Johannes Cabal the Detective by Jonathan L. Howard Page B

disliked him instinctively, having identified him as a man still prey to his hormones while his intellect puttered around in the background like an embarrassed parent. He was dressed simply, but not cheaply, judging by the tailoring, and it seemed safe to assume that somewhere along the line he had decided to be a political activist without regard for his painfully apparent lack of competence, knowledge, or acuity. It seemed that nice hair and the eyes of a cherub had gained him attentions that he had construed as somehow inspired by his political thoughts. In this he was mistaken, an error of the sort commonly found among millionaires who believe that they are charismatic.
    Beyond Zoruk was Frau Roborovski, sitting apart from her husband presumably as part of the etiquette of “mixing.” He was to Cabal’s right, two places beyond Cacon, and apparently not enjoying his liberty to chat with strangers. This may well have been because of the proprietary glances she would occasionally shoot him if he showed any sign of coming out of his shell. Marriage, it seemed, was truly an institution; in this case, something along the lines of a prison or an asylum. Cabal avoided any eye contact with Frau Roborovski that might result in conversation and moved on.
    Captain Schten had managed to settle into a far more interesting conversation with the next man along—a gentleman in his sixties, whose taste in clothing was a trifle fusty but whose eyes and manner were bright. “It’s a fascinating vessel, Captain,” he said, a piece of fish falling unnoticed from his fork back to the plate. “A fascinating vessel. I’ve been out of the job for a while, but you always keep your interest.”
    “This isn’t your first trip aboard an aeroship, then?” said Schten, helping himself to more potatoes.
    “Oh, good heavens, no.” The man laughed in the indulgent manner of one about to make a revelation. “I used to design the things.”
    “Really? You astonish me, Herr DeGarre.”
    “Ah, please, Monsieur DeGarre, if you would. ‘Herr DeGarre’ sounds a little too much like ‘hurdy-gurdy.’”
    “Hurdy—?”
    “One of those ghastly boxes that the English imagine is a musical instrument. Yes, I retired from aeronaval architecture, cah, it must be seven years ago. You’ve heard of the Destrier class? That was one of mine.”
    “ Destrier ?” Schten looked uncertain. “But that was a warship, was it not, m’sieur?”
    “It was.” DeGarre took a sip of wine. “Three were built. The Bucephalus was sold off for scrap about five years ago, the Marengo is now the entire aerial navy for some little republic in the tropics, and the Destrier herself ploughed into a mountainside in bad weather.” A few people listening in on the conversation showed mild signs of discomfort; nobody likes to hear tales of aeroship disaster while travelling in one. “I told them not to use that type of altimeter, but you know military contractors—anything to save a few francs.” He shook his head and picked up the piece of fish again. This time there was no escape for it.
    “And all three were used in the Desolée Suppression, were they not, m’sieur?” said a clear voice, cutting across all other conversations. Heads turned to look at the interjector. It was Gabriel Zoruk, all dark-haired, clean-jawed, handsome, and probably riding for a fall. He looked, Cabal thought on further consideration, like the sort of man who does all the wrong things for all the right reasons.
    Cabal leaned back in his seat and, inclining his head towards her, asked Miss Barrow quietly, “What is the ‘Desolée Suppression’?”
    She looked at him, suspicious with disbelief. “You’re joking?”
    “Not at this exact moment, no.”
    “You’ve never heard of the Desolée Suppression?”
    Cabal bit his lip and sought patience. “If I knew, I’d hardly be asking, would I?”
    He received no useful reply. She was no longer listening to him but to the exchange