If Common Sense claimed the sun was setting, Bushell was ready to take that for proof it wasn’t. He didn’t bother saying so. For one thing, he and the men from John Kennedy’s magazine would have sounded like a pack of five-year-olds. “If you say this - “ “Oh, yeah? Well, if you say that -“ For another, the RAMs had finally waded through the press of the press to the entrance to Parker’s. Given the choice between arguing with reporters and getting some hot coffee outside, Bushell didn’t think twice. Some of the reporters did get into Parker’s, but only as customers. The waiters there were more zealous in keeping them away from Bushell’s table than were the RAMs. “Sirs, ma’am, if you come in here, we assume you want the chance to take things at your own pace and enjoy your meal,” one of them said.
“I like this place,” Samuel Stanley declared in ringing tones.
After breakfast, Major Harris laid on a RAM steamer to take Bushell and his companions to the local headquarters. That frustrated the reporters who’d hung about while they ate. Newsboys hawked dailies on every corner. One headline read, BUSHELL STRETCHES TRAIL OF GORE FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA.
He pointed to it and asked the driver, “That would be the New England Courant?”
“Yes, sir,” the local RAM answered. “Heard of it already, have you?”
“How could I keep from hearing about such a fine patriotic paper?” Bushell asked. The driver chuckled. When they got to the RAM headquarters, Major Harris met them again and said, “I expect you’ll want to telephone Victoria from a more secure line then you could hope to get at the hotel.”
“Yes, just so,” Bushell agreed. Fear of listeners on the line wasn’t what had kept him from ringing up Sir Horace Bragg the night before. He’d unburdened himself to Kathleen instead. Rather than dwelling on what that might mean, he asked Harris, “Have you already made a preliminary report to the capital?”
“Oh, yes, sir, that I have.” Harris stifled a yawn. He’d probably been up till all hours. “But you know more of the picture - and you can take that any way you please - than I do. The commandant’ll be glad to hear from you, I’m sure he will. Why don’t you just come along with me?”
He took Bushell and his companions to the same room they’d occupied the afternoon before when word came that Joseph Kilbride had been spotted. As she had then, Kathleen Flannery sniffed at the photographs of scantily dressed women and then ostentatiously ignored them - not the sort of art of which she was a connoisseur.
The connection to NAU RAM headquarters in Victoria went through quick as boiled asparagus (ah, the classics, Bushell thought). When he identified himself, the RAM operator said, “Yes, sir! I’ll ring you straight through to Sir Horace’s office.”
That didn’t take long, either. “Office of Lieutenant General Sir Horace Bragg, Commandant, Royal North American Mounted Police, Sally Reese speaking,” his secretary said, apparently without pausing for breath. Bushell moved the handset farther from his ear; as usual, Sally spoke as if she held a megaphone in front of her mouth.
He identified himself again, then said, “I’d like to speak to Sir Horace, please.”
“I’m sorry, Colonel Bushell,” Sally blared, “but you can’t.”
“It’s urgent,” Bushell said. “If he’s in a meeting, please pull him out. I’ll take responsibility.”
“It’s not that, Colonel,” she answered, still at the top of her lungs. “I know he’s always ready to talk to you, but he’s not here this morning. He called in first thing to say he wouldn’t be. He broke a tooth on a chicken bone last night, and he’s going in to the dentist to get a crown put on.”
“Oh,” Bushell said, and touched his own jaw in sympathy. The miserable flesh of which men were made had a way of interfering with even the weightiest affairs. “He’s lucky to have got an appointment on such short notice. Must come of being the commandant.”
Sally Reese’s shrill giggle reminded him of a saw blade biting into a nail. “That’s the very same thing I told him myself, Colonel, the very same thing. This is to do with that horrible mess up in Boston yesterday, isn’t it? Do you want I should transfer you to Brigadier Arthurs? He’d be glad to take your report, I know he would.”
“No, never mind,” Bushell said. Benjamin Arthurs was a sound enough man, but Bushell didn’t care to put any more people than he had to between himself and the case. Like every RAM in the NAU, he had Sir Horace Bragg over him, but he wanted the chain to run directly from Sir Horace to him without developing intermediate links. To propitiate Sally Reese, he went on, “I really have little to add to Major Harris’s report, and I’ll ring back this afternoon to make sure I bring Sir Horace fully up to date.”
“Well, I suppose it’s all right, then.” Bragg’s secretary was loudly dubious, but not dubious enough to make an issue of it. “I’m sure he’ll be looking forward to hearing from you. Good-bye for now.” She hung up.
Samuel Stanley had got off his telephone in time to listen to the last part of Bushell’s conversation.
“You’re going to call Victoria this afternoon?” he said in some surprise. “I thought sure we’d be - “
“-On our way to Victoria by then?” Bushell interrupted. “Of course we will, Sam; don’t be absurd. And when we get in to the capital, I’ll be so apologetic; it would make a dog lose his lunch to watch me. I had to get on the train or the airship or whatever the devil we’ll get on. I couldn’t possibly stay around the office to telephone. Oh, please, Sir Horace, won’t you find it in your heart to forgive me this once?” He let out an alarmingly convincing sob.
Kathleen had been talking with one of her associates, not paying much attention to Bushell or Stanley. She looked up in surprise and concern at that sob. Bushell winked at her. She stared, then stuck out her tongue and went back to her own conversation.
Sam Stanley laughed, but quickly sobered. “Sir Horace isn’t going to buy it, Chief. He’s no fool” - whatever else you can say about him, his eyes added silently, letting Bushell ignore him if he so chose: and he did - “and he’ll know just what you’re up to.”
“I don’t care,” Bushell said, so gleefully that now he startled his adjutant. “What he knows and what he can prove are two different beasts.”
A slow smile spread across Stanley’s face. “That’s no pipsqueak lieutenant talking,” he said. “You sound like any sergeant who’d been around the block with his superiors too bloo - ah, blinking many times. My hat’s off to you.” His hat was already off, sitting on the desk in front of him. He lifted it in salute, then set it down once more.
“Where d’you think I learned such things?” Bushell said. “Once upon a time I was straight and true as could be, and they put me in your hands, and you - you twisted me.” He showed how with his hands; he might have been wringing out a washrag. Then he picked up his own hat. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Any old time,” Stanley said. “Who’s next on your list?”
“I thought I’d call Shikalimo,” Bushell answered. “He’s the mover and shaker in the Six Nations, not the RAMs. I want to see if he’s found anything at Joseph Kilbride’s house yet.”
“Yes, that will be interesting,” Stanley agreed. “If we’re lucky there -“ his shoulders sagged. “We haven’t been lucky so far, not this case.”
Bushell glanced over toward Kathleen Flannery. She was concentrating on her telephone conversation, paying him no heed whatever. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It all depends on how you look at things.” He contemplated that as if it were some new cocktail, then nodded in slow approval. “Yes, it all depends on how you look at things.”