"He is, to use a technical term, a
first-class jerk. Really, fellas, there's absolutely no good reason
why--"
"Since you're familiar not only with Inspector Beckford, but with
British law in all its richness and complexity, Mr. Cardigan," said
the robot on the right, "you must be aware that if you dawdle and stall
much longer, we'll be compelled to stun you and transport you to the
Yard in a me divan
"Right, sure," said Jake. "Okay, I may as well go there conscious."
"Come along this way, sir." The one on the left got a firm grip on
Jake's arm. "We appreciate your spirit of cooperation, sir." The one on the right took hold of Jake's other arm. "Off we go to Scotland Yard."
Gomez was lying again.
He was doing it while guiding his rented land car through the crowded lower-level streets of Paris, glancing now and then at the vidscreen implanted in the dash.
An angry Natalie Dent was glaring at him on the screen. "But you weren't at your darn hotel or anywhere in the vicinity," she said accusingly. "It seems to me that when you make a date to meet someone for lunch, Gomez, you either ought to show up at the preordained spot or make other arrangements." "Chiquita, I left a message for you at the desk."
"There wasn't anybody at the desk except some nitwit robot chef who claimed he was filling in because the clerks were off taking a strike vote."
"Nat, had not a sudden important situation come up, we'd be lunching right this minute in some ritz bistro and exchanging important info."
"Where are you." the red-haired reporter asked pointedly.
"En route to the American Embassy," he assured her. "It's a routine check of my travel papers."
"That doesn't, if you'll pardon my mentioning it, sound like anything very serious to me, Gomez."
"Not to you, not to me, si, but to the embassy it is."
"It seems to me that a man with your gall could simply have told them you had a lunch date."
"It isn't Cosmos policy to ignore official requests like this." Gomez turned his car onto a quirky lane. "Ah, but I see the embassy looming up ahead, so I must bid you a reluctant adios."
"What I'm seeing--and granted I'm only getting a somewhat cockeyed view of what the phone cam is seeing over your droopy shoulder and out the dingy back window of that clunky vehicle you're joyriding around in,
but what I'm seeing looks an awful lot like the neighborhood down
along the Seine. Where your is present way over client on--" happens
to live. The embassy, on the other hand,
"Es ver dad admitted the detective as he drove into a parking area.
"But actually I'm meeting the ambassador himself down here. Don't know
why I said embassy, I meant I saw the ambassador looming up. It's his
custom, pobrecita, to take a stroll along the river after lunch."
"How can you handle paperwork while strolling along the river?"
"I asked him the very same question, Nat, and he replied, "You simply
have to trust your government, Mr. Gomez." I must rush off now."
"I'm not the sort of person who likes to issue dire warnings,"
said Natalie on the phone screen "But, Gomez, you darn well better get
together with me before the sun sets on another day and be prepared to
share some facts about the Bouchon killing with me. Otherwise my
seldom-seen vindictive side will work out some very unpleasant
consequences."
"We'll meet later in the day," he promised, unbuckling his safety
gear.
"Where? When?"
"Ah, those are excellent reporter questions, Nat. I'll phone and set
up a meeting," he said. "AdiOs. "He clicked off the phone,
dived out of the car.
Their client had contacted him a half hour earlier and told him it was
important that she see him at once. That was--well, it was one of the
reasons anyway--why Gomez had ditched Natalie Dent.
He went hurrying out of the parking area, slowing only to grab the chit
that came out of the slot in the chest of the mechanical attendant.
When he got to the gangway leading up to Madeleine Bouchon's houseboat,
there was no sign of the chrome-plated guard-hot. Not even his
wrought-iron chair was there. Poking his tongue into his cheek, Gomez
scanned the area along the river. A few plump pigeons were strutting
on the imitation cobble stones. An android was sitting under a tree playing the accordion.
Uneasy, but unable to pinpoint anything else out of the ordinary beyond the absence of the guard, Gomez started slowly up the gangway. Less than halfway to the deck he noticed a beret floating down in the water. It looked a lot like the one the robot had tipped to them on their last visit.
He took a few more steps toward the boat, then noticed the wrought-iron chair underwater down in the river, its legs sticking up.
From the conservatory on the houseboat came the sudden cry of a woman in pain.
There was nothing in Inspector Beckford's large off-white office
except the inspector, two off-white chairs, and Jake.
After dusting off the seat of his chair with a plyochief, the trim
blond Beckford seated himself. "My associates tell me you alluded to
me as a first-class jerk," he said.
"I didn't want to use stronger language in front of them," said Jake.
"I never like to see a robot blush. What exactly do you want?"
"They also stated that you referred to me as Becky."
"Not a term of endearment." Jake spun the chair around, sat straddling
it.
"I prefer not to be called Becky, Cardigan."
"Fine. Why am I here?"
"That's precisely what I'm most anxious to learn," Inspector Beckford