“How do you want us to play it?” Sam Stanley asked.
“Just back me,” Bushell told him. “Johnston should be done to a turn about now.”
When he and his colleagues walked back into the interrogation room, Morton Johnston sprang to his feet. “Now see here,” he said, his jowls quivering in indignation real or manufactured. “I demand to - “
“Sit down,” Bushell said. “Keep quiet.” He didn’t raise his voice. Nonetheless, Johnston, bluster pierced, sank back into his chair. Bushell glanced over at the officers and Kathleen as if they were medicos who’d agreed he had to give Johnston the bad news. Give it he did, in offhand, casual tones that brooked no contradiction: “It’s all over now. We have the painting back, we have the blundering fools you Sons sent into New Leicester Square, we have Bragg’s confession to send you up personally on a charge of treason and conspiracy with the Holy Alliance.” That was a shot in the dark, but a good one, and he added to it, again in the most matter-of-fact way possible: “And we have Zack Fenton out in New Liverpool, too.”
“My God.” Johnston buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again, his features were an overfed mask of tragedy. “I was always afraid Bragg would give us away in the end,” he said, drawing in a long, shuddering breath.
“Oh? Why’s that?” Bushell asked.
Before Johnston could answer, Sam Stanley said, “The old family estates, eh?”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, being the color you are?” Johnston said bitterly. “Of course, the old family estates. When the Crown made the planters turn their Negroes loose, a lot of good men were ruined.”
“A lot of good men were freed,” Stanley answered.
And a lot of things Sam had said, things that hadn’t made sense to Bushell, suddenly became clear.
“Lord!” he burst out. “You said back in New Liverpool that Bragg wouldn’t mind seeing the plantation days come back again, but I never dreamt you meant it literally.”
“I didn’t think you did.” Stanley sighed and spread his hands. “What can I tell you?” He might have known Bragg’s opinion of Negroes, but how was he supposed to say anything like that to a man who counted himself Bragg’s friend? Bragg hadn’t given Bushell any sign that he held those views, but then, he wouldn’t have. For how many years had he been leading a double life?
No time to worry about that now. Bushell turned back to Morton Johnston.
“So you’ll talk now, will you? It might keep them from putting a noose around your fat neck. Of course, it might not.”
Johnston licked his lips. “What does anything matter anymore? It’s all ruined. Go ahead, ask your questions.”
“As if we can rely on everything you tell us,” Bushell said scornfully. “How do we know you won’t try feeding us more lies?”
The Independence Party leader drew himself up with dignity more pathetic than impressive. “I am a solicitor, sir.”
Sam Stanley let out a raucous laugh. “Proves the colonel’s point, doesn’t it?”
Morton Johnston looked indignant. Bushell flicked Sam a warning glance. He didn’t want Johnston mulish and defiant; he wanted him soft and squishy as a blancmange. After a moment’s thought, he told the lawyer, “I’m going to test you: I’ll give you a question where I already know the answer. If you give me that answer back, I’ll pass on to my superiors that you were cooperative. As I say, it may help you. If you lie to me -“ He made hand-washing motions.
“Go ahead,” Johnston repeated in a voice like ashes.
“All right.” Bushell worked to keep his voice light, easy: “Give me the name of the storage facility where you people had hidden The Two Georges.”
Anguish crossed Johnston’s plump face. “I don’t know it. I’m from New Liverpool, remember? As God is my witness, Colonel Bushell, I don’t.”
Bushell shrugged and turned to Lieutenant Hammond. “Take him back to his cell. We’ll deal with him in the ordinary way.”
“Wait!” Johnston howled as the Georgestown constable strode toward him. “I don’t know the name of the place, but I know where it is.” He sent Bushell a beseeching look. Bushell nodded to Maxwell Hammond, who stopped. Rapidly, almost babbling in his haste to get the words out, Johnston went on, “It’s down by the docks, on the Victoria side of the river - not far from where the Britannia will land. Don’t ask me if there’s any connection to that, because I don’t know, truly I don’t.” He stared anxiously at Bushell.
“Take him back to his cell, Lieutenant,” Bushell said to Hammond. “He may as well get used to it, for he’ll be in one for some time to come. He’d have got out sooner if he’d gone through the trapdoor of a gallows, but I don’t suppose that will happen now.” Morton Johnston sagged with relief; he seemed to become shorter and wider, as if his bones had turned to jelly. When Hammond led him away, he went with willing step.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Kathleen Flannery threw her arms around Bushell’s neck. “We have it!” she exclaimed exultantly.
“We may have it,” Bushell corrected. Even the feel of her against him could barely penetrate the grey haze of exhaustion in which he moved. Nerves and coffee and cigars kept a man going only so long. He could feel how close to the edge of the cliff he walked. The clock said it was a little past four. He’d last long enough. He had to last long enough. Slowly, he went on, “There are a good many storage places down by the docks. Finding the right one will take time - time we haven’t got.”
He went back to Lieutenant Hammond’s office and rang America’s Number Ten again. This time, he had no trouble getting through to Sir David Clarke. “They’ve agreed to another hour,” Sir David said without preamble. “If I ask for anything more, they say they’ll touch a match to the painting. I believe them.”
“All right. You did what you could,” Bushell answered, and then surprised himself by adding, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Clarke also sounded surprised.
Bushell hung up, then called Maxwell Hammond. “Have you got a city directory for Victoria here?” he asked. Hammond yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out a fat paperbound book, and dropped it in front of Bushell with a thud. “First-rate,” Bushell said. He flipped to the index, then to the section on storage facilities. “Half these places didn’t exist when I was working out of Victoria,” he muttered as he scribbled down names and addresses. He suddenly seemed to remember Hammond was there. “Go round up all the keys that are liable to open a storage cubicle.”
“Right.” Hammond paused for a moment at the doorway. “We’re going to have to be lucky, you know.”
“Really? That never occurred to me,” Bushell said. The Georgestown constable stared at him, shook his head, and hurried away. When he returned with the keys, Bushell took them, stuffed them in his pocket, and said, “Keep sweating the other Sons. Let ‘em know how much we know. With luck, one of ‘em’ll give you the name of the storage facility they’re using. I’ll ring you every so often. If you get it out of them, you’ll let me know.”
“I do the work, you RAMs get the glory,” Hammond said, not altogether in jest. “Seems like that’s the way it always goes.”
“Cut the shit,” Bushell said succinctly. “You haven’t got jurisdiction south of the Potomac anyhow. And if we get The Two Georges back without having to ransom it, there’ll be glory enough to go around, I promise you.”
Hammond considered, then slowly nodded. “How persuasive with these bastards you want me to get?”