Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 by Devil's Planet (v1.1)

must have!”
                 “I
can only say again that I do not. My—my mind went blank.”
                 Stover
eyed him narrowly. “You mean, something stunned you?”
                 “Yes,
something like that.”
                 Stover
could not see any sign of a cut or bruise upon Buckalew. His hair was as sleek
as ever. Only his manner was weary and solemn. Again Stover made a deliberate
effort to banish suspicion. He volunteered the story of his recent adventures,
finishing with an account of how he had come home to find the robot servitor
stuck by magnetic power to the wall and Buckalew himself motionless in a
corner.
                 “I
don’t remember being in the corner,” said Buckalew when he had finished. “I
was—overcome in my dressing-room back there. As I remember, I regained
consciousness just in time to sense danger and warn you.”
                 “What
danger?” Stover demanded. “You knew there would be an explosion?”
                IF
he hoped to startle or trap Buckalew, he was disappointed. The other made
steady reply.
                 “All
that I knew was that I had been attacked in some way, and that you had come.
After that, the bomb or gun or whatever went off.”
                 They
inspected the room, setting up the furniture again and checking damage. Stover
ran for a chemical kit, testing the atmosphere that still had a slight murk.
                 “Old-fashioned
nitroglycerin, as in the other case,” he announced. “And here, on the floor—”
                 He
knelt in the corner where he remembered seeing Buckalew. There was a stain
there. As Girra had done in his presence only a few hours before, Stover made
tests. This, too, yielded a trace of synthetic rubber.
                 Meanwhile,
Buckalew was talking on the radio phone.
                 “No,”
he was saying, “nothing at all. A trifling accident, no
damage. Not worth your notice.” He switched off and turned toward
Stover. “A police call. Some neighbor gave an alarm.”
                 “Why
not call them in?” almost shouted Stover. “Do you want to hide anything from
them?”
                 “Yes.
Don’t you?” And Buckalew crossed the floor to him. “You want to expose the real
murderer by yourself—you told me that. I thought I was helping you.”
                 That
should settle suspicions, even if Stover lyingly told himself that he had none.
Buckalew continued: “Undoubtedly the attempt was aimed at you by the real
murderer. He will think you destroyed until he hears otherwise.”
                “But a report to the police, not
necessarily public—”
                 “Have
you the slightest doubt that the aforesaid murderer doesn’t know everything the
police know? For instance, was any public announcement made of your release
from the order of imprisonment?”
                 “No,
but we both heard noises that suggested someone listening in on our phone
wavelength,” reminded Stover, scowling. “That was the probable tipoff.”
                 “Why
would an enemy listen in unless he knew you were free and would call me here?
No, Dillon. The murderer has access to police records and secrets.”
                 Stover
nodded. Buckalew was right. “Then,” he announced, “I can limit the suspects to
people in pretty high places—the Upper-tower set. People like Malbrook,
himself, his partner Fielding, his fiancee Reynardine Phogor, or her
stepfather, the Venusian. Or even Amyas Crofts.”
                 “Or
me,” added Buckalew with the slightest of smiles.
                 Stover
jumped and stared. Buckalew’s smile broadened.
                 “Or
me,” he repeated. “I’m an old- timer in Pulambar. I have friends and a
position. I might be able