The Gordon Mamon Casebook Read Free

held little appeal. He had to think through the interviews he’d just completed.
    Hostij had seemed genuine, but could conceivably have had a motive if Formey had not, as she had claimed, sought to accompany her to Barnard’s Star. But she hadn’t, by all accounts, had any time alone with Formey during the critical time window. She had alibis supported by O’Meara, by Taybill, and finally by the hotel’s concierge / receptionist / cleaner / counsellor / gardener / childcare operator Belle Hopp, who’d been answering Hostij’s query about laundry service after the baggage issue had been settled. O’Meara had had some time alone with Formey, but was also in possession of a postdated cheque from Formey which was sizeable enough to constitute, in Gordon’s mind, negative motive. And Taybill appeared not to have made contact with Formey at all, with his whereabouts confirmed by first Hostij and then (electronically) by the Chastity booking clerk. Gordon had only Taybill’s word on the last, though—he’d need to check that console for himself, to verify that.
    All of them seemed like honest, respectable types in their various fashions: Hostij the lovestruck hardened cop, O’Meara the sentimental but straightforward sumo wrestler, Taybill the overworked and earnest spaceline employee. None of them, when you looked at it, had a clear reason for wanting Formey dead. Of course, there could be some kind of conspiracy between them—O’Meara with either of the other guests, or Hostij with Taybill—but that didn’t go any way towards clarifying the motive, nor explaining how the deed was executed.
    And, to top it off, no weapon, no fingerprints, and still no cause of death (the autopsy scanner seemed stumped, and still pronounced merely ‘ dead ’. Maybe it was indicating it needed its batteries changed.) Perhaps, against all of Gordon’s better judgement, it really was a natural-causes case after all.
    Sometimes, he knew, the best way to set your mind on a problem was to give it a different problem. At least, it worked that way with puzzles and crosswords. He wasn’t sufficiently experienced to know if detection followed the same rules, but it sounded plausible. He pulled out his handheld and selected the ‘Riddle/Trivia’ function. He’d played this so often before that many of the items from its hundred-thousand-entry memory bank were familiar, but straight up he got a new one:
    Can a dead horse travel as fast as a live horse?
    Well, the answer seemed obvious—no—but he suspected there was a trick behind it. He couldn’t see, however, what the trick was. He paused the trivia program and selected a couple of crosswords, one easy and one a fairly challenging cryptic, to unwind a little further. Then, still none the wiser, he clicked for the answer to the riddle.
    No. Under British law, a motorised horse transporter can travel at 30 miles an hour through urban areas, but if the horse dies the vehicle becomes a carrier of horseflesh and must immediately slow to 20 m.p.h.
    Surprisingly, this sparked something. He thought, now, he could see a good and compelling motive …
     
    * * *
     
    He placed a call to the Chastity business counter at the Skytop Plaza. His call was answered by the receptionist / sales assistant / chaplain.
    “Chastity, Helena Handbaskett speaking. Can I help you?”
    Gordon gave his details. “I’m working on a murder investigation down here. I need to know the flight data and ticketing arrangments for four of your passengers.”
    “I’m sorry, we’re not supposed to release that information, it’s confidential.” She paused and leaned conspiratorially into the mouthpiece to whisper to him. “Look, according to your record you have thirteen thousand frequent flier points with us. If you’re prepared to cash those in, I can give you the information you need. Just don’t tell my supervisor.”
    “Who is your supervisor?”
    “For the moment, me.”
    “Uh, I’ll try not