“And I’m in one hell of a mess,” Powell sighed and shrugged. “Well, let’s start the investigation.”

They turned and walked toward the study. Across the hall, Beck scrambled into police code and asked:

“Linc, why’d you let Reich make a monkey out of you?”

“Did he?”

“Sure he did. That shark can stiff you any time.”

“Well you better get your knife ready, Jax. This shark is ripe for Demolition.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear the slip when he was busy stiffing me? Reich didn’t know there was a daughter. Nobody did. He didn’t see her. Nobody did. He could infer that the murder made her run out of the house. Anybody could. But how did he know she was naked?”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then, as Powell went through the north arch into the study, a broadcast of fervent admiration followed him: “I bow, Linc. I bow to the Master.”

The “study” of Beaumont House was constructed on the lines of a Turkish Bath. The floor was a mosaic of jacinth, spinel and sunstone. The walls, cross-hatched with gold wire cloisons were glittering with inset synthetic stones… ruby, emerald, garnet, chrysolite, amethyst, topaz… all containing various portraits of the owner. There were scatter rugs of velvet, and scores of chairs and lounges.

Powell entered the room and walked directly to the center, leaving Reich, Tate, and ¼maine behind him. The buzz of conversation stopped, and Maria Beaumont struggled to her feet. Powell motioned her to remain seated. He looked around him, accurately gauging the mass psyche of the assembled sybarites, and measuring the tactics he would have to use. At length he began.

“The law,” he remarked, “makes the silliest damned fuss about death. People die by the thousands every day; but simply because someone has had the energy and enterprise to assist old D’Courtney to his demise, the law insists upon turning him into an enemy of the people. I think it’s idiotic, but please don’t quote me.”

He paused and lit a cigarette. “You all know, of course, that I’m a peeper. Probably this fact has alarmed some of you. You imagine that I’m standing here like some mind-peeping monster, probing your mental plumbing. Well… Jo ¼maine wouldn’t let me if I could. And frankly, if I could, I wouldn’t be standing here. I’d be standing on the throne of the universe practically indistinguishable from God. I notice that none of you have commented on that resemblance so far…”

There was a ripple of laughter. Powell smiled disarmingly and continued: “No, mass mind-reading is a trick no peeper can perform. It’s difficult enough to probe a single individual. It’s impossible when dozens of TP patterns are confusing the picture. And when a group of unique, highly individual people like yourselves is gathered, we find ourselves completely at your mercy.”

“And he said I had charm,” Reich muttered.

“Tonight,” Powell went on, “you were playing a game called ‘Sardine.’ I wish I had been invited, Madame. You must remember me next time…”