluntarily provide the Germans with a pretext, only to have the pleasure to beat down some pesky European power? HG I?TheExecuter said:
"The Foreign Minister himself?" Britain's ambassador gulped down the last of his brandy and a horrible acid taste rolled back from his throat into the front of his mouth; he coughed and swallowed again. "So suddenly?"
"He's in the lobby, sir." The young clerk who served both to organize and to guard the Ambassador's office rapped his fingers along the edge of the huge dark door he was leaning against. "With a small retinue."
The Ambassador looked at his watch; it was very late in the evening, a bizarre time for high bureaucracy to visit. "But I have an appointment with that detective in one half-hour. London said it was urgent; we had to call him from his hotel." He stood up rapidly and walked over to the clerk and his door. "Straighten up my things. Hide any papers which ought to be hidden. I will greet him out in the lobby personally and will then invite him back if necessary. Do you understand?" Evidently the young man did, because he stepped to the side and began to take in the mess of papers strewn across the Ambassador's capacious desk and several chairs.
The Ambassador walked down the hallway wondering what the Venezuelans could possibly want now. When they told him, he was taken aback quite severely.
"You want - a prisoner?"
"Yes, indeed. On express orders from the President himself." The Foreign Minister began to speak more and more quickly. "We can make all the arrangements for his release. A man by the name of - well I do not expect that you would know, since he was picked up by your counterintelligence men, or something like that. Wendell Paley."
The Ambassador flinched. "We cannot release Mr. Paley." His arms were rigid on each side of him.
"We must insist," the Foreign Minister replied, with mild irritation but a suspicion that he would not be getting his way.
"As must we."
The silence rapidly drew the attention of the other occupants of the room. The Minister, his entourage, and the Ambassador were still standing in the middle of the reception room, and confused older types with modest paperwork requests watched the spectacle with confused fascination. A sad, lonely bouquet of flowers sat in an outsized vase at one end of the room, only the only table present. From another room the sound of a violin could be heard. The spectators were surprised when a man behind the Minister tapped his shoulder and said, "We can still at least try to see him, then." A few rather hostile words later it seemed clear that the Foreign Minister would be allowed to visit Paley in his cell.
"And one additional man," the British consul announced with finality, eying the assembly of official staff behind the Venezuelan. He swiveled on his left foot and walked crisply out of the room, not bothering to glance at the the other visitors. A man in military uniform stepped forward to escort the Foreign Minister to Paley's holding cell somewhere in the basement, and the two were joined by the man in the Minister's entourage who had spoken up a moment earlier.
The walk down to Paley's cell passed in silence, until they reached the lowest floor of the building, at which point the Foreign Minister's chief of staff - for that was what he was - offered the other two men cigarettes. The Minister declined, but their guard accepted with gratitude and began to strike up a conversation.
"We'll be feeding him three times a day, of course. Or perhaps twice if we forget a serving. You know. It's been known to happen. I don't see what you want with a traitor like this. I don't know much about him except that he's being sent back to London to face up to some very serious gentlemen who would like to see him in a bad way. The feeling is mutual, I'm sure. Here he is." The guard wedged his cigarette between his lips and began to fiddle with his keys, somewhat unsuccessfully, until he could open the door. "You two men can fight for yourselves, I'm sure. Not to worry, I'll be back in only a moment. Nature calls, I'm sure." He waved them in and moved down the hall to the prisoners' toilet, the Foreign Minister and his chief of staff walking into the cell behind him.
He did not enjoy his relief, however, as it seemed that the moment he began his business a strange shout rattled in from down the hallway. Were they torturing the prisoner? They couldn't be. That was a matter to be left to the bosses in London. Next came a soft thumping sound, and a slow, high-pitched cry that began quietly but then rose into a powerful forte, piercing through the thin walls of the toilet. They must be out of their mind! What have they done to the double-crossing traitor? The guard finished his business early, braving a wave of the pain of stopping the unstoppable, and ran out past the decrepit sink into the hallway. As he neared the cell he drew his pistol out, primarily as a threat, at his side and pointing towards the ceiling. He moved into the doorway.
On the floor, in a growing spilling pooling flow of blood, lay the dignified body of the Foreign Minister, slashed open in two directions in the back under the shoulder blade. A long, curled knife lay on the ground beside him, swallowed up in the growing well of the minister's former life flowing out of him. Above the spectacle was Wendell Paley, hands unchained, spattered in red, mouth open and wailing, his whole body white and quivering. There was no other human presence in the room.
"I - I - it was them - I didn't - " Wendell Paley sputtered in desperation as the soldier's arm and pistol formed into an arrow making directly for his forehead, and as one fat finger curled into place on the trigger.
"He's in the lobby, sir." The young clerk who served both to organize and to guard the Ambassador's office rapped his fingers along the edge of the huge dark door he was leaning against. "With a small retinue."
The Ambassador looked at his watch; it was very late in the evening, a bizarre time for high bureaucracy to visit. "But I have an appointment with that detective in one half-hour. London said it was urgent; we had to call him from his hotel." He stood up rapidly and walked over to the clerk and his door. "Straighten up my things. Hide any papers which ought to be hidden. I will greet him out in the lobby personally and will then invite him back if necessary. Do you understand?" Evidently the young man did, because he stepped to the side and began to take in the mess of papers strewn across the Ambassador's capacious desk and several chairs.
The Ambassador walked down the hallway wondering what the Venezuelans could possibly want now. When they told him, he was taken aback quite severely.
"You want - a prisoner?"
"Yes, indeed. On express orders from the President himself." The Foreign Minister began to speak more and more quickly. "We can make all the arrangements for his release. A man by the name of - well I do not expect that you would know, since he was picked up by your counterintelligence men, or something like that. Wendell Paley."
The Ambassador flinched. "We cannot release Mr. Paley." His arms were rigid on each side of him.
"We must insist," the Foreign Minister replied, with mild irritation but a suspicion that he would not be getting his way.
"As must we."
The silence rapidly drew the attention of the other occupants of the room. The Minister, his entourage, and the Ambassador were still standing in the middle of the reception room, and confused older types with modest paperwork requests watched the spectacle with confused fascination. A sad, lonely bouquet of flowers sat in an outsized vase at one end of the room, only the only table present. From another room the sound of a violin could be heard. The spectators were surprised when a man behind the Minister tapped his shoulder and said, "We can still at least try to see him, then." A few rather hostile words later it seemed clear that the Foreign Minister would be allowed to visit Paley in his cell.
"And one additional man," the British consul announced with finality, eying the assembly of official staff behind the Venezuelan. He swiveled on his left foot and walked crisply out of the room, not bothering to glance at the the other visitors. A man in military uniform stepped forward to escort the Foreign Minister to Paley's holding cell somewhere in the basement, and the two were joined by the man in the Minister's entourage who had spoken up a moment earlier.
The walk down to Paley's cell passed in silence, until they reached the lowest floor of the building, at which point the Foreign Minister's chief of staff - for that was what he was - offered the other two men cigarettes. The Minister declined, but their guard accepted with gratitude and began to strike up a conversation.
"We'll be feeding him three times a day, of course. Or perhaps twice if we forget a serving. You know. It's been known to happen. I don't see what you want with a traitor like this. I don't know much about him except that he's being sent back to London to face up to some very serious gentlemen who would like to see him in a bad way. The feeling is mutual, I'm sure. Here he is." The guard wedged his cigarette between his lips and began to fiddle with his keys, somewhat unsuccessfully, until he could open the door. "You two men can fight for yourselves, I'm sure. Not to worry, I'll be back in only a moment. Nature calls, I'm sure." He waved them in and moved down the hall to the prisoners' toilet, the Foreign Minister and his chief of staff walking into the cell behind him.
He did not enjoy his relief, however, as it seemed that the moment he began his business a strange shout rattled in from down the hallway. Were they torturing the prisoner? They couldn't be. That was a matter to be left to the bosses in London. Next came a soft thumping sound, and a slow, high-pitched cry that began quietly but then rose into a powerful forte, piercing through the thin walls of the toilet. They must be out of their mind! What have they done to the double-crossing traitor? The guard finished his business early, braving a wave of the pain of stopping the unstoppable, and ran out past the decrepit sink into the hallway. As he neared the cell he drew his pistol out, primarily as a threat, at his side and pointing towards the ceiling. He moved into the doorway.
On the floor, in a growing spilling pooling flow of blood, lay the dignified body of the Foreign Minister, slashed open in two directions in the back under the shoulder blade. A long, curled knife lay on the ground beside him, swallowed up in the growing well of the minister's former life flowing out of him. Above the spectacle was Wendell Paley, hands unchained, spattered in red, mouth open and wailing, his whole body white and quivering. There was no other human presence in the room.
"I - I - it was them - I didn't - " Wendell Paley sputtered in desperation as the soldier's arm and pistol formed into an arrow making directly for his forehead, and as one fat finger curled into place on the trigger.
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Paley dead? That may put the British intelligence off foot, and most likely, Marlborough. And the foreign minister too? The body counts really mounting, I'd really like to see Marlborough's reaction to these incidents, though of course, what on earth happened to the chief of staff, his disappearance is odd indeed..
WOW that was intense to write! I feel really evil sitting here on my dorm bed ... tried to hide the computer screen from anyone's sight! The goal of that post was to get you starting to think "Okay, a transition to some important meeting," and then lighten you up with some mild jests and bathroom breaks, and then scare the hell out of you. Except I scared me instead.
This enables me to make a few comments on prior posts:
coz1 and others - Here's a known body for you!
And contrary to the speculation that the "unknown dead" will help shed light on the grander mystery, I think that this new death (or one of them anyways) really should help a lot of things fit into place. In fact one might say the Foreign Minister's death is (as fits his position) the most important death so far in terms of figuring out whodunit.
El Pip - those are very good questions and I hope others will consider them too. President Castro has not given the impression of being the most knowledgeable fellow. Did he send the Foreign Minister to his death? Or is somebody exploiting him? Is it possible he is simply a puppet - or perhaps a mastermind?
stnylan - at first I very much wanted to let Paley survive, but then I saw there was absolutely no way that could realistically happen. Poor fellow. In a way he might be considered sympathetic. Or maybe I'm just a softie...
bowl of soup - are you sure we haven't met anyone who loses his temper easily?
EDIT: Just saw your new reply, English Patriot. Wow, you're lightning fast! It is a pretty steep body count. How many is it, anyways? Let's see: Arraqui, Hoch, Almendarez, Baumgartner, two unknown people, Foreign Minister, Paley. Am I forgetting anyone?
This enables me to make a few comments on prior posts:
coz1 and others - Here's a known body for you!
And contrary to the speculation that the "unknown dead" will help shed light on the grander mystery, I think that this new death (or one of them anyways) really should help a lot of things fit into place. In fact one might say the Foreign Minister's death is (as fits his position) the most important death so far in terms of figuring out whodunit.
El Pip - those are very good questions and I hope others will consider them too. President Castro has not given the impression of being the most knowledgeable fellow. Did he send the Foreign Minister to his death? Or is somebody exploiting him? Is it possible he is simply a puppet - or perhaps a mastermind?
stnylan - at first I very much wanted to let Paley survive, but then I saw there was absolutely no way that could realistically happen.
Poor fellow. In a way he might be considered sympathetic. Or maybe I'm just a softie...bowl of soup - are you sure we haven't met anyone who loses his temper easily?
TheExecuter said:
Haha! You just made my day! That's really terrificNil-the-Frogg said:
EDIT: Just saw your new reply, English Patriot. Wow, you're lightning fast! It is a pretty steep body count. How many is it, anyways? Let's see: Arraqui, Hoch, Almendarez, Baumgartner, two unknown people, Foreign Minister, Paley. Am I forgetting anyone?
Interesting. There are two questions: Did Paley do it, and if he didn't, how did the real killer enter and exit? I am not of the opinion that Paley did it.
Ahh, the efficiency of killing two birds with one metaphorical stone.
I really did not expect the FM to be the one killed, though I thought Paley would die for sure. I don't think that Paley was the one wielding the knife either.. Moreover, I don't think we can't forget the chief of staff, who entered with the FM but is gone by the time the guard gets back. After all, he is the one who suggested seeing the prisoner..
I really did not expect the FM to be the one killed, though I thought Paley would die for sure. I don't think that Paley was the one wielding the knife either.. Moreover, I don't think we can't forget the chief of staff, who entered with the FM but is gone by the time the guard gets back. After all, he is the one who suggested seeing the prisoner..
As a polite reminder there is just one more day to vote in the AARland Choice Awards. If you have not voted already, please do so before it is too late! It matters not to me who you vote for as long as you show your support for AARland - and hopefully for the sadly underappreciated Vicky and CK fora - by casting a ballot!
Comments later ~ have a paper to write...
Comments later ~ have a paper to write...
Indeed, Paley seems a patsy here but, well...who knows. How DID the real killer escape if not Paley. Certainly takes care of him, however. And intense scene, Hajji.
"You've got to be kidding," Guy Marlborough said bitterly as he paced the British Ambassador's private office. "Do you know how bad a day I've had so far?"
"It is perhaps as bad as mine, Mister Marlborough," the diplomat responded icily. He was in no good mood either.
"Three murders, we don't even know who the first two are. But they don't matter. This is the Foreign Minister. The Foreign Minister of Venezuela, killed - it seems very clear to me - by his own Chief of Staff."
"You don't need to remind me of the facts."
"Sir, Ambassador, this murder - well, it brings us very close to a solution. Consider: the man who has been killing all these people, persistently, endlessly, has the power to coerce the Foreign Minister's chief of staff to commit this most foul, most desperate of acts."
"Can you know it was the chief of staff?"
"It seems abundantly clear, to be frank."
"And you are certain he was ordered to do so?"
"Of course he was. This is not a small operation. This is the biggest thing in the western hemisphere. Something almighty, a confrontation great and terrible, will break out within seven days." Marlborough was still pacing, faster and faster, floorboards creaking under him. "Only three groups of people had the power to do what was done this evening in your cellar. One is the British intelligence, acting through you. But to kill Wendell Paley - well, that would be patently idiotic, would it not? No, Paley was to stay alive and be returned to England. That was not in the plans."
"Paley had already told us some of the information we desired, I must interject, though you are correct that he was still to be sent to London."
Marlborough stopped pacing and spoke softly. "Purely out of curiosity, what did he tell you?"
"He told us that the Americans were responsible for the murders of two German nationals here, named Hoch and Baumgartner. He gave us the name of an American diplomat who was specifically responsible."
Marlborough began pacing again. "Now, the Germans - we know that, thank the Lord and King, we British are not responsible for this butchery - the Germans could have killed the Minister and Paley. But why? Paley worked at various times, if I understand, for England and Germany. Allies. You're on the same side. And now he's cooked up this ludicrous story about the Americans. Why try to drive so many wedges between so many foreign nations? I'll tell you what's happening here, Ambassador, and I don't care if you don't care, because you're going to hear me through." The detective stood behind the chair where he had been invited to sit long ago, and brought his fists down on the wooden back.
"None of this has anything to do with the foreign powers. It is an internal crackdown. Ambassador, the government of Venezuela feels even more threatened by the possibility of a bloody military coup than it is threatened by the Germans or the British or the French. President Cipriano Castro has to deal with both threats. He cracks under the pressure. He becomes paranoid, perhaps. He is, after all, a dictator. He sees a threat and crushes it. Jose Manuel Arraqui, all the rest of them, perhaps in league with the Germans, were preparing a takeover of the government. Castro had them killed. He had the Foreign Minister killed. But the Foreign Minister wasn't in charge of the conspiracy. Have you met the man?"
"Weak-kneed. A little stupid." The Ambassador was shuffling papers, keeping his eyes determinedly away from the ranting detective.
"Exactly. He couldn't possibly be the root of a coup attempt."
"My words also apply," the diplomat added dryly, "if you will be so kind to keep those words to yourself, to the President of Venezuela." Marlborough stopped, looking mildly shocked. "Mister Marlborough, your theories are all very enlightening, but I am afraid they are superseded by the reason I summoned you to my office tonight." He pulled his bright yellow reason out from the stack of papers, evidently having only just discovered it among the bizarre organization left by his secretary.
"I have a message from London. You are to be taken off the case immediately. Your new purpose is to find the three primary British intelligence officials in Caracas and evacuate them from the country. Then you must flee yourself, before it is too late and these tropical apes destroy themselves."
"It is perhaps as bad as mine, Mister Marlborough," the diplomat responded icily. He was in no good mood either.
"Three murders, we don't even know who the first two are. But they don't matter. This is the Foreign Minister. The Foreign Minister of Venezuela, killed - it seems very clear to me - by his own Chief of Staff."
"You don't need to remind me of the facts."
"Sir, Ambassador, this murder - well, it brings us very close to a solution. Consider: the man who has been killing all these people, persistently, endlessly, has the power to coerce the Foreign Minister's chief of staff to commit this most foul, most desperate of acts."
"Can you know it was the chief of staff?"
"It seems abundantly clear, to be frank."
"And you are certain he was ordered to do so?"
"Of course he was. This is not a small operation. This is the biggest thing in the western hemisphere. Something almighty, a confrontation great and terrible, will break out within seven days." Marlborough was still pacing, faster and faster, floorboards creaking under him. "Only three groups of people had the power to do what was done this evening in your cellar. One is the British intelligence, acting through you. But to kill Wendell Paley - well, that would be patently idiotic, would it not? No, Paley was to stay alive and be returned to England. That was not in the plans."
"Paley had already told us some of the information we desired, I must interject, though you are correct that he was still to be sent to London."
Marlborough stopped pacing and spoke softly. "Purely out of curiosity, what did he tell you?"
"He told us that the Americans were responsible for the murders of two German nationals here, named Hoch and Baumgartner. He gave us the name of an American diplomat who was specifically responsible."
Marlborough began pacing again. "Now, the Germans - we know that, thank the Lord and King, we British are not responsible for this butchery - the Germans could have killed the Minister and Paley. But why? Paley worked at various times, if I understand, for England and Germany. Allies. You're on the same side. And now he's cooked up this ludicrous story about the Americans. Why try to drive so many wedges between so many foreign nations? I'll tell you what's happening here, Ambassador, and I don't care if you don't care, because you're going to hear me through." The detective stood behind the chair where he had been invited to sit long ago, and brought his fists down on the wooden back.
"None of this has anything to do with the foreign powers. It is an internal crackdown. Ambassador, the government of Venezuela feels even more threatened by the possibility of a bloody military coup than it is threatened by the Germans or the British or the French. President Cipriano Castro has to deal with both threats. He cracks under the pressure. He becomes paranoid, perhaps. He is, after all, a dictator. He sees a threat and crushes it. Jose Manuel Arraqui, all the rest of them, perhaps in league with the Germans, were preparing a takeover of the government. Castro had them killed. He had the Foreign Minister killed. But the Foreign Minister wasn't in charge of the conspiracy. Have you met the man?"
"Weak-kneed. A little stupid." The Ambassador was shuffling papers, keeping his eyes determinedly away from the ranting detective.
"Exactly. He couldn't possibly be the root of a coup attempt."
"My words also apply," the diplomat added dryly, "if you will be so kind to keep those words to yourself, to the President of Venezuela." Marlborough stopped, looking mildly shocked. "Mister Marlborough, your theories are all very enlightening, but I am afraid they are superseded by the reason I summoned you to my office tonight." He pulled his bright yellow reason out from the stack of papers, evidently having only just discovered it among the bizarre organization left by his secretary.
"I have a message from London. You are to be taken off the case immediately. Your new purpose is to find the three primary British intelligence officials in Caracas and evacuate them from the country. Then you must flee yourself, before it is too late and these tropical apes destroy themselves."
Brief note to readers: We now advance to December 11, 1902. December 18 marks the beginning of the "alternate history" portion of the AAR ...
Triv - you're right about killing two birds with one stone. Almost makes you wonder about the first half of this post...
Triv - you're right about killing two birds with one stone. Almost makes you wonder about the first half of this post...