known criminals this way.”
“You can identify the woman, then?” Fortier asked eagerly.
“Certainly,” the Superintendent said. “I spoke with her just three months ago at a law
enforcement symposium on Corian. That’s Elsa Helmund, Commissioner of Police for the
planet Durward.”
Fortier did not have a ship of his own available, and had to settle for commercial
transportation. He booked passage on the next connecting flights to Durward, inwardly
fuming that it would take a full nine days to reach his destination. He could have made a
subetheric call ahead and had the investigation started by local officials, but Elsa
Helmund was so highly placed and the case against her was so tentative he didn’t dare
risk spooking her. The Commissioner of Police for an entire planet would be a major cog
in the conspiracy’s machinery, and she might lead to other important members. The more
people who knew what he was after, the more chance there’d be a leak.
For obvious reasons he did not contact the Durward police to let them know he’d be
coming. He did let the local SOTE office know, and they promised him the utmost
cooperation when he arrived. For now, he trusted no one but himself with the possibility
that Elsa Helmund was a traitor.
On reaching Durward he checked in with SOTE immediately. The local Service chief tried
to be helpful. She called for the files on Elsa Helmund, but was bluntly informed that
those files were classified, and only people with an F-17 security clearance or higher
would be allowed to see it. That excluded her.
Fortier, however, had a G-8 security rating. He inserted his identity card and comparison
disc, then put his eyes to the retina scope so the machine could verify him. His identity
was acknowledged but the machine still refused to yield the desired information. When
Fortier demanded an explanation, the computer indicated that such information had been
erased from the memory.
Furious, Fortier turned to the SOTE chief and asked if she had any personal knowledge
of Helmund’s background. “She’s been Police Commissioner here for about ten years,
and she seems to have done a good job,” the woman said. “I’ve met her briefly at a
couple of official functions. I do know she’s not native to Durward. She came specifically
for the post of Police Commissioner. The competition was open to outsiders-the Duke
wanted the best person he could find, and Elsa Helmund filled the bill. Her references
said she’d had a long, distinguished career with the police on her native world, Preis: she
also had letters of reference-I know I’ve got copies of those-from both the Grand Duke
of Sector Four and his Sector Marshal that were glowing with praise. She was far and
away the best qualified candidate, so she got the job. As far as I know, there’ve been no
complaints about her performance.”
“Can you get hold of her file from Preis for me?” Fortier asked.
“Why the sudden interest in Gospozha Helmund?”
In answer, Fortier showed her photos of Helmund with the necklace clearly visible. The
SOTE officer asked no further questions. “It may take a few hours to get what we need,”
she apologized.
“That’s smooth,” Fortier said grimly. “I’ll wait.”
The information from Preis, when it finally did arrive, was equally frustrating. There
simply was no information about anyone named Elsa Helmund-no record of her birth, no
record of her having worked for the police department there, no record of anyone
matching that description ever even existing on the planet.
“I think it’s time I had a talk with Gospozha Helmund,” Fortier mused, and the officer from
SOTE agreed.
Fortier called Helmund’s office, only to be told that the Commissioner had been away on
vacation for the past three weeks and was expected back tomorrow. Fortier decided to
make a surreptitious visit to Helmund’s home before the woman returned.
The apartment was quite normal. Elsa Helmund lived alone and had simple tastes. The
only thing at all out of the ordinary was a telecom unit and teletype connected to a
computer terminal in the wall-a link-up that had the potential to connect her with anyone
in the Galaxy. In a wastebasket beside the teleprinter was a burned scrap of paper that
Fortier took back to SOTE headquarters. “Can you do anything with this?” he asked
them.
The SOTE technicians were miracle workers. Though the scrap, to the naked eye, was
little more than a flimsy piece of charcoal, they were able to differentiate between the
plain paper and the chemicals that had gone into the ink printed on it. Some of the words
were completely burned away, but enough was there to make out the name Guitirrez, the
planet Lateesta, and something about a ticket. The note was signed with the single initial,
C.
The Police Commissioner did not show up in her office the next day as her aides
expected. Fortier guessed that someone or something must have tipped her off. Elsa
Helmund would not be returning to her office, ever. There was no point waiting around
here.
Fortier’s next port of call was Preis, the capital planet of Sector Four. It seemed odd to
him that someone could come to a strange place with such blatantly false credentials. It
also disturbed him greatly that the Grand Duke and the Sector Marshal for all of Sector
Four would have written such extravagant praise for someone who, according to official
records, did not exist. Fortier was determined to find out why, and whether those people,
too, were part of the conspiracy.
The Grand Duke for this sector, like many other Grand Dukes, spent much of his time
back on Earth at the center of Imperial administration. He was thus unavailable to be
interviewed. The Sector Marshal, a man named Herman Stanck, was scarcely less
difficult to get hold of. As the chief administrative officer of one of the most populous
sectors of the Empire, he was responsible for overseeing the harmonious government of
scores of planets as well as the relationship between Sector Four and all the other
sectors. Fortier had to use every bit of influence he had just to be granted a five-minute
interview with the Sector Marshal.
Stanck’s office was spacious and comfortable. The back wall was one large picture
window looking out over the capital city of Aachen; the other walls held series of shelves
filled with enough bookreels to put any library to shame. Stanck’s enormous solentawood
desk was crowded but orderly. There were several chairs and a couch grouped about
the desk.
Stanck seemed out of place in such a comfortable office, a brusque man with thinning
brown hair and a hawk nose. He greeted Fortier with a brisk handshake and guided him
to a chair. “Well, Captain, what can I do for you?” he asked as he sat down behind his
desk.
Fortier had to be discreet. He had no direct evidence against this man, and if he moved
too far too fast he could be in serious trouble. “I know your time is valuable, sir, so I’ll be
brief. What do you know of Elsa Helmund?”
“I don’t recall the name offhand.”
“In a letter of reference you gave her, you called her a close personal friend and the
most efficient police official you’d ever known.”
Stanck shook his head. “I have no memory of ever doing so.”
“You deny writing the letter, then?” “How long ago was this, Captain?”
“Ten years.”
Stanck leaned forward in his seat. “Do you have any idea, Captain, how many people I
meet and deal with every day, let alone over a ten-year period? I have to keep my mind
free of clutter; if I don’t deal with a name on a frequent basis I forget about it or store it
in my files. I may very well have written the letter you claim I did. I simply have no
recollection of it.”
Fortier handed him a copy of the letter. “Is that your signature?”
Stanck glanced at it, then handed the document back. “It looks like it. Either that or a
very good forgery.”
“If you had written this letter, would you have a copy in your files?”
“Most likely. I keep permanent records of everything I do.
“May I see those records, please?”
“No, you may not.” Stanck’s tone became even more brusque. “I am not in the habit of
letting strangers roam at will through my private files. Those records are kept for my
benefit alone. Some of them are highly confidential. They are not public records, and no
one but me has the right to examine them.”
“Gospodin Stanck, this is a matter of the highest Imperial security. . . . ”
“Then may I suggest you proceed through the proper channels? Unless, of course,”
Stanck’s eyebrows narrowed, “you’re accusing me of some impropriety, in which case
you’ll find I make a very formidable enemy.”
Fortier refused to be intimidated. “So do I, sir.”