Johnston did come over, gathering himself as he did so. “I haven’t got to tell you a bloody thing, sir, as you know very well. But I shall tell you: I am here to help my colleagues plan protests against the tyrant’s visit to our shores.”
It was a plausible answer, plausibly delivered. But Johnston hadn’t been glad to see Bushell, not even slightly, and it was the day before the deadline the Sons of Liberty had given for ransoming The Two Georges, two days before Charles III arrived. Bushell asked, “If I ring up your headquarters in New Liverpool and ask them where you are, what will they tell me?”
Had Morton Johnston been in Victoria on legitimate Independence Party business, he would have told his fellow enthusiasts exactly where he was going, and why. He might have told them where he was going, but lied about his reasons. But when he took a couple of seconds too long to come up with any sort of answer, Bushell concluded he hadn’t told them even part of the truth.
“I shall make that telephone call, Mr. Johnston,” he said happily. “Meanwhile, you can come along to the station and answer some questions for us.”
“Am I under arrest, and if so, on what charge?”
Lieutenant Toby Custine had ducked into the Independence Party building. He came out in time to hear Morton Johnston’s question. In a studiously neutral voice, he remarked, “Three of the clerks in there say Phineas Stanage visited you this morning, and that the two of you spent some time alone together.”
“Vile, treacherous dogs!” Stanage roared. Johnston said nothing, but the glare he sent though the plate-glass window was homicidal in intent if not in effect.
“On a charge of conspiracy to aid in the commission of a felony, namely the theft of The Two Georges,” Bushell answered.
Now Johnston found a bellow to match Stanage’s: “You’ll never hang that on me!”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t,” Bushell answered, “but I’ll have fun trying.” He turned to Ted Kittridge:
“Ring up the Georgestown constables, Sergeant, and have them send some motorcars here. We’ve gathered in a bigger haul than I thought we would.”
“Right,” Kittridge said, still speaking as if words were at a premium. Bushell had expected him to go back to the Worshipful College of Victuallers and use the telephone there. Instead, he strode into Independence Party headquarters. The clerks and functionaries there were going to get an earful of the doings of their superiors. Bushell hoped they enjoyed it.
Enough RAMs were on the scene to make sure the prisoners didn’t try to escape. Bushell took Lieutenant Custine off to one side and said quietly, “Those Independence Party people are fanatics. How the devil did you get three of them to point the finger at Stanage and Johnston?”
“It was simple,” Custine said with a wink: “I didn’t. But the reactions we got from those two were most satisfactory, don’t you think?”
“You’ll go far, Lieutenant,” Bushell predicted. He thumped the younger man on the back. Custine grinned from ear to ear.
Within a couple of minutes, several Georgestown constabulary steamers rolled up. The constables who got out of the gold and black checked motorcars stared in considerable curiosity at the crowd of RAMs and suspects waiting for them. “What the hell is going on here?” demanded a burly fellow with a lieutenant’s pips on the shoulder boards of his khaki uniform.
“These charming individuals” - Bushell pointed to Stanage, Johnston, O’Flynn, and the rest - “are charged with conspiracy to abscond with The Two Georges, among other things. We’d like to interrogate them and hold them at your gaol, Lieutenant - “
“Hammond. Maxwell Hammond,” the Georgestown constable said. Bushell introduced himself. After the formalities, Hammond said, “See here, Colonel, why don’t you just take them back to Victoria and grill them over your own fire?”
“Come along with me, Lieutenant.” Bushell walked slowly down Amritsar Way. Hammond followed, his heavy features frowning and suspicious. When they were effectively alone, Bushell went on in a low voice, “I’m not taking them back because I don’t want my superiors or the politicos at America’s Number Ten to know I’ve got them. If I have to draw you a picture, I will.”
Maxwell Hammond stared at him. “Good God,” he said, also quietly. “What is the world coming to?”
“Whatever it thinks it’s coming to, I don’t aim to let it,” Bushell answered. “Are you with me, or not?”
“Oh, I’m with you, all right.” Hammond rumbled laughter. “Never thought I’d help a RAM put one over on his own people. Like a dream come true, this is.” Local and provincial constables often envied RAMs their resources and authority. Taking advantage of them now had to feel sweet to Hammond, who labored almost in the shadow of the NAU headquarters for the Royal North American Mounted Police. Far from allergic himself to tweaking the nose of authority, Bushell said, “Enjoy it.”
“Oh, I shall. I shall.” Hammond turned and hurried back to his men. By the grins that broke out on their faces, he was telling them what Bushell had told him. They hustled the prisoners into their motorcars and sped away. The two steamers full of RAMs followed.
“Better not lose ‘em,” Sergeant Ted Kittridge muttered under his breath. “Damned if I remember where the Georgestown constabulary station is at.”
It proved to be a grimy building in a grimy part of town, far from the elegant district where Sir David Clarke made his home. Kittridge’s call had alerted the constables at the station, and they awaited the newcomers’ arrival with obvious impatience. The gaoler, a tall, skinny Negro named Olmsted, patted down the prisoners, turned out their pockets, and put their personal effects - including belts, shoes, and cravats - in paper bags. He required them to sign itemized receipts he’d prepared.
“This is an outrage!” Morton Johnston cried.
“Law doesn’t say you have to be happy about it,” Olmsted answered imperturbably. He’d heard it all, no doubt more times than he could count. “Law does say you have to sign, so we can show the court we kept all your goods safe.”
“I know the law, you -“ But Johnston stopped there. He might know the law, but he’d never before been in its clutches. He was smart enough to see that antagonizing a man who meted it out here was less than wise.
Bushell turned to the gaoler. “Put them in separate cells. In fact, can you keep them far enough apart from one another that they won’t be talking back and forth?”
“Oh, yes, sir, we’ll take care of that,” Olmsted answered. “Gaol’s not what you’d call crowded right now. Maybe the usual lags are on their best behavior.” He laughed to show how likely he thought that was. “Or maybe they’re waiting for more toffs to show up when His Majesty comes into Victoria so they’ll have more fine stuff to steal.”
The paperwork that went with arrests was mind-numbing. Here the forms were even more complicated than usual, precisely because the RAMs were using constabulary facilities under the jurisdiction of the sovereign city of Georgestown to house prisoners arrested not because of city ordinances but as a result of the violation of All-Union statutes. By the time the last i was dotted and the last t crossed, twilight was settling outside.
A constable went out and came back with a pasteboard box full of greasy, newspaper-wrapped packets of fish and chips. “This side has vinegar, the other one doesn’t,” he said, pointing to show which was which. “Take your pick.”
After all the fine meals Bushell had eaten lately, vinegar-sour fried fish and potatoes were like a slap across the face with a cold, wet towel. He gulped them down, then lifted a mug of strong tea in salute.
“To dyspepsia!” he said.