I felt my face cracking into a wide grin. I went over to him, shook him gently, then a little harder. His eyes opened. He looked at me blankly for a moment-his eyes like the windows of an empty house. Then he smiled.
"Hi, Jones," he said, sitting up. "Boy, you should've seen the train I rode in! It was all fancy, and there was this nice lady…" He told me all about it while we gripped hands, grinning. Suddenly, now, it was all right. Luck was still with me. The demons had tried-tried hard-but I was here, still alive, iron hands and all-and I wasn't alone. I felt a hint of spring return to my muscles, the first twinge of hunger in days.
The British Consulate, perched on piles on the shore of Lake Michigan, was a weather-stained cube of stone filigree done in the sterilized Hindu style popular in the nineties. There were lights beyond the grillwork in the wide entry, and on the upper floors.
We walked past once, then turned, came back, went up the wide, shallow steps, past a steaming fountain of recirculated, heated water glimmering in a purple spotlight. I rattled the tall grille. A Royal Marine three-striper in traditional dress blues got up from a desk, came across the wide marble floor to the gate, fingering the hilt of a ceremonial saber.
"The Consulate opens at ten I.M.," he said, looking me over through the grille.
"My name's Jones," I said. "Treasury. I've got to see the Duty Officer-now. It can't wait until morning."
"Let's see a little identification, sir," the marine said.
I showed him the blue class one I.D. He nodded, handed the card back through the grille. He opened up, stood back, and watched Joel follow me inside.
"Where does the Duty Officer stay?" I asked.
"That's Mr. Phipps tonight. He's got a room upstairs. He's up there now." The expression on the sergeant's face suggested that this was a mixed blessing. "I'll ring him," he added. "You'll 'ave to wite 'ere."
I stood where I could see the approach to the building while the sergeant went to a desk, dialed, talked briefly. A second marine came along the corridor and took up a position opposite me. He was a solidly built redhead, not over eighteen. He looked at me with a face as expressionless as a courthouse clock.
" 'E's coming down," the sergeant said. He looked across at the other marine. "What do you want, Dyvis?"
The redhead kept his eyes on me. "Breff o' fresh air," he said shortly.
There was a sound of feet coming leisurely down the winding staircase on my left. A sad-looking tweed-suited man with thinning gray hair and pale blue eyes in wrinkled pockets came into view. He slowed when he saw me, glanced at the two marines.
"What's this all about, Sergeant?" he said in a tired voice, like someone who has put up with a lot lately.
"Somebody to see you," the sergeant said. "Sir," he added. The newcomer looked at me suspiciously.
"I have some important information, Mr. Phipps," I said.
"Just who are you, might I inquire?" Phipps asked. His expression indicated that whatever I said, he wouldn't be pleased.
"U.S. Treasury." I showed him the I.D.
He nodded and looked past me, out through the heavy grille-work. He waved toward the stair.
"You may as well come along to the office." He turned and started back up; I followed him to the second floor, along a wide, still corridor of dark offices. We entered a lighted room with sexless furnishing in the international official medium-plush style.
Phipps sat down behind a cluttered desk, looked across at me glumly as I took a chair. Joel stood beside me, gaping at the picture of Queen Anne on the wall.
"I won't bore you with details, Mr. Phipps," I said. "I've seen some pretty odd goings-on lately." I looked bashful. "It sounds funny, I know, but… well, it involves a kind of unusual dog…"
I watched his expression closely. He was eyeing me with a bored expression that suggested this was about what he'd expect from cranks who rattled the grille at an hour when civilized people were sipping the third drink of the evening in an embassy drawing-room somewhere.
He patted back a yawn.
"Just how are British interests involved, Mr.-ah-Jones?"
"Well, this dog was intelligent," I said.
"Well!" His eyebrows went up. "I'm sure I don't-"
Footsteps were coming along the hall. I turned. A husky, black-haired man with deep-set black eyes came into the room, looked at me, ignoring Phipps. I saw the redheaded marine in the hall behind him. I felt my pulse start to beat a little faster.
"What is it you want here?" he snapped.
"Ah, Mr. Clomesby-House, Mr. Jones, of the American Treasury Department," Phipps said, adjusting a look of alert interest on his dried-out features. I surmised that Clomesby-House was his boss.
"Mr. Jones was just lodging a complaint regarding a-um-dog," Phipps said.
Clomesby-House narrowed his eyes at me. "What dog is this?"
"I realize it sounds a little strange," I said, smiling diffidently, "but-well, let me start at the beginning."
"Just one moment." The black-eyed man held up a hand. "Perhaps we'd better discuss this matter in private." He stepped back, waved a hand toward the door. Phipps looked surprised.
"Certainly," I said. "It sounds crazy, but-"
I followed Clomesby-House along a corridor, with Joel beside me and the marine trailing. At the door to a roomy office, I paused, eyeing the marine.
"Ah-this is pretty confidential," I said behind my hand. "Perhaps the guard should wait outside?"
Clomesby-House shot me a black look, opened his mouth to object.
"Unless you're afraid I might be dangerous, or something," I added, showing him a smirk.
He snorted. "That's all, Davis. Return to your post."
I closed the door carefully, went across and took a chair by the desk behind which the black-eyed man had seated himself. Joel sat on my left.
"Tell me just what it is you've seen," Clomesby-House said, leaning forward.
"Well." I laughed shyly. "It sounds pretty silly, here in a nice clean office-but some funny things have been happening to me lately. They all seem to center around the dogs…"
He waited.
"It's a secret spy network-I'm sure of it," I went on. "I have plenty of evidence. Now, I don't want you just to take my word for it. I have a friend who's been helping me-"
His dark eyes went to Joel. "This man knows of this, too?"
"Oh, he's not the one I meant. He just gave me a lift over. I've told him a little." I chuckled again. "But he says it's all in my head. I had a little accident some months ago-have a metal plate in my skull, as a matter of fact- But never mind that. My friend and I know better. These dogs-"
"You have seen them-often?"
"Well, every now and then."
"And why did you come here-to the British Consulate?" he shot at me.
"I'm coming to that part. You see-well, actually, it's a little hard to explain. If I could just show you…"
I looked anxious-like a nut who wants to reveal the location of a flying saucer, but is a little shy about butterfly nets. "If you could possibly spare the time-I'd like you to meet my friend. It's not far."
He was still squinting at me. His fingers squeaked as he tensed them against the desk-top. I remembered Julius exhibiting the same mannerism-a nervous habit of the not-men when they had a decision to make. I could almost hear him thinking; it would be simplicity itself for him to summon the strait-jacket crew, let them listen to my remarks about intelligent dogs, and let nature take its course. But on the other hand, what I had to say just might alert someone, cause unwelcome inquiries, invite troublesome poking about…