“Don’t ask me questions like that.” After a moment, Bushell went on, “I owe one to O’Flynn. Otherwise-“ He made the same hand-washing gesture he’d used in front of Morton Johnston, but added, “Don’t get stupid, either.” Hammond nodded again.
Before setting out into the cool quiet of the wee small hours, Bushell made sure everyone in his steamer and Micah Williams’s was armed. Though Kathleen was entirely unofficial, he tried to get her to draw a revolver from the constabulary armory. She refused, saying, “I’d be more dangerous to myself with it than without it.” When he tried to argue, she stuck out her chin and looked stubborn. He shrugged and let her have her way.
The streets of Georgestown and then of Victoria were as quiet and empty as those of New Liverpool had been the early morning after The Two Georges was stolen. Bushell tried not to think of that early morning, and the night before it. With luck (and how right Hammond had been to say he’d need it!), he’d soon make it as if that night had never happened.
Sergeant Ted Kittridge pulled up in front of the Precious Treasures Storage Corporation, Ltd., at a little past five. The eastern horizon was bright with sunrise soon to come. Bushell paused to scribble the name and address of the storage corporation on one of the last few blank search warrants. He bounded out of the steamer with pistol drawn. His head swiveled every which way. If the Sons of Liberty wanted to fight to keep The Two Georges, they had plenty of cover here. But the only person who came up to see what a couple of carloads of RAMs descending on his storage center meant was a grey-bearded night watchman who carried an electric torch with failing cells and who exuded a powerful odor of cheap whiskey.
Bushell showed him the hastily prepared warrant. After shining the flickering torch on it, the watchman touched a forefinger to the shiny brim of his cap. “Go right ahead, pal,” he said, breathing more whiskey fumes into Bushell’s face. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Not half so much as I do,” Bushell said.
Samuel Stanley carried the keys they’d taken from the Sons of Liberty at the Georgestown station. Bushell had to hope one of those keys would open the cubicle where The Two Georges was hidden. He didn’t have time to test anything else. Picking locks was too slow. Even bolt-cutters would be too slow when there were so many locks that had to be checked. If he was wrong in his hope, the NAU would be out about fifty million pounds, and he and Kathleen Flannery out a career apiece - small change in the register of history, but not to him.
He took the keys from Sam, kept one himself, and gave out the rest, one to a RAM, as far as they went: except for the last, which he handed to Kathleen for luck. “Now we go down the cubicle doors, one at a time. If your key turns a lock, sing out.”
He could tell at a glance that his first key would not fit the first lock, a stout Harvard. He tried it anyhow, a measure of his desperation. When it wouldn’t go in, let alone turn, he hurried along to the next cubicle to test it there. Again, no luck. On to the next. Then the other key-bearers formed a line behind him, Kathleen bringing up the rear.
The sun rose, almost blinding him, as he was trying his key in the last lock. He waited for the others to try theirs, too, then did his best not to sound discouraged. “We go on to the next storage company,” he said. Then he pulled out his pocket watch, grimaced, and put it back. Almost six o’clock. Not much time left at all now.
Seeing the telephone in the night watchman’s office reminded him to ring back to the Georgestown constabulary station, in the hope of cutting short the search from storage firm to storage firm. But Maxwell Hammond had no good news for him: “Colonel, we’ve been working hard since the minute you left, but we haven’t got anything out of any of ‘em. Maybe they really don’t know.” He made the admission as if he hated it.
“Keep working.” Bushell slammed down the phone.
He expected building traffic to slow the steamers as they headed for Bedrock Storage, Ltd., but he got there quickly through streets still almost deserted. “Holiday today,” Ted Kittridge reminded him when he remarked on that. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. For once, Charles Ill’s arrival was bringing him something other than trouble.
The watchman at Bedrock Storage resembled the one at Precious Treasures, from shiny-brimmed cap to grizzled beard to whiskey aroma. The only differences Bushell could see were that he’d put away his torch since the sun was up and that he was Negro rather than white. He looked at the hastily written search warrant Bushell gave him, said, “I hope you folks find whatever you’re looking for,” and leaned back against the side of the building. As Bushell passed him by, he drew a pint flask from his hip pocket, raised it to his mouth, tilted his head back, and swigged noisily.
Bedrock Storage had more cubicles to check than Precious Treasures. It was almost seven before the RAMs and Kathleen discovered none of their keys opened any of the locks on those cubicles. Bushell’s shoulders slumped when he went into the storage-company office to telephone the Georgestown constables. Again, Lieutenant Hammond had no good news to give him. He went back out to his comrades.
“It’s all up to us,” he said. “We can check one more place, maybe two, and then we turn into pumpkins. I’ve got half a dozen on this list.” He took it out of his inside coat pocket. “I’m going to read them off. If any of you can think of a reason we should go to one instead of another ... I’d be awfully glad to hear it. All right? Here: Crown Jewel Storage, Douglass Storage Cubicles, Keep Keepsakes Safe (don’t ask me to repeat that one), Adler Cubicles, NAU Special - something, Kathleen?”
“Maybe.” She bit her lip. “It isn’t much, but - “
“Spit it out,” Bushell said harshly. “Nobody else has any bright ideas. Whatever it is, it can’t hurt now.”
“All right,” she said. “Adler means eagle in German.”
“Does it?” Bushell said. He had French and Spanish and some Russian, but he’d never found a reason to learn German. “After all the eagles we’ve seen in this case - maybe one more?” He looked around at the other RAMs. “Anybody have a better idea? Anybody poke a hole in this one?” Nobody spoke. Bushell stuck the list back into his pocket. “Let’s go. Adler Cubicles, on Calhoun Street down close by the Potomac.”
As he had before, he prepared a search warrant as Sergeant Kittridge drove the steamer to the new target. He had only one more warrant left in his briefcase, too. Out of time, out of paper . . . out of luck?
Wouldn’t be long before he knew.
He got to Adler Cubicles at 7:11. Maybe that was luck. When he saw the bald eagle daubed on the front wall of the place, he began to think it was. His eyes flicked up to the roof. If this was the place, the Sons of Liberty were liable to have riflemen up there. He didn’t spot any. Even so, when he got out of the steamer, he crouched behind the wing for a moment, pistol in hand, wondering if he would draw fire. He didn’t. The only thing that happened was that a fat, bald clerk with a neat little mustache came out of the front office and said, “Hullo! Are you filming a cinema here?” Behind steel-rimmed spectacles, his eyes sparkled with excitement.
“In a word, no.” Bushell presented him with the search warrant.
His eyes got even wider and brighter. “My goodness!” he said. “What are you looking for? Are people moving great piles of contraband tobacco again? I remember last year when -“
Bushell didn’t care a farthing for the clerk’s reminiscences, and the only thing talk of contraband tobacco did was to remind him he wanted a cigar. Still wary, he pushed forward into the long, narrow courtyard around which the storage cubicles themselves were placed. His colleagues followed and fanned out in a skirmish line, but everything seemed quiet and peaceful.