But just his face. As the picture progressed, Ti discovered his error: he had been so anxious to get good shots of Margie’s face that he had missed most of the other action. He had trained the cameras on the heads of the invaders, missing nearly everything else that they did. There was no sound, either. The threatening face of Klaus Margle leaning into the camera at the end lacked force when his words were nonexistent.
The film stuttered, slipped, and was gone.
“It’s not much,” Modigliani said.
Ti started to protest.
The detective interrupted. “It’s not really much. Faces. You could have filmed Klaus Margie almost anywhere.”
“But the tear gas—”
“And I didn’t see him killing anyone. It still looks to me like we should chiefly be concerned with an invasion-of-privacy charge against you, sir, not with some charge against Mr. Margle.”
Ti must have seen the futility of argument, but he wouldn’t allow himself to give in that easily. He argued, pleaded, lost his temper and called names. All names, of course, being sucked up by the detective’s personal recorder for future use. In the end, he could only suggest calling Taguster’s home. Either the receivers would all be broken, or they would meet Klaus Margle and his henchmen.
“Or,” Modigliani pointed out, “there may be no answer, which isn’t enough to warrant an investigation either.”
But there was an answer. Taguster’s face popped onto the corn-screen, smiling. “Yes?”
Modigliani turned and gave Ti an I-told-you-so look.
“The android,” Ti hissed.
Modigliani identified himself to Taguster’s simulacrum. “We’ve had a report,” he said, “that you’ve been murdered.”
Taguster laughed. It was very hard to believe he was an android. “As you can see—” he didn’t bother to finish.
“Would you mind,” Modigliani asked, “if I moved into Mindlink and inspected your rooms at close range?”
“Go ahead,” Taguster’s android said confidently.
“Thank you,” Modigliani flipped off the corn-screen and returned to the living room and the Mindlink set there. He popped into Mindlink beam and entered the living room receiver at Taguster’s. He flipped to the bedrooms, game-rooms, library, theater, and finally the kitchen. He thanked Taguster for the permission to investigate and expressed his apologies at the intrusion. He returned to Ti’s set and removed the helmet that didn’t quite properly fit his head. “Nothing,” he said.
“The kitchen receiver—”
“Was in fine working order. I don’t know what you were trying to prove, sir, but—”
“They could have used a mob expert to restore the receiver.”
“And Taguster?”
“That was his android!”
“Androids, you must know, don’t generally do anything that is detrimental to their owners. If the real Leonard Taguster were murdered, his android would not willingly assist the murderers.”
“They could have tinkered with him.”
“That takes a real expert.”
“You know as well as I that Klaus Margle can afford such experts and keeps them on hand!”
Modigliani’s seeming stupidity was beginning to annoy Timothy to the point where he wasn’t able to suppress his rage. His twisted face flushed, and he could not make his servos stay still. ‘They flitted back and forth like frightened animals looking for a place to hide. But then Modigliani gave away the name of his game: “Sir,” he said, “I must caution you to refrain from slander. Mr. Klaus Margle, the Klaus Margle to which you refer, is nothing more than the owner of a large number of restaurants and garages. He is a respectable businessman, and he should not be open to such slanderous comment—”
“Detective Modigliani,” Ti said, his voice level, but threatening to escalate into hilarity, “you know damned well—”
“This is being recorded. I must inform you of that.” He parted the halves of his round-necked coat to reveal the chest-strapped mini-recorder.
Ti stopped. It was obvious now why he had had such a hard time with Modigliani. The man was bought. When he had learned the accused was Klaus Margle, he had seen where his duty lay—and it wasn’t with the Truth. He wasn’t interested in investigating the crime. He was only concerned with making a case against Ti as an unreliable witness. He was doing a good job. And Ti realized his own rage would be interpreted as inane prattling if he didn’t manage to control himself. “Perhaps you had better go,” he said, clamping imaginary hands on his boiling fury.