“Who, me?” His adjutant’s face was the picture of innocence. “There’s got to be more money in it than in what I’m doing now. I was going to say more travel, too, but that’s not necessarily so, not when you think about how far we’ve been lately.” Stanley didn’t want to make an immediate issue of it, then. Just as well, Bushell thought, and ate the rest of the little sausage. A few minutes later, Kathleen said, “Excuse me, please,” and got up from the table. As she walked past Bushell on her way out of the restaurant, she let her hand rest affectionately on his back for a moment. Samuel Stanley let out that low, thoughtful whistle again. Bushell glanced over at him, one eyebrow raised. Stanley began, “None of my business, but - “
“How right you are,” Bushell cut in, hoping to nip things in the bud. It didn’t work. Stubbornly, Stanley went on, “If you’d met her in the regular way, I’d be cheering you on. I think she’s good for you, and I think she’s good people. But that’s just it - I think those things. I don’t know them. Are you sure of what you’re doing, Chief? I mean, considering that - “ Now he did stop.
“Considering that she’s still a suspect of sorts,” Bushell finished for him. “Is that what you mean?” Sam nodded, looking unhappy. Bushell said, “No, I’m not sure, and do you know what? I’m damned glad I’m not.”
His adjutant frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“Every time I’ve been sure in this stinking case, I’ve been wrong,” Bushell said. “So no, I’m not sure about Kathleen. I’m going to do whatever I do, and we’ll just have to bloody well see how it works out in the end. If it doesn’t - “ He drained his own teacup. He knew too well that things didn’t always work out to order. If this one didn’t he wouldn’t need to worry about Kathleen, or about the rest of his career, or about much of anything else, either.
He waited for Sam to scream at him, or take the more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone he used when he’d caught Bushell obviously in the wrong. Instead, to his amazement, his adjutant nodded. “You put it that way, Chief, all right. If you don’t bet, you can’t win.”
That so closely paralleled Bushell’s own thinking of the night before that he stared at Stanley. Before he could answer, Kathleen came back, her light green silk frock flowing about her as she walked. She pointed a finger at him as she sat down once more. “The two of you have been talking about me again, haven’t you? You dummy up like a couple of schoolboys whenever I get close enough to hear.”
Without pausing to let either Bushell or Stanley answer, she went on, “I suppose I’ll just have to give you something to talk about, then, won’t I?” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against Bushell’s. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “What do you think of that?”
“I,” Bushell said solemnly, “like it.”
Samuel Stanley took a slow, deliberate sip of tea. “The only times I’ve been sorry I was born a Negro,” he declared, “are the ones when people can’t see me blush.”
Kathleen stared, convinced for a moment he was serious. In a severe voice, Bushell said, “You, sir, have been associating with me altogether too long.”
The laughter from the table made heads turn all through Parker’s. Bushell couldn’t have cared less. Boston’s muggy heat made the walk from the hotel to the RAM offices oppressive, even if it wasn’t very long. Bushell envied Kathleen her cool silk dress. In his suit and waistcoat, cravat and fedora, he felt as if he were wearing his own portable steam bath.
Samuel Stanley was also sweating. He paused briefly to fan himself with his hat. Setting it back on his head, he said, “I think I may buy myself a straw boater. That might help fight the humidity a little.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Bushell answered, “but if I do get myself a straw, the next clue we find will take us straight to Newfoundland, and I’ll need a greatcoat instead.”
“Things have worked out that way, haven’t they?” Stanley said with a theatrical sigh. He touched the brim of his dark homburg. “First decent reason I’ve heard for keeping this.”
Fans at the RAM offices stirred the sticky air without doing much to cool it. Indoors, though, Bushell and Stanley could take off their hats, which helped a little. Major George Harris greeted them with spread hands and a mournful expression. “Still no sign of your Kilbride, I’m afraid.”
Bushell bit down on his cigar so that it jerked in his mouth. “I feared as much, the moment I came into town. Boston’s too big; it has too many places to stay; and it has too many people who like the Sons of Liberty too well. What do we do next?”
Harris spread his hands. He was a slim fellow in his late thirties who wore muttonchop whiskers that didn’t suit the shape of his face. “We keep looking, Colonel. I don’t know what else we can do. If you have any suggestions beyond that, I’d be delighted to hear them.”
“I’d be delighted to make them, too.” Bushell tugged his shirt cuff away from his wrist and peered toward his elbow. “Nothing up my sleeve, worse luck.”
“We have to do it the hard way,” Samuel Stanley said. “Good old-fashioned police work, nothing else but.”
The cigar jerked again. “We haven’t got time for good old-fashioned police work,” Bushell said. “The King-Emperor’s yacht sails before long. The politicos will pay ransom to get The Two Georges back, sure as the devil they will.”
“You’re too right about that,” Stanley said. He started to add something, then paused and scratched his head. “Matter of fact, I’d have expected more ransom demands - or at least threats - by now.”
“Do you suppose the Sons have made some and they’re keeping them quiet in Victoria?” Harris asked.
“They wouldn’t be proud of paying, even if - maybe especially if - they had to.”
“It could be so, but I doubt it,” Bushell said. Surely Sir Horace would have told him if the Sons had sent any messages either to RAM headquarters or to Sir Martin Luther King. When he went on, though, he picked a more publicly plausible reason: “If the Sons were making demands at the capital, they’d be making them in the newspapers, too.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Harris said. “They’ve always been better at getting ink than they deserve. Pack of - “
He glanced over at Kathleen Flannery; you could see him decide not to talk like a police officer. Instead, he went on, “In aid of which, any more thoughts on how you fared at Common Sense yesterday?”
“All things considered, quite well,” Kathleen answered before either Bushell or Stanley could speak. Bushell raised an eyebrow; his adjutant coughed. Ignoring them both, Kathleen finished, “There was a good deal to consider, though.”
“Er - yes.” Major Harris sounded unenlightened. Bushell sympathized with him; he’d had that feeling after conversations with Kathleen, too. Valiantly, Harris tried to stay with her, asking, “Got some useful information, did you?”
“Not a bit,” she said, her voice cheery.
Harris looked more bewildered than ever. Seeming to give up his questions for Kathleen as a bad job, he turned to Bushell and said, “We can put Kilbride’s name and picture in the paper ourselves. If he’s here, someone must have seen him.”
Stanley looked worried. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “The ransom note they sent us said we weren’t supposed to go after The Two Georges. If we did, something bad would happen to it. Having the Sons destroy it would be almost as bad as paying them their fifty million pounds.”