The Victim in Victoria Station by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page B

screen with all the listings. “That, I think, is Hindi. I’m pretty sure that’s Sanskrit, and somebody told me that’s Urdu—or maybe it’s that one.”
    My mind had begun to work at last. “The languages of the developing countries. Nigel, now I understand what Bill Monahan was telling me. This could be a very important tool for people in these countries! Even if they don’t read and write English well, they could get all kinds of information from English sources. And French, and Japanese, and—the mind boggles! This could open up the world for them!”
    â€œAnd there’s one last feature that really put this little gem over the top. Suppose you’re in business in, let’s say, Zaire. You intend to develop a source of—of something valuable, gold or uranium or zinc or diamonds or I don’t know what. You need information about, perhaps, world legislation with regard to mineral rights. But for obvious reasons you don’t want anyone to know what you’re looking for. Almost any other information source can be traced. Phones can be tapped, library records can be searched, paper leaves a trail.”
    â€œI thought the Internet was pretty easy to invade,” I objected. “I may not know much about how it works, but I’m sure I’ve read about privacy concerns.”
    â€œAnd you’re quite right. Except, not when you’re using the Multilinks search engine. It’s encrypted, with an absolutely unbreakable code. I had to use a code to get into it just now, and nobody—repeat, nobody—except me can ever find out that today I looked up Henry VIII.”
    â€œAnd nobody would ever know that the man in Zaire was checking on mineral rights. Or,” I said, my voice shaking a little, “on how to stage a coup, or build nuclear weapons.”
    â€œYes. Now do you begin to see why Bill Monahan was on his way to being Mr. Megabucks? And why you may have got yourself straight into the middle of a hornet’s nest?”

5
    I sat back, stunned. “There’s something I haven’t told you, Nigel,” I said finally. The words came out as a shaky whisper.
    I cleared my throat. “Someone tried to break into my house last night.”
    â€œWhat!”
    I nodded. “I thought—the police thought—it was just a burglar. He didn’t get in. We have deadbolt locks. Well, that’s what we call them in America, anyway—the kind that need a key from either side, so even when he broke the glass in the kitchen door—”
    Nigel groaned, his head in his hands. “Why didn’t you tell the police about your dead man?”
    I noted that Nigel, too, was beginning to assume my ownership of a corpse. “I didn’t know last night that there was anything peculiar about his death. I still don’t
know
it, if you want to pick nits. He might have died a perfectly natural death. The only suspicious circumstance is that the doctor person, whoever he was, didn’t report anything.”
    â€œHe did more than not report the death,” Nigel argued. “He must have spirited Monahan away somehow, or the body would have been found right away.”
    I was grimly amused. Nigel was now trying to convince
me
we were dealing with murder. “I wouldn’t have thought disposing of a body was a one-man job,” I said, playing devil’s advocate.
    â€œOh, no, he had to have help. Two people could drag a dead man through the station and pretend the poor chap was royally pissed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.” Nigel sounded as though he had some experience, and I supposed he did. Not with the dead, presumably, but with the dead drunk.
    â€œWell, but the real question is, why would someone want Bill Monahan dead? That’s what we’re going to have to find out.”
    And the argument began.
    â€œOh, no, you don’t!” Nigel climbed onto his high