Murder In Space by E. C. Tubb

Author:E. C. Tubb [Tubb, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Venture Press
Published: 2016-02-12T07:00:00+00:00

Murder Most Innocent

The first part was easy. There are a thousand ways to kill a man. But the second part, the all-important second part…

Because, of course, there would be no point in having committed the crime if he was going to be caught. That was the whole crux of the problem. He must not be caught. If he were, then the murder would be criminal in its sheer stupidity, and Whitney was not a stupid man.

But he wasn’t a patient one, either. If he waited he knew that his opportunity would come by simply not doing something. Not stopping the air lock, for example, when it closed on a helpless body. Not taking care to check any of a dozen different items. Not bothering to go to the rescue when needed. But those negative actions needed time, and he had no time, not when Lola was a mounting fire in his blood and a vision of unattainable delight tantalising him with brief glimpses of the paradise he might have. John was always there then, smiling, proud, quietly possessive and, somehow, always in the way. John was Lola’s husband.

He was also the man Whitney wanted to kill.

With any other man it wouldn’t have mattered. Any other man would have been an unknown quantity, a fact, there, but wholly unimportant. Whitney could have accepted him, discounting him in the ecstasy of the moment. But Lola was married to John, and John was Whitney’s partner and the two were always home at the same time. Until John died Whitney could never take his place.

He stared at him as he moved about the cabin, big, calm, methodical in everything he did. A safe, smug, confident man. A reliable man, reliable in that he would not make mistakes, and Whitney suffered the agonies of the damned as he tried to think of a way to kill him— and get away with it.

“We’re making good time, Pete.” John stared at the instruments, then at his partner. “We should hit Venus a day ahead of schedule.”

“Should we?” Whitney wasn’t interested. A day saved was that much extra time to earn a profit, that much extra money to swell his bank account and, once, he would have been eager to hear the news. Not now. Not when every day less in space lessened his chances of staging a perfect murder. “Got any ideas of a return cargo?”

“No, but McPhearson should have something for us.”

McPhearson was the shipping agent. A dour, phlegmatic Scotsman, who for some reason had always disliked Whitney. Pete returned the feeling—with interest.

“Why don’t we switch to Jelks? He can get us better cargoes than that old coot.”

“Better, perhaps, but not so regular.” John checked the instruments with loving care. “We’ll stick to Mac.”

And that was it. That was the way it always was. John made the decisions and Whitney made the protests, but each time he could have saved his breath. John owned two thirds of the ship. John took two thirds of the profit. Whitney had bought in with all he had, and up till now had never regretted it.

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