Page 193 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Jury-rigged

She let my comment pass, a meaningless noise attributable to my
abnormal mood. “According to your notes, the next thing you did
was round up the Simulians, interrogate them and go over their
domiciles with every tool in our bag of tricks.”
“Right. One of the gang is coming back to enjoy the hospitality of
the state very soon. Their alibis cannot all be ironclad, not this time.
Take a look.”
Labelle was already keying in whatever she thought pertinent.
“These are fairly clear notes, Duncan. You’re improving. Pershing
had joined a local émigré group which meets monthly in one of their
homes to reminisce about the old days in the old country. He was at
one such gathering that Friday evening. At midnight, as is their
custom, they each deliver a denunciatory toast to the defunct Soviet
Union, taking their vodka neat and throwing the glasses into the
fireplace. After that little ritual, the spirits flow freely and informally.
Some of the participants stagger off to wives and families; others,
mainly the older, single males, drink themselves into a stupor from
which they do not awake until the following morning. Their host
allows them to lie wherever they fall. That implies the host retains a
minimal level of sobriety: is that correct?”
“Yes. In this case Mr. Igorsky, the owner of the house, was able to
confirm Pershing’s immobility during the early hours of May 3. In
fact, a rather portly gentleman had fallen asleep across Pershing’s left
leg, leaving a bruise we could identify as an imprint of the seam in his
own trousers. This specimen of Simulian manhood was pinned down
like an overdue bill under a paperweight. Even had he been able to
leave the premises he never could have climbed that ladder or let
himself silently into Beryl Creighton’s apartment. When we took him
into custody he still showed symptoms of a massive hangover.”
“Yet he could have faked his drunkenness, waiting until the other
guests were gone or unconscious, then disappeared for an hour or
two without being missed, could he not? And on his return
consumed a half-liter of vodka, placed himself under the same torpid
compatriot, and fallen asleep?
“The chances of that scenario being played out are almost nil,
Lieutenant. Too many things could have gone wrong for him even to
consider it.”

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