“Gordon will figure out a way to do it,” Bushell predicted. “He’s the best-organized man I know.”
He grabbed two pens, a notebook, and his hat, and was out the door and heading for the stairs before Sam Stanley could say anything else. The drive up through the Cowanger Pass was pleasant enough (Bushell idly wondered, as he had once or twice before, what Spanish name had been corrupted to give that English version). Even before the narrow, winding road reached the top of the pass, he’d left most of New Liverpool behind. Tumbleweeds and yuccas clung to the hills on either side of the road. Butterflies flitted from one plant to another. Birds pursued them. He normally sympathized with the butterflies. Today, a pursuer himself, he pulled for the birds.
From the top of the pass, the valley spread out before him. Most of it was a study in green and brown: the dark shiny green of citrus groves; a lighter shade for growing maize; gray-brown dirt not under irrigation; dark, rich earth that felt the life-giving touch of water. A grid of widespread streets carved the farm country into squares, as if it were a draughts board.
Independence Party headquarters lay on Laurel Canyon Highway, though well to the north of the eponymous canyon. It was a neat, one-story white stucco building with a red tile roof, vaguely Spanish in style, with the party’s name painted above the large window that fronted the street in big black letters that might have come off a Roman inscription.
But for that name, and for the flagpole that took the place of a red-and-white striped pole, the place resembled nothing so much as a moderately successful barbershop. Bushell glanced at the flag rippling in a light breeze atop that staff. A moment later, his eyes snapped back to it. It was not the NAU’s Jack and Stripes, though it resembled the dominion’s flag. But instead of the superimposed crosses of St. George, St. Andrew, and St. Patrick, the dark blue canton bore a bald eagle, wings outstretched, beak agape.
He shook his head as he walked toward the doorway. There was nothing illegal about that flag. It offended him all the same.
He’d visited Tory and Whig headquarters before. This one was much like those, if smaller: women at typewriters, men and women talking on telephones, some private offices toward the back of the building for more important functionaries. The place smelled of tobacco smoke, coffee, and sweet pastries. All the faces that looked up at him when he came in were white. That was out of the ordinary, especially in New Liverpool. Blacks here, as elsewhere, were mostly staunch Tories; people of Nuevespañolan and East Indian blood most often backed the Whigs.
“How may I help you, sir?” asked a middle-aged woman in a gingham frock.
“Take me to the chairman: that would be Mr. Johnston, would it not?” Bushell could see she was going to say the illustrious Mr. Johnston couldn’t speak to just anyone. He held up a hand and beat her to the punch. “I am Colonel Thomas Bushell of the Royal American Mounted Police. I am here to investigate last night’s theft of The Two Georges .”
Everyone in the office stopped talking and stared at him. The woman in gingham had spunk: “We had nothing to do with that, and you have your nerve insinuating that we did. The very idea!” She sniffed indignantly.
“The very idea, madam, has probably crossed the minds of half the people in New Liverpool this morning,” Bushell answered.
“Then half the people in New Liverpool are mistaken,” a big, beefy man said, emerging from one of the offices in the back. “I’m Morton Johnston, Colonel - Bushell, was it? Come with me, if you please, sir.”
“Thank you,” Bushell said, and took a seat across from Johnston’s desk. The Independence Party chairman looked like a prosperous barrister or a politico: handsome, ruddy, mustachioed, his graying brown hair combed across his scalp to try to conceal a growing bald spot. He dressed the part: white shirt, wing collar, black bow tie, dark blue pin-striped suit and waistcoat; a black homburg hung on a rack to one side of the desk.
His office also resembled that of a typical barrister or politico, with one exception. Where a reproduction of The Two Georges would normally take pride of place, he had instead a lithographic copy of the flag that flew outside the building.
“Tea, Colonel, or coffee?” he asked. When Bushell said he wanted coffee, Morton Johnston called to one of the secretaries out front. She fetched in a cup. It was not very good coffee, but it was strong. At the moment, that counted for more. Johnston let Bushell sip for a moment, then said, “Colonel Bushell, I can authoritatively state that the Independence Party had nothing whatever to do with the unfortunate disappearance of The Two Georges .”
“I can authoritatively state a lot of things,” Bushell answered. “That doesn’t make them true, just authoritative.”
Johnston went from ruddy to unabashed red. “You would be hard-pressed, sir, to find a more law-abiding group of citizens than the members of the Independence Party.”
“That’s true,” Bushell said. “You make a point of it. But I’d also be hard-pressed to find a nastier bunch of thuggees than the Sons of Liberty - and they and you are ... how shall I put it? Half brothers, perhaps?”
“Colonel Bushell, I resent that remark,” Johnston said, donning an expression of such stern rectitude that Bushell was convinced he had to make his living as a barrister. “No formal connections whatever exist between the Independence Party and the Sons of Liberty.”
“None we’ve proved, anyhow,” Bushell said cheerfully. “But I didn’t come here to talk about proof. I came to talk about help. If the Independence Party is as simon-pure as you’ve always claimed, you’ll want to do your duty and help us recover The Two Georges. You said yourself it was unfortunate that someone stole it. We have excellent reason to believe the someone belongs to the Sons of Liberty. We also have excellent reason to believe you’re in a good position to know more about the Sons than, say, the local Tory chairman. So share what you know with us, Mr. Johnston.”
Johnston licked his lips. After a moment, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Colonel Bushell. I’ve told you what I know and what the Independence Party knows, which is nothing. You aren’t interested in my guesses - ”
“Who says I’m not?” Bushell broke in.
“ - and, given His Majesty’s statutes on slander, I don’t care to make them,” Johnston went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Even if I did, they would be my guesses, not the party’s. We aim to free North America from the British Empire by peaceful means, not the violence the Sons of Liberty use.”
“You want to get out of the Empire,” Bushell said, “but you hide behind its laws while you’re in it.” He hadn’t expected anything else, not really, but disappointment ate at him all the same. He’d hoped for better, even from the Independence Party, in a crisis like this.
Morton Johnston stood and glowered down at him. “Good day, Colonel,” he said pointedly. Bushell rose, too. He turned and pointed to the eagle on the banner with which the Independence Party wanted to replace the Jack and Stripes. “You’ve chosen a good mascot.”
“What do you mean?”
“That bird is a carrion-eating scavenger that makes a good part of its living by stealing fish from seahawks honest and hardworking enough to do their own hunting. I can find my own way out, sir.”
He felt Johnston’s eyes boring into him as he strode toward the door, but did not look back. He was on his way to his steamer when his stomach growled angrily. It wasn’t happy anyway, not with all the black coffee he’d poured into it. He looked at his pocket watch. It lacked but a few minutes of noon. There was a fish-and-chips shop a few doors down, and a Nuevespañolan-style cafe across the street. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he decided on fish and chips. The fish was Pacific red snapper, not the cod it would have been in London, but the two elderly Scotsmen - brothers, by the look of them - who ran the shop knew their business. They dipped the fillets in batter and fried them just firm, wrapped them in newspaper, and handed them to him along with a generous helping of golden-brown fried potatoes.