“In Pittsburgh earlier today, Governor-general Sir Martin Luther King again pledged every possible effort to recover The Two Georges, stolen last night in New Liverpool in a crime of appalling brazenness,” the newsreader said.
Bushell sighed as he sat down on the couch. He’d been sure Sir Martin would say something like that. It sounded good, didn’t cost anything, and didn’t mean anything, either. The newsreader went on, “In New Liverpool, however local RAM commandant Colonel Thomas Bushell stated that, while the clandestine organization known as the Sons of Liberty is believed to be connected to the theft, no specific clues as to the identity of the criminals or the whereabouts of The Two Georges have yet come to light. It is to be hoped that this unfortunate situation will soon be remedied, as the disappearance of the painting has sent shock waves through both the NAU and the mother country. In London, the prime minister said - ”
With a grunt, Bushell opened his book. He didn’t care what the prime minister said. She was six thousand miles away and knew even less about the matter than he did himself, which, considering how little he knew, was saying something. He smiled at the elegant Augustan verse into which Pope had rendered the Iliad. It wasn’t Homer - he’d read Homer in the original - but it was fine poetry. He wouldn’t have minded a god coming down from Olympus to give him a hand in the investigation. “Why Achilles and not me?” he murmured.
Zeus didn’t answer. Instead, the telephone rang. He went into the bedroom and answered it. It was a reporter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the press conference, Colonel, but if you’d be so kind as to tell me - ” Bushell hung up. If the fellow couldn’t get where he was supposed to be on time, to hell with him.
“To hell with him anyway,” Bushell said. He stared down at the telephone. After a moment, he took it off the hook and stuffed the handset in the night-stand drawer. He wasn’t supposed to be out of contact with the office, but tonight he needed sleep more than anything else. Reporters were more likely to call than his colleagues, who knew how tired he was. He nodded. He’d take the chance. He went out to the kitchen and poured himself another Irish whiskey. He drank it, washed the glass and put it away, replaced the volume of Pope on the shelf, and switched off the wireless. Then he changed into his pyjamas and got into bed. He remembered nothing more until his alarm clock jerked him headlong out of sleep.
The printing establishment Franklin Mansfield and Titus Hackett ran lay about halfway between downtown New Liverpool and Governor Burnett’s residence in the West End. Two steamers full of RAMs quietly pulled up in front of it. People on the street stared as half a dozen big men in red tunics piled out of the cars and gathered in front of the doorway to the shop. A scrawny bald man in his shirtsleeves threw open the door, not to let them in but to cry angrily, “What’s the meaning of this? Unless you ugly louts have a warrant, sod off and let an honest man carry on with his trade.”
“I have a warrant here, Mr. Hackett,” Bushell said, recognizing the fellow from his photograph in the files. He displayed the official paper. “As you see, it gives us leave to search these premises pursuant to the investigation of the theft of The Two Georges. Now stand aside and let us do our job.”
“Just a bleeding minute.” Hackett snatched the warrant out of his hands. Franklin Mansfield came out to read it with him: a beefy fellow with curly black hair and bushy side whiskers. “Bah!” Hackett said, and shoved the warrant back at Bushell. “You got your trained seal of a judge to sign it, and you have your Cossacks with you, the same as the damned Tsar would do.”
“Cossacks don’t bother with warrants,” Bushell answered. “Now stand aside.”
Scowling, Hackett and Mansfield got out of the way. The RAMs in red swarmed into the shop and began turning it upside down with the practiced efficiency of men who had performed a great number of searches. Franklin Mansfield spoke for the first time: “I shall make certain they’re planting nothing incriminating.” His voice was deep and smooth and rich; but for a slight lisp, perhaps an affectation, he could have been a newsreader himself.
“What are you doing here, anyhow?” Hackett snarled at Bushell. He had no affectations, only rage.
“You’ve got no call to be tossing the place like that.” He pointed to the chaos the RAMs were making in their search for evidence. “You bloody well ought to leave us alone. That jury found us innocent, it did.”
“No, it found you not guilty, which is not the same thing,” Bushell answered. “As for why we’re here where did you and your partner come by those gold Russian roubles you used to spread your filth far and wide?”
“It wasn’t filth - it was the truth. And we came by ‘em legal, in payment for another job,” Hackett answered. “We took ‘em, and glad enough to have ‘em. Weight for weight, their gold’s as good as sovereigns or francs.” The printer spat on the sidewalk. “There! You can run me in for that, if you’ve a fancy.” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “We’ll be days putting back together the rubbish heap your apes are leaving.”
“If we find nothing of interest, you shall in due course receive a formal written apology from the governor-general’s office in Victoria,” Bushell said, knowing that was the last thing the printer wanted. Hackett stared at him, watery blue eyes going wide. He cocked a fist in anger. Bushell hoped he would swing. Conviction on a charge of battery against one of the King-Emperor’s police would put Hackett in a warm, dry place for some time to come. But, with an obvious effort of will, the printer mastered himself.
One of the uniformed RAMs, a muscular Negro named Clarence Malmsey, brought a typed sheet of paper out to Bushell. “Here’s something interesting, sir,” he said: “a bill paid off by seven hundred gold roubles.”
“Let me see that.” Bushell took his reading glasses from their case, set them on his nose. “Queen Charlotte Islands Board of Tourism?” He frowned. “I didn’t think the Queen Charlotte Islands had a board of tourism. Isn’t that where the imperial naval base is, up by Russian Alaska?” He frowned again, trying to be just. “But since they are up by Alaska, that may account for the roubles.”
“First right thing you’ve said today,” Titus Hackett exclaimed.
“It might be so, sir, but I didn’t see anything that looked like the makings for a tourist brochure in there with the bill,” Malmsey said. “What was in there, among other things, was this.” Now he proffered an eight-by-ten glossy photograph.
Bushell clicked his tongue between his teeth. The photograph showed a prince’s skinny, blond, estranged wife frolicking nearly in the altogether through surf on a beach in a climate much more tropical than that boasted by the Queen Charlotte Islands. He held it out to Hackett. “I take it you and Mr. Mansfield are planning to try to repeat your earlier publishing success, sir? And that you will be retaining the same barrister as before?”
“None of your bloody business,” Hackett said.
“No doubt everyone will be curious to learn why the Queen Charlotte Islands Board of Tourism is so interested in this project,” Bushell remarked.
“So we misfiled the bill,” Hackett said. “You’re a RAM, God’s angel in a little red suit, so I suppose you never misfiled anything.”
“More times than I like to remember,” Bushell said easily, “but never such an - interesting juxtaposition.” He turned to the uniformed trooper. “See if you can find anything in there that has to do with the Queen Charlotte Islands and a tourism brochure: that, or any more of this slime.” He held up the glossy photograph.