“The rest of us are in hell?” Bushell asked, bemused.
But the bellhop shook his head. “No, sir. Hawenneyu takes no notice of you, for good or ill. But Washington was such a noble man, the Great Spirit smiled on him no matter what his color.”
“Is that a fact?” Bushell said. It wasn’t a fact, of course; it was a theological opinion, than which nothing was less susceptible to proof. But it was a theological opinion that stuck his fancy. He tipped the bellhop a pound, twice the going rate. The man bowed and slipped away.
On the wall across from the bed hung a smaller print, this one of a man with dark, Red Indian features and extraordinarily intelligent, probing eyes. There were letters underneath the print. Walking up to it, Bushell saw that they spelled out what looked like an Iroquois name: Sosehawa. He wished the bellhop hadn’t left. Most bellhops knew where the good restaurants were or how to find a companion for the evening if you were so inclined. This fellow had seemed well informed about other matters as well.
Bushell shrugged. Shikalimo would know who Sosehawa was. All that could wait till morning. He unpacked his pyjamas, put them on, and went to bed.
Samuel Stanley stared at the breakfast menu with a dismay Bushell found incomprehensible. “Hommony cakes!” Stanley exploded. “In this day and age they expect people to eat hommony cakes - and pay hotel prices to do it? They won’t get ‘em from me, by God!”
“What the devil are hommony cakes?” Bushell asked, once the offending item was identified.
“Hommony is maize treated with lye to hull it and then ground into flour. You can make it into cakes or you can serve it up as porridge - but you’d better not, not if you want to keep your Negro trade,” Stanley said.
“Sorry, Sam - I’m still not following this.”
“Hommony was slave food. It was cheap, it would keep a man going . . . it still will, come to that, and poor people in the southeastern provinces eat it to this day. But for a Negro family that’s come up in the world, as most of us have - “ Stanley shook his head. “My folks got some in the house just once that I remember, when I was about fourteen. They served me up a big bowl of the porridge and made me eat it all. My father said my grandpa had done the same for him, and so on as far back as any of us remember. He called it knowing what we’d got away from.”
Bushell had been curious about the hommony, but after that impassioned speech he decided he’d be wiser leaving it alone. He chose griddlecakes from good old unabashed wheat flour instead, and maple syrup to go with them. Sam Stanley ordered bacon and eggs, with chips on the side. Their breakfasts had just arrived when Bushell stiffened as a waiter led a new patron to a table. He caught Stanley’s eye. The adjutant followed his gaze. A forkful of eggs halted halfway to Stanley’s mouth. “What do you know about that?” he said softly.
“I don’t know a bloody thing, but I’m going to find out.” Bushell rose from his seat and strode over to the woman who had just come into the dining room. “Won’t you join me for breakfast, Dr. Flannery?” he said with an ironic courtesy that masked the anger and suspicion he felt. Kathleen Flannery looked up in surprise that rapidly became alarm. “Why, Colonel Bushell,” she said.
“How ... pleasant to see you again.” Color rose from her throat to her cheeks to her forehead.
“Won’t you join me for breakfast?” Bushell repeated. It was phrased as a request, but not meant as one. She bit her lip, nodded, and rose. Bushell paced beside her, as if to make sure she didn’t cut and run. He pulled out a chair for her. “I’m sure you also remember Captain Stanley?”
“Of course,” Kathleen answered, nodding. “How are you this morning, Captain?”
“Curious,” Stanley said bluntly. That made her look down at the linen tablecloth in confusion - or was it embarrassment? Bushell couldn’t tell.
A waiter came to the table where Kathleen Flannery had been seated. He scratched his head for a moment, then smiled when he saw her sitting with Bushell and Stanley. “Ah, you have friends here,” he said. “How nice.”
“Yes,” she answered, her voice brittle. When he expectantly poised pencil above pad, she ordered the hommony porridge with a small pitcher of cream. Bushell waited for Samuel Stanley to detonate once more, but his adjutant put on a poker face instead. Stanley knew when not to show his cards. Bushell waited till everyone had finished eating before he lighted a cigar and asked, “And what brings you to Doshoweh at such an, mm, opportune time, Dr. Flannery?”
Kathleen had recovered her spirits. “I don’t have to answer your questions, Colonel,” she said, and started to rise. “If you will excuse me - “
“Sit down.” Bushell’s voice was very quiet; no one two tables over would have heard him. But he’d learned, first in the army and then in the RAMs, to put the snap of command into what he said. Kathleen Flannery returned to her chair before she quite realized she’d done so. Bushell went on, “Would you sooner discuss this at the Doshoweh RAM headquarters? They’re around the corner, I’m told. Or perhaps the local constables would be curious to know why you came into Doshoweh only days after The Two Georges did.”
She stared at him. “Then it’s true,” she breathed. “It did come here.” She reached out to set her hand on his. “Have you got it back?”
“No, we haven’t got it back,” Bushell said roughly, and she took her hand away. “My best guess is that it’s not here now.” He grimaced, wishing he hadn’t told her even that much. Covering annoyance by pouring himself more tea, he continued, “How the devil did you know it was in the first place? What are you doing chasing it after I told you to stay out of the case?”
Kathleen answered the second question: “I’m not your servant, Colonel, no matter what you may think, and I am not obliged to act on your say-so. Serving as curator for the traveling exhibition of The Two Georges would have been a highlight of my career, something to build on for years to come. Having the painting stolen while touring - Think what that does for my prospects.”
Bushell thought about it. She would carry the same sort of black mark on her record as he. “That doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here,” he said. “It took a lot of police work - it took a man dying, for God’s sake - to get us here . . . and we find you in Doshoweh ahead of us. How did you know The Two Georges was here?”
“I don’t know anything about police work,” she said. “I don’t know what you found or where you found it. What I know is art. Every time a major painting is stolen, there’s always a flood of rumors about where it’s gone and who has it. This time we know who has it, and - “
“ - And they made sure there wouldn’t be any rumors about where it was,” Bushell interrupted. “So what are you doing here, Dr. Flannery? Answer me, please.”
“I am trying to answer you,” she said. Now the color that rose to her cheeks was anger, not embarrassment. “It’s much more difficult for me to do so when you keep breaking in.”
“Go on, then,” he told her.
“Thank you so much,” she said icily. “As I think I told you during one of your interrogations in New Liverpool, the All-Union Museum has an extensive collection of Red Indian artifacts. Our associate curator of Iroquois art, Dr. Gyantwaka, recognized that the headline the villains showed with The Two Georges came from the Doshoweh Sentinel. Actually, he wasn’t quite certain, but I decided to take the chance and see what I could find here. And so I arrived day before yesterday.”