The Dark Lady Read online

  “It seems very convenient,” I said disapprovingly.

  “To say nothing of illogical,” he added. “Consider the folly of arresting the typical disadvantaged underworld character for stealing a precious gem or a rare painting. I mean, he's barely able to pay for a clean shirt; how could he possibly be the man they're after? Whereas I require upward of half a million credits a month just to meet my basic expenses, and I have no visible means of support. If the police just looked at things logically, they'd round up every member of the idle rich and keep them all imprisoned without bail until the culprit confessed.”

  “It is a very interesting point of view,” I admitted.

  “And not without a basis in fact,” he continued. “I never worry about being robbed when I go out among the unwashed masses, whereas I always go armed to the teeth when traveling among my peers.” He turned to me. “Remember, Leonardo: The moment a man tells you that he has no need for money, grab your wallet and run.”

  “And what should I do if he tells me that he is a thief?”

  “We're all thieves,” he said with a smile. “I just happen to be an honest one.”

  “Is that not a contradiction in terms?” I asked.

  “Of course. Whoever said that a man can't be contradictory?” He looked out the window. “Ah! Here we are.”

  I reached for the door handle, but he gently grabbed my hand.

  “Not just yet,” he said. Then he activated an intercom switch. “Twice around the block, James.” He turned back to me. “If you don't mind, we'll take an extra minute or two to make sure we're not being followed and that the entrance to my building isn't under surveillance.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then I'll disguise myself as a neighbor and take the painting out right under their noses.”

  “What if the real neighbor should make an appearance?” I asked.

  “You're looking at him,” said Heath with a smile.

  “I do not understand.”

  “I keep two apartments in the building. The one in the basement is rented in my own name, but the one on the sixth floor is leased by an elderly gentleman with a white beard and a very noticeable limp. He rarely emerges from his apartment, just often enough so that the neighbors can identify him.”

  “Am I to understand that you maintain two identities in Oceana?”

  “Three, actually,” he said. “It's a bother, but you never know when they'll come in handy.” He spoke into the intercom again. “That will do, James. Park about a block away after you let us out, and keep a watchful eye out for us.”

  The vehicle came to a stop, and we emerged into the warm, dry night air.

  “This way,” he said, leading me to the front door of a large steel and glass apartment complex.

  We entered a small foyer and waited for the security system to identify Heath.

  “Good evening, Mr. Heath,” said a metallic voice.

  “Good evening,” replied Heath.

  “You have a companion,” said the voice. “Please identify him.”

  “This is Leonardo, of the race of Bjornn, a business associate from Far London. He will be my guest for the next few hours.”

  “Registered,” said the voice.

  Suddenly a section of the wall slid back and Heath walked through, gesturing me to follow him. We followed a well-lighted corridor to a nearby elevator, and a moment later had descended to the basement level.

  “Here we are,” he said, walking to a door and standing before it while his voiceprint and retinagram were cleared. Then it slid silently into the wall, and we entered his darkened apartment.

  “Lights,” he commanded.

  Instantly the various lamps and light fixtures came to life, and I found myself in an elegantly furnished room that was equipped with a plethora of entertainment devices ranging from a full-sized holographic video to a number of highly complex games of skill, all keyed to a single computer. A recording of a string quartet serenaded us in decaphonic sound, while hypnotic ripples of light formed intricate pastel patterns on the walls and ceilings. A display case along one wall held some twenty sculptures and artifacts from around the galaxy, most of them quite small and delicate, each of them stunningly executed. A chrome tabletop floated two feet above the ground in front of a fur-covered couch, and on it were three leather-bound books from Earth.

  “Can I get you a drink?” asked Heath.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “You are the driest creature I've ever met,” he noted. “Are you getting hungry? I've got an exceptionally well-equipped kitchen, though I must confess that I've never cooked a meal in my life. You'll have to fix it yourself.”

  “Perhaps later,” I said. “I would like to see the Mallachi painting now.”

  “If you wish,” he said, walking into another room. He returned a moment later with a large canvas, which he propped up on the couch. It matched the hologram Tai Chong had given me.

  “Dreadful, isn't it?” he commented as we both looked at it.

  “He is not very skilled,” I admitted.

  “I wouldn't have had the gall to offer it to Tai Chong,” continued Heath, “except that the woman is so beautiful that she almost overcomes the inadequacies of the artist.” He continued to stare at the painting for a moment. “She really is quite striking, isn't she?”

  “Yes, she is,” I agreed. “Do you know if Mallachi has painted any other portraits of her?”

  “I doubt it,” answered Heath. “In fact, to the best of my knowledge this is his first painting.”

  “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “Not very much,” replied Heath. “He spends most of his time on the Inner Frontier, though he makes his home on Quantos IX. He never talks about his profession, but from bits and pieces I've managed to pick up, I believe him to be a bounty hunter, and a highly successful one at that.”

  “If he is a wealthy man, and he does not paint for a living, why did he give you the portrait to sell?” I asked.

  “I gather that she left him a few months ago.”

  “And he is so heartbroken that he wants no reminders of her in his home?”

  “Or so furious.”

  I studied the sad face in the painting. “Did he say why she left him, or where she might have gone?”

  Heath shook his head. “I hardly know the man, Leonardo.” He looked at the painting again. “Do you really think Abercrombie will want this thing?” he asked dubiously.

  “He will want it.”

  “The man has no taste at all.”

  “He collects portraits of her,” I said.

  “He must be a completist.”

  “He would like to be.”

  “How hard can it be?” asked Heath. “After all, she can't be thirty-five years old. How many people can have painted her?”

  “More than you might suppose,” I replied. “Men have been painting and sculpting her for eight thousand years.”

  “She must have a commonplace face.”

  “Have you ever seen it before?” I asked.

  He stared at her portrait once more, then shook his head. “Never,” he admitted.

  “Did Mallachi ever speak of her?”

  “You make it sound like we're old friends,” complained Heath. “In point of fact, I've met the man twice. The only thing he told me was that he met her out on the Frontier somewhere.”

  “How long were they together?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I think I would like to speak to Mallachi,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To find out if she really exists.”

  “I already told you: She was his mistress.”

  “But you never saw her.”

  “That's right.”

  “Do you know anyone who did?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then he might have been lying.”

  “What reason would he have had to lie?” asked Heath.

  “It is my
observation that Men frequently lie without a reason,” I said.

  “True,” agreed Heath amiably. “But why do you care if she exists or not?”

  “Her portrait has appeared throughout human history, frequently as a myth-figure. If she does not exist, if by his statement Mallachi meant that because of his profession he embraces the Goddess of War or Death, then he must have had some source or inspiration for her portrait— and if I can find it, I will attempt to purchase it for Malcolm Abercrombie.”

  “And he'll buy it sight unseen?” asked Heath.

  “Yes.”

  “He's really that obsessed with her?”

  “Yes.”

  A predatory look crossed Heath's face. “I have a feeling that there's a handsome profit to be made out of all this.”

  “You are making one,” I pointed out.

  He offered me another of his disarming smiles. “Yes, of course I am.”

  “Where is Sergio Mallachi now?” I asked.

  “Hopefully he's on Quantos IX,” said Heath. “Let me make a quick vidphone call to a mutual friend and I'll make sure.”

  He left the room, and I spent the next few minutes thumbing through the three leather-bound books on the floating table. Two of them were different editions of the Bible, and the third was a translation of the works of Tanblixt, the great Canphorian poet. I was perusing the latter when Heath reentered the room.

  “We're out of luck,” he announced. “Mallachi's on some Inner Frontier world named Acheron.”

  “I am not acquainted with it.”

  “Neither am I, but allow me to hazard the guess that it's one of the nastier planets out there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Acheron is another name for Hell.”

  “Can you find out its coordinates?”

  “I'm not sure it's worth the effort,” said Heath.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Mallachi was due to return to Charlemagne two weeks ago.” He paused. “Given his profession, that could mean he's dead.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Your color is darkening,” noted Heath.

  “It reflects my disappointment.”

  “Don't give up yet,” said Heath. “I'll contact my friend every day. There's always a chance he'll show up before you return to Far London.” His gaze fell on the book I was holding. “Are you interested in poetry?” he asked.

  “I am interested in books,” I replied.

  “Lovely things,” he agreed. “Terribly anachronistic, though. I could probably keep the entire library of Oceana in a bubble module half the size of that book you've got in your hands.”

  “Doubtless,” I agreed.

  “Still, they're nice to have around— if one can afford them.”

  “I was surprised to find that you possess two copies of the Bible,” I remarked.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “With no offense intended,” I said, structuring my observation in the Dialect of Diplomacy, “you seem an unlikely student of your race's codified moral precepts.”

  He uttered an amused laugh. “I don't read them. I just collect them.”

  “That answers my question,” I said.

  “You're really quite good at this, Leonardo,” he said admiringly.

  “At what?”

  “At slipping the verbal knife between my ribs in your quiet, self-effacing way.”

  “I assure you that— ”

  “Spare me your assurances,” he interrupted. “I'll let you know when I'm offended.”

  I could think of no reply, and so chose to remain silent.

  “Tell me more about the Dark Lady,” he said at last. “Has she got a name?”

  “I have no idea,” I replied. “I would have thought you knew.”

  He shook his head. “Mallachi only referred to her the one time, and all he said was that she was his mistress.” He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder how she got in all those paintings of Abercrombie's?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “My original premise was that she represented a mythic war figure, but that theory has been disproved.”

  Heath grimaced. “Here we are speaking of her as if she never existed, and yet I know for a fact that she was alive less than a year ago.”

  “That is untrue,” I said. “You have never seen her. You know only that Mallachi claims she was his mistress.”

  “Why would he lie to me?” demanded Heath. “I had no interest in her.”

  “Why would she appear in more than thirty works of art dating back almost eight millennia if Mallachi were telling the truth?” I replied.

  “How should I know?” he said irritably. “Coincidence?”

  “Do you truly believe in such a coincidence?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I do believe that there's a logical explanation, even though we haven't come up with it. Maybe— ”

  At that instant he was interrupted by a high-pitched beeping sound.

  “What was that?” I asked, startled.

  Heath was already on his feet. “That was James, signaling me that we're no longer alone.”

  “The police?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I fear we're going to have to make a rather abrupt exit.”

  “But why?” I asked. “If, as you say, you came by the Mallachi painting legitimately, you have nothing to hide.”

  He looked amused. “In this room alone I can see three books and more than a dozen alien sculptures that are in need of hiding— and you haven't seen what I've got in the bedroom.” He paused, staring unhappily at his art objects. “I don't suppose I've got time to pack them and take them along, more's the pity.” Suddenly he walked decisively toward the door. “All right,” he said. “Let's go.”

  “Why do you not simply disguise yourself as your other identity?” I asked.

  “Because my makeup's in the sixth-floor apartment,” he said. “Do hurry up, Leonardo.”

  “I have nothing to fear from the police,” I replied.

  “You want to meet Mallachi, don't you?”

  “As you say, he may be dead by now.”

  “He may also be alive.”

  “Then I shall find him in my own good time,” I said. “The police are my friends, not my enemies.”

  “Don't bet on it,” said Heath. “You might find it difficult to explain how an alien came to be alone in an apartment with all these stolen goods.” He grinned. “They might even think you were the thief.” He must have seen my horrified reaction, because he continued, even more persuasively: “At the very least, they'll think you're involved in all this, and unfortunately the building's security system will confirm that I described you as a business associate and that you didn't disagree.”

  “No Bjornn has ever been arrested! I will disgrace the House of Crsthionn!”

  “Then stop wringing your hands and come with me,” said Heath.

  “But even if we escape, they will still know I was here.”

  “So what?” he said. “Tai Chong ordered you to inspect the painting. She'll explain everything to the police.”

  “The painting!” I exclaimed. “We cannot leave without it. That is my purpose for being on Charlemagne!”

  “All right,” he said calmly. “Pick it up. We've still got a minute or two before the police get through the security system and figure out which elevator to take.”

  I raced to the painting and carried it back to the door.

  “Now follow me,” he ordered.

  He stepped out into the corridor and walked rapidly to a service lift. I had to adopt a shuffling run to keep up with him, but twenty seconds later we had ascended past the main floor.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “My other apartment,” he explained. “It would be just a bit awkward to try to take the painting out past the police, so we'll store it there for the time being.”

  “And then what will we do?”

  “You worry too much, Leonardo.”

  We got off at
the sixth floor, walked down a corridor, and stopped before a door. Heath stared intently at it for an instant, then walked right past it to the stairwell.

  “What is the matter?” I whispered.

  “The police are in the apartment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Whenever I leave the apartment, I always put a little piece of dark tape, no more than an inch or so, where the door meets the wall. It pulls loose if anyone opens the door.”

  “Could it have been removed by a maintenance worker?” I asked.

  “Do you want to take the chance?” he responded.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Neither do I.”

  “What now, Friend Valentine?” I said, falling into the Dialect of Affinity more from terror than any valid reason.

  “Well,” he said, “while I've always admired video heroes who bound catlike across the rooftops of a city, I very much doubt my ability to emulate them, so I suppose we'll have to depend on intelligence rather than agility.” He paused, lost in thought. “There's a helioport on the roof, but that's much too obvious. And they've doubtless got men stationed at the rear entrance.”

  “Please hurry!” I said urgently.

  “We're in no immediate danger,” he replied. “They'll simply assume that I'm out on the town, and will keep a watchful eye on the building's entrance.”

  “The security system will tell them you are here!” I said.

  “So it will,” he said, surprised. “I had quite forgotten that.” He turned to me, an amused expression on his face. “You know, you have the makings of a truly exceptional fugitive, Leonardo.”

  "Please!" I said.

  “Well, we can't go up and we can't go down. I suppose the audacious approach is the best. Follow me.”

  We climbed down a flight of stairs and emerged on the fifth floor.

  “What do we do next?” I asked nervously.

  “We very calmly walk out through the front door,” he answered.

  “Surely you are not serious!”

  “I most certainly am.”

  “But they know I am a Bjornn!” I protested. “They will be looking for me!”

  He smiled. “But they don't know what a Bjornn looks like. If they've ever seen one before, which I for one doubt, they probably think that you're green and black with a circular pattern. Believe me, to them you'll just be another alien.”