Laugh Clone Laugh

The Great Mulroney couldn't make me4 crack a smile, but I1,2,3 and 200,000,000 others thought he was the funniest thing since the invention of the pratfall. There's no accounting for sense of humor.

Mulroney was the first clone to make it to the top in the entertainment industry, but being a clone wasn't what accounted for his popularity. He had a genius for mimicry and an encyclopedic knowledge of the great funnymen of the past. When nostalgia for the 20th Century comics of television and film and the acts from vaudeville and the variety theater became the new thing, Mulroney shot to stardom overnight and went on from there.

Mulroney brought back something that hadn't been seen for more than 20 years--live shows in front of a live audience. An entire generation had grown up watching the great comics on home screens, on tapes and hollies, and now Mulroney made those old acts come alive. He did Harrigan and Hart, Gallagher and Shean, the Keystone Cops, the Marx Brothers, the Ritz Brothers, Laurel and Hardy, Martin and Lewis, Laugh-In, Second City, Monty Python's Flying Circus, Saturday Night Live, The Digital Watchdogs, The Hooper Group--all the big ones, from the 1870s to the anticomics of the 2020s. Five shows a week in the biggest theater on the East Coast, and tickets were sold out for the next 16 months.

I1,2,3 would have given my1,2,3 eyeteeth for a ticket to The Great Mulroney and Friends, Live and Laughing, even though I4 couldn't stand him. But private investigators don't make the kind of money it takes to buy four of the hottest tickets in town. So I settled for reading the reviews in the daily faxes and catching bootleg snippets on the hollie, never suspecting how soon I was to come into very personal contact with The Great Mulroney.

I1 was in the office alone that day, while I4 wound up a case and 12,3 caught up on my2,3 lost sleep after a long stretch of night work. The morning was quiet, and I1 was ready to send out for an early lunch when the outercom rang at 11:30.

"Lucky Clover Detective Agency, Joe Kilborn speaking," I1 said.

"Kilborn, I have to see you right away. It's urgent. It's life and death," said a frightened, raspy voice.

"Come right up, mister," I1 replied. "What's the name?"

He hesitated, then said, "I'll tell you when I get there. Give me ten minutes, Kilborn."

He needed only eight. He came through the door puffing and sweating as if he had run up all 39 flights to the office, though I1 knew that a man his size didn't do much running. His suit was expensive, the rings on his chubby fingers looked real and his hairpiece was the best I1 had seen since the Dash Sterling case. Dumping himself into a chair, the guy squeaked out, "Kilborn?"

"That's me, mister."

"There's only one," he gasped, looking around the little office while he struggled to get his breath. "I thought there were...that you were a...." He sounded disappointed.

"I'm a four-clone, if that's what you're trying to say. That doesn't mean that I go everywhere together."

"No, no, certainly not. I should have known. Mulroney's the same way off stage."

My1 eyebrows went up. "Mulroney? The Great Mulroney?"

"Yes. He's a six-clone, you know."

"I know. Everybody knows."

"Well, he doesn't hang around together much. Very temperamental men--man, I mean. Very temperamental individual."

"Wait a minute, now. What do you have to do with The Great Mulroney?"

"I'm his manager," the fat man said.

He handed me1 a vocard. I1 activated it, and a sweet, sultry voice said, "Allow me to present Burgo Barry, manager of that phenomenon of the entertainment world, The Great Mulroney." Cheering and wild applause went up, then faded, and the voice went on, "If you'd like to speak further with Mr. Barry, please call zone 645, area 128, line 5126, outercom 823-312-1121, and I'll be happy to connect you. Thanks and good coping. Have an authentic day."

I1 deactivated the vocard and gave Burgo Barry a closer look. "You said something about life and death. Whose?"

Still puffing, Barry dug into another pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. "This came today," he said, holding it out to me1.

I1 opened it very carefully. Lettered on it in a shaky, uneven hand was a simple message: "Laugh clown laugh, for tomorrow you die."

I1 refolded the note and laid it on the desk. "You must get fifty of these a week," I1 said.

"More like three hundred," he said.

"So what's special about this one?"

Again he reached into a pocket, this time pulling out a folder containing a batch of similar notes. I1 opened the folder and looked over the notes, and the problem became clearer. There were ten in all, beginning with the one dated ten days ago and reading, "Laugh clown laugh, for in ten days you die." Each day the number was reduced by one, until it was down to "tomorrow."

"You took your time calling me in, Barry. Now I've got a whole day to work on this. What do you expect, miracles?" I1 said.

"Kilborn, I would have been here the minute I saw the first note, but Mulroney forbade it. He was unanimous."

"What about the police?"

Barry threw up his hands. "Police protection we got. We're tripping over cops. But Mulroney won't let me tell them about the notes. He says it's the work of a loony and we should ignore it--no police, no publicity, because if we react, we may start getting the real thing. I had to plead with him before he'd let me call you, and he gave in only because you're a clone, like him. He figured you'd understand."

"He figured wrong," I1 said. "I should have been called in as soon as the semester started, not the day before finals."

"What can I say, Kilborn? We get messages like this all the time. Mulroney thinks--"

I4 walked in, saw Barry and looked at me1. "Client?" I4 asked.

"Yes," I1 said. "This is Burgo Barry, manager of The Great Mulroney."

"A pleasure, Mr. Barry. Don't get up," I4 said, trying to conceal my4 distaste. I4 had had The Great Mulroney up to my4 emotional Plimsoll mark.

Barry glanced back and forth between me1,4 and hesitated a moment before saying, "Glad to meet you, Mr.... Kilborn." For all his long experience with Mulroney, the poor man still didn't know how to behave toward a clone. But then, most solos don't.

"I just came to check the mail. I'll be out of here in a minute," I4 said.

"Stick around. I think this will be a big job," I1 said, handing me4 the bundle of notes.

I4 glanced at them, shot a sharp look at me1 and sat down at an empty desk to study the notes more closely. I4 spread them out in two orderly rows and turned the desk light on them, and the more I4 saw, the more concerned I4 grew. I4 could not interpret this as just another case of a pathetic loser's trying to get a bit of his own back by tossing a rock at the local deity. Whoever had written these notes meant every word.

"We'll never trace the paper or the ink. They're too common. We might get something from a graphological analysis, but we can't get a good one completed by tomorrow," I4 said. "Anyway, this is clearly a disguised hand. Probably a right-handed person writing left-handed, though it could be the other way around."

"How can you tell?" Barry asked.

I4 leaned my4 elbows on the desk and tapped my4 finger tips together thoughtfully. Fixing my4 gaze on the wall behind Barry's head, I4 said, "I can tell a great deal from these notes, Mr. Barry. Ligatures between printed characters are very suggestive. When someone accustomed to writing swiftly is forced--or forces himself--to write slowly, the pen does not always leave the surface cleanly between letters; hence, the ligatures. The curvature of certain characters is another interesting feature." Turning to me1, I4 asked, "Surely you noticed the I's and the ones."

"They got right by me," I1 admitted. I1 was impressed with my4 expertise.

"They're a giveaway. And, of course, we have the messages themselves. Very interesting. Obviously not the product of the childish mind thrust at us by the printing but that of a man acquainted with Ecclesiastes and I Pagliacci."

"Who are they?" Barry asked, looking worried.

I4 smiled politely and added, "And a man who has done some reading and writing, too, I think. He couldn't force himself to omit all the commas, and there's not a single misspelling in the ten messages."

"That's pretty good, Kilborn. Anything else?"

"Nothing more, I'm afraid, except that the writer of these notes is male, weighs about eighty-five kilograms and is somewhere between thirty and fifty," I4 said.

Barry gaped at me4, blinked, dug into yet another pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his brow, looked at me1, then turned back to me4 and asked, "Are you sure about that?"

I4 nodded. "Positive."

Barry stuffed the handkerchief into his breast pocket, frowned at me4 and said, "That narrows it a little, but still.... You could be describing about three quarters of the cops guarding Mulroney and maybe half the stagehands and musicians. It could be one of you guys, for that matter, or any of The Great Mulroney. It fits. Hell, Kilborn, it could be me!"

"I only wish I could narrow it that much," I4 said, giving Barry my4 most reassuring smile. "Unfortunately, that description fits approximately eight hundred and twenty-three thousand people in thiscity. That's the problem, Mr. Barry, and there isn't much time to solve it. As of midnight, The Great Mulroney is in danger of his lives."

"You really believe that?" Barry asked, his eyes wide and frightened.

"I do," I4 said.

"So do I," I1 added.

"Then will you take the case?"

I4 looked at me1 and exchanged a nod. "I will," I1 said.

Barry gave a great sigh of relief, hoisted himself out of the chair and shook my1,4 hand with real enthusiasm. It seemed a good time to mention the retainer. When I1 named a figure, he winced.

"That's pretty stiff, isn't it, Kilborn? I mean, you won't be on it for long. By midnight tomorrow, the danger is over," he said.

"That's what we hope. I'll be working around the clock until then. I'll cover Mulroney from every side."

Barry wavered a little, but his manager's instincts kept him fighting. "Yeah, but all the same... I mean, legally you're one person, like Mulroney; isn't that so?"

I1 shrugged. "Legally, I am. But I've still got four mouths to feed."

•

I1,3 went to the theater that afternoon to look it over. Barry had alerted the police, so I1,3 got in without any difficulty, but as soon as I1,3 started up the stairs, Lieutenant Gutierrez started down. She was as friendly as ever.

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" she growled.

I1,3 looked around innocently. "What guys?" I1 asked, and I3 added, "Nobody here but Joe Kilborn, Lieutenant."

"Don't give me that, Kilborn. You know what I mean. What's up?"

I3 let me do the talking. I1 decided to tell Gutierrez enough to keep her listening but not enough to get her excited. "Mulroney's manager asked me to keep an eye on things for a few days. The nut mail is picking up, and he's worried."

Gutierrez got red in the face. "What the hell does Barry think my men do here, sell candy? Mulroney has more protection than the governor!"

"Come on, Gutierrez. Mulroney grosses three million a night, and the show is sold out past the end of next year. For that kind of money, Barry's entitled to worry." I4 had worked out the exact nightly gross, but I1 couldn't remember the figure. Three million was close enough.

"He can worry all he likes. Mulroney's safety is my job, Kilborn, and I don't need help. What kind of nut mail are you talking about?"

"Somebody threatened to get Mulroney and set it up for tomorrow. Mulroney says there's nothing to it, but Barry wants a little extra insurance, so he hired me. That's the whole story."

"Well, he's wasting his money. I've got this place secured."

I3 shrugged, and I1 said, "Good for you. Don't begrudge me a living, Gutierrez."

"Just keep out of the way. Nobody can get a weapon into this building. I have Mowbrays at every entrance, and they're sensitive enough to read what you had for breakfast."

"What if Mulroney wants to leave? You can't scan everybody in the city."

"Mulroney never goes out. He's got his own little world in here. He has an apartment in the west residential tower, with a private elevator direct to his dressing rooms." When I3 gave a low, appreciative whistle, Gutierrez went on, "He had it built when he saw the early projections on ticket sales. Probably figures he'll be here for the next twenty years, and he likes his convenience. The elevator stops at his apartment, his gym and the dressing rooms, and nowhere else. His own people installed it, in case you're wondering, and they check it out every day. And I've got someone at each stop. Mulroney is as safe as you can be in this town, Kilborn."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'll enjoy the show and collect an easy fee," I3 said.

I1 asked, "You don't mind if I have a look around the theater, do you? I have to do something to look like I'm earning my money."

"Just keep out of the way, that's all. Mulroney's my business, and don't forget it," said Gutierrez, pushing past me1,3 and stomping down the stairs without a backward look.

The building we were in was the acknowledged queen of the neofunctionalist constructions that had gone up on the West Side during the big boom of the 2030s. The first three levels were given over to shops, gardens and the Palace XXI Theater. The next 48 were offices, posh corporate headquarters where the walls were paneled in real wood and the floors were covered with rugs made of natural fiber and all the furnishings were antique and one of a kind. The two 80-story towers were residential co-ops where the smallest studio went for seven hefty figures. Everything was top of the line, and the theater was a notch or two above that.

The acoustics and the sight lines of the Palace XXI were perfect. There were no nooks, no corners, no columns--no place for a would-be killer to make his move unseen. Only in the boxes could someone aim a weapon--if he could figure out a way to get it past a battery of Mowbray Silent Scanners, something no one had yet managed--and Gutierrez would be sure to have the boxes under close watch. She was as charming as a second-degree burn, but she was a good cop.

The balconies were identical except for the angle of rake, and the orchestra was even cleaner than the balconies. The danger didn't seem to be in the front of the house. I1,3 went backstage, expecting the traditional confused mess, and found it looking like an empty warehouse. No ropes, no flats, no props, no clutter. Not that there was much of that stuff in a neofunctionalist theater, anyway, but Mulroney made even less use of it than most acts. He worked on a bare stage, and his only props were the occasional custard pie, collapsing chair or grand piano. The approaches to the stage were straight, bare corridors in the purest neofunctionalist style. A cop at either end could cover all of them.

A guard let me3 into Mulroney's dressing rooms through the outside fire exit, which was under 24-hour watch. The interior door had been blocked off, and the only other entrance to the dressing rooms was from the elevator.

I3 went back inside and met me1 in the orchestra pit. Seeing my3 expression, I1 said, "Looks like you didn't find much."

"Nothing," I3 said. This whole thing was beginning to look funny to me. I3 wished I3 had been there when I1 spoke to Barry.

"Me, neither," I1 said. "If anybody really wants to get Mulroney, he won't do it in here, and Mulroney isn't about to leave the building."

"How will the killer get in?"

"There's no way to do it without passing a Mowbray. The people in here are paying for security, and they're getting it. Everything and everybody that comes in--visitors, workers, packages, mail--goes through a minimum of three close scans. Besides, Mulroney has that private elevator, with Gutierrez' people guarding it."

I3 nodded, still doubtful. "What about a sniper?"

"All six bedrooms face west, across the river. And the glass is bulletproof."

"Is it missileproof?"

"The building has its own antimissile system. It's supposed to be better than the Pentagon's."

"Then, damn it, Mulroney's safe!" I3 snapped.

"I think so, too. But Barry's paying me to act as if Mulroney's in danger, so I will--until tomorrow at midnight."

"Sure. But I don't like it. I haven't met Barry. Do you really think he's being straight with me?"

I1 hesitated before answering, "Let me put it this way: I can believe that I was hired in good faith. Barry just got one threatening letter too many and went running for help."

"He took his time running," I3 reminded me1.(continued on page 79) Laugh Clone (continued from page 72) I1 shook my1 head. "He blames Mulroney, and I can believe that. But I can also believe that there's something going on I don't know about. Mulroney's a little too safe."

"You think Barry's up to something?"

"I think somebody might be up to something--but who or what, I don't know. It might just be a way of getting publicity."

I3 was incredulous. "Publicity? The Great Mulroney's got enough publicity."

I1 laughed and said, "People like The Great Mulroney never have enough publicity. It's a law of nature."

•

I was at the theater that night as a reporter, musician (I2 play a fair clarinet), assistant electrician and ordinary patron (E-31, second balcony). Barry was as helpful as a nanny, and even Gutierrez didn't make things too difficult.

The show was great. I 1,2,3 was aching with laughter before the first skit, "The Three Stooges in Court," was half over. The finale, a tennis match between Laurel and Hardy and Abbott and Costello (no ball, no net, no rackets, of course), with Bob and Ray announcing, even got me4 to smile a little.

For all the laughing--and trying not to--I was still on duty, checking out everything and everyone. After a night in Palace XXI, I was convinced that no one was going to have a chance at The Great Mulroney. But that wasn't what Barry wanted to hear, so he didn't hear it.

I stayed in the theater after the show to begin a 24-hour watch. I1,4 took the first six-hour tour, making the rounds with one of Gutierrez' men, checking the elevators, the guards, the entrances and exits and scanners, while I2 made a seat-by-seat search for concealed weapons and I3 slept. I3 woke around 5:30 and relieved me4 then I1,3 went over Mulroney's dressing rooms centimeter by centimeter, finding a few peculiar items but nothing that shouldn't have been there. The place was like a museum, but, oddly enough, it held no comic memorabilia, only books, pictures, hollies and reviews of very serious drama. I1,3 assumed that Mulroney kept his funny stuff upstairs and didn't try to figure out why.

I2 was finished with the seat search by then--without results--so I1 hit the sack while I2,3 made the rounds of elevators, guards and all once again and I4 checked backstage. By then, it was nearing six P.M., so I assembled in the lounge of Mulroney's dressing rooms. He usually came down around 6:30 to prepare for the show, and it seemed best to stick with him until the danger--real, imagined or fraudulent--was past. Maybe this was all lunacy, but I believe in earning my money.

It was a very comfortable lounge, with an inviting bar against one wall. I4 don't drink, but I1,3 was panting for a pick-me-up. I2 was so tired after three hours in the orchestra pit and 18 straight on my2 feet that I2 didn't care about anything but sinking into one of those enormous, soft sofas and closing my2 eyes. I 4 studied the pictures that covered the walls, and I1,3 looked longingly at the bar, waiting for someone to arrive and be hospitable.

The elevator light went on. Gutierrez' guards snapped to, the doors slid silently open and in walked Burgo Barry. There was a pause, then came The Great Mulroney, making an entrance like a royal procession. Black-silk dressing gowns, with a tiny golden numeral embroidered on each cuff and The Great Mulroney in scarlet across the left breast; white-silk scarves; softly tined glasses; the poise and self-possession of a heavyweight champ, which Mulroney resembled in size and build. He must have made good use of that private gym. I2 had nodded off, and I4 was absorbed in studying the photographs on the walls, but I1,3 observed the grand entrance and was impressed.

Mulroney3 stopped and smoothed back his wavy red hair while he1,2,5 nodded to us curtly and headed directly to the dressing rooms. He6 dropped some mail onto the bar and said something inaudible to Barry, while he4 turned to me1,3 with a candidate's smile and said, "Mr. Kilborn? Of the Lucky Clover Detective Agency?"

"That's right," I3 said, and I1 quickly added, "It's a real pleasure to meet you in persons."

Mulroney6 joined us. "Good to see you here," he6 said, putting out his6hand to me3 while I1 shook hands with him4 and he3 came over to our group. Barry and the two cops watched, and I4, in turn, watched them. Their expression was wonderful to behold. Solos very seldom see a four-clone and a six-clone exchange greetings, and it must have looked very complicated to them, like the mating of octopuses would look to a child, I4 imagine.

I4 turned from the pictures and joined the group. As I4 shook his4 hand, Mulroney3 said, "It's nice that Burgo was able to ... well, to keep it in the family, if you follow me."

"Following people is my business," I3 said.

Mulroney3.6 laughed and 4 laid a friendly hand on my3 arm, saying, "Now, I'm supposed to be the one with the good lines, Kilborn. You're the private investigator--I'm the actor."

"Probably the greatest comic actor of all time," I1 said sincerely.

I4 caught the quick flicker of tension at my1 words, but it got past me1,3, and Mulroney4 was quick to murmur gracious thanks. I4 took an envelope from my4 pocket and drew out a glossy of Mulroney as Monty Python doing "The Upper Class Twit of the Year" sketch in authentic 1972 costumes. "I hate to take advantage of you," I4 said with some embarrassment, "but if you can spare a minute to autograph this, it would really mean a lot to me. This is my favorite skit."

I1 looked at me3, wondering what I4 was up to, but I1,3 knew enough to say nothing. Mulroney6 said, "A pleasure, Kilborn," and took the picture.

Barry was sorting through the mail all this time, separating it into two piles, shaking his head gloomily as he lifted each letter. Mulroney6 signed the photo and passed it along. When he3,4 had inscribed it, he4 said to Barry, "Burgo, will you take this to the dressing rooms, so I can finish autographing it for Mr. Kilborn?"

I4 caught the quick, angry glance Mulroney6 shot at him4, but it turned at once to a smile when Barry said, "Sure. I'll take the mail into an empty room and go over it there, so you guys can talk. The dressing rooms are safe, aren't they, Kilborn? Did you check them out?"

"I went over them very carefully, Mr. Barry. Nothing to worry about," I1 said.

"That's a great theatrical collection you've got," I3 said to Mulroney4.

"Yes. But where do you keep the comic stuff?" I1 asked.

"Oh, I... it's around somewhere," Mulroney4 said uncomfortably, just as he6 blurted, "I don't have anything like that." I3 looked at him4,6, in puzzlement, and in that instant it all came together.

"Barry, the mail! Don't open it!" I4 shouted, turning to go after him.

Mulroney6 let out a curse and swung a short left that glanced off my4 ear, sending me4 off balance. Before he6 could follow up, I1 grabbed his6 arm. He3,4 was on me1 right away, but I3 yanked him4 off and went over the low cocktail table and landed on the floor. He4 was strong, but I3 was experienced at this game. Meanwhile, I4 got to my4 feet, a little groggy, and got Mulroney6 in a clinch while I4 tried to clear my4 head. The ruckus woke me2 up, and I2 jumped into the melee just as Mulroney1,2,5, came running out of his dressing rooms to lend him3,4,6 a hand. It was a strenuous few minutes, with the odds against me, but by the time Gutierrez' guards came out of shock and (continued on page 176) Laugh Clone (continued from page 79) pulled us apart, I had Mulroney beaten. I1,3 had a fat lip and a bloody nose, and my4 ear hurt like blazes, but nobody laid a hand on me2. Mulroney had three black eyes, a split lip, a bruised cheek and was out cold and had to be revived.

"Get some more cuffs in here," I4 told one of the guards. "You've got a would-be killer on your hands--all six of him."

"You're crazy, Kilborn!" Mulroney6 shouted, reddening.

"Yeah! You'll lose your license for this," he4 added and shook his3,5 fists in my4 direction.

He1 wiped his1 bloody nose and said contemptuously, "It's all a bluff. He thinks he'll be a hero."

"He'll be on skid row by the time I'm finished with him," he2 said, wincing at the pain of his2 split lip.

"If it's a bluff, call me," I4 said. "Open the mail you brought down with you."

Mulroney6 gave a superior sniff of laughter. "I don't open my mail, Kilborn. Barry gets paid to do that."

"That's what you counted on. But tonight it's your turn." I4 turned to Barry.

"Give me the mail you were taking inside."

"Go ahead, Kilborn, tamper with my mail. Add a Federal rap to the assault charge I'm going to hit you with," Mulroney4 said.

I4 took the mail and looked at him one by one, then I4 started to sort through the letters. I4 had a pretty good idea of what I4 was looking for. I4 flipped one envelope into Mulroney6's lap. He4 jumped and 1,2,6 turned pale, but he3,5 didn't flinch. I4 flipped a second and a third, and as I4 picked out a slightly thicker one, he3 cracked.

"Not that one, Kilborn! That's the bomb!" he3 cried, jumping to his3 feet. He1,2,5 buried his1,2,5 face in his1,2,5 hands and 4 passed out.

Mulroney6 glared at me4 with icy eyes. "Two hundred million people are going to hate you for this, Kilborn," he6 said.

I4 shrugged that off. "They'll have to get in line, like everybody else," I2 said.

"I could have been a great dramatic company. The Provincetown Players ... the Group Theater ... the Royal Shakespeare Company!" he6 said in a deep, rolling voice none of us had heard before. Suddenly, he6 rose and flung out his6 arm to point at Barry, who flinched at the sheer power of the gesture. "But he chained me to buffoonery with contract after contract! He condemned me to prance and caper for the groundlings when I should have been moving the gods to tears! He ... that greedy little man ... Burgo Barry ... made me a clown!"

"He also made you a millionaire," I3 reminded him.

I1 rose and went to the bar. "Why don't I make us all a drink?"

•

Gutierrez came back to the dressingroom lounge after seeing Mulroney safely downtown. She had a rough night ahead, handling a sellout crowd that was about to be told that The Great Mulroney was going to be performing for a very select audience of fellow prisoners in an engagement that would last for the next ten to 20 years, with no tours. All the same, Gutierrez was wearing her Christmas- morning smile. There were smiles all around, even on Barry. When I told him the story, he nearly collapsed, but when he recovered, he promised me a fat bonus.

"What the hell are you, Kilborn, a magician? Or were you holding out on me?" Gutierrez asked as she raised her glass of Mulroney's best Scotch in a grudging salute.

"I didn't see what was really going on until this evening. And I was nearly too late. Another two minutes...." I4 shook my4 head and sipped my4 Apollinaris.

"What was the tip-off?"

"We all overlooked one obvious fact. We told ourselves Mulroney couldn't be in any real danger, because nobody could smuggle a weapon of any kind into this building. And all the time, we ignored Mulroney's private entrance and private elevator."

"And private scanners. Right," Gutierrez said, nodding.

"One of which--the one that scans the mail--was probably conveniently out of commission for a brief period today," I4 pointed out. "That's how Mulroney could cover himself for the letter bomb."

I1 was still confused, though I1 was certainly proud of my4 work. "But we had no reason to suspect Mulroney. He was the one being threatened."

"That was the ingenious part of it. He set it up so he could kill someone else and make it look like a botched attempt on his own life. I should have figured it out when I saw the pictures he had up all over the walls--scenes from Oedipus Rex, Hamlet, The Iceman Cometh, Death of a Salesman, The Novotny Affair--all of them great tragedies. There wasn't a single comic scene to be found," I4 said, taking a sip of my4 mineral water.

"Just like the dressing rooms--all tragic stuff. Here's the world's greatest clown and you'd think he hated comedy!" I3 said.

"He did. It was when he contradicted himself about the comedy material that it all came together for me. Glad you raised the question," I4 said to me1. "I was getting a little suspicious of Mulroney. That's why I asked for his autograph, so I could get a comparison of the handwriting. But I didn't have anything solid until he got his stories crossed about the absence of comic memorabilia."

Gutierrez finished her Scotch and set down the glass. "Why Barry, though? How would killing his manager get Mulroney out of comedy and into tragedy? That was what he wanted, wasn't it?"

I1 shrugged. "Who knows? Check the contracts."

"He may have figured that Barry's death would provide a believable excuse for turning to tragedy. A final tribute," I4 suggested. "Or maybe he was just punishing Barry for making him a comic."

While we were thinking over the possibilities, the outercom rang. It was for Gutierrez. While she talked, I1,3 refilled my1,3 glass and I2 sank back down into the sofa. I2 was exhausted.

Gutierrez put the outercom down and said, "I have to get back downtown. Thanks again, you guys. I won't forget this."

"Compliments of the Lucky Clover Detective Agency. We gave you the motive, the method and the weapon and even subdued the perpetrator. What more could you ask, Gutierrez?" I3 said.

"A confession--which I just got. Two of Mulroney broke down and agreed to tell everything. Two of them swear they didn't know anything about it, one says the others forced him to go along, the other won't say a word. If this ever gets to court, it'll never get out. Good night, Kilborn," Gutierrez said and headed for the fire exit.

I didn't feel much like talking after she was gone. I2 was just too tired to care, and I1,3 preferred the Scotch to a post-mortem. I4 finished my4 glass of Apollinaris and wandered around the room, studying the tragic scenes mounted on the walls. They certainly suited my4 mood.

Mulroney wanted a tragedy, and that's what he got. Here was a tragic scene, indeed. If a man can't trust himself, what can he expect from all those others?

"No one was going to have a chance at Mulroney. But that wasn't what Barry wanted to hear."

"'I didn't see what was really going on until this evening. And I was nearly too late.' "