"Except that the kitchen's too crowded," came the answer.
"More saucers than cups, I'd say."
"You prefer your tea hot or cold, sir?"
The passenger smiled to himself. "I like my coffee black."
That was the confirming line for Professor Henry Jones to make to the driver.
Now he had his final line to accept from the driver.
"As I do. Pour it into the saucer to cool it off quickly."
"Excellent," said Jones.
"Treadwell does overdo this backandforth a bit, doesn't he?" The driver laughed.
"Depends," Indy said noncommittally. "You know his routines. I hardly know the man. I didn't get your name," he added quickly.
"I didn't give it. Suppose you tell me what it is and we can dispense with all this secret palaver."
"Colonel Harry Henshaw, United States Army. Fighter pilot, test pilot, technical intelligence, experimental projects."
"Professor Henry Jones. Professor of Medieval Lit and Studies from dear old Princeton," the driver said. "How come they don't call you Hoosier instead of Indy?"
Indy laughed. No question now that this was the army officer Treadwell had set up for this meet. "Most people can't spell Hoosier, I guess."
Henshaw chuckled, then cut off his mirth as if with a switch. "Your plans still on for the train tomorrow night?"
Indy accepted the change in tone and attitude. They were down to business.
There was another confirmation that at this moment all was welclass="underline" He hadn't told the driver —Henshaw—where he wanted to go, but Henshaw was making a direct line to The Nest nightclub that was Indy's destination.
"It is," Indy said brusquely.
"I'm supposed to ask you some questions," Henshaw said.
"Ask away."
"You've got a lot of people hanging on the fence, Professor, and—"
"Indy. No Professor."
"Okay. Like I said, there's a lot of fencehanging going on. Like what was so hot about that train cargo down in South Africa."
"Treadwell didn't explain?"
"No, sir. My instructions were to hear it from you directly."
"Colonel, let's start by your telling me what you've heard," Indy directed.
"Something about an artifact. The grapevine, which, by the way, is so hot the wires are glowing, has it that the artifact is either from an ancient civilization or,"
Henshaw hesitated, "I know this sounds crazy, but it may be extraterrestrial."
In the gloom of the cab's rear seat, Indy smiled. The plan he and Treadwell had put together well before this moment was working. Treadwell was a longexperienced investigator of both military intelligence matters and criminal activities. He believed firmly that it's easier to pass off a big lie than a small one, and when you combine skillful deception with the greed of others you can get people to believe almost anything you want them to believe.
Indy recalled what Treadwell had told him: "When there's a chance you may lose something very valuable, or it may be taken by force, you can't always defend yourself properly. So the trick is to put a tracer in with your valuables. In many cases you can't use chemicals or a radio signal. Distances, time, other complications; that sort of thing.
So you want to trigger an action in the people who've done you dirty, and that way they become the tracer."
Treadwell had also told Indy it was important for his cab driver—a.k.a. Colonel Harry Henshaw, U.S. Army— to be told the truth, that the artifact in the South African robbery had been engineered in concept by Treadwell. With Indy's unique talents in archeological mysteries, together they had masterminded a fake artifact that seemed to be of such extraordinary rarity that it was almost beyond price.
"Harry's a strange sort of duck," Treadwell had explained, "but the man is absolutely brilliant. Unique, too, in the way he works. He's like a, well, a walking encyclopedia of thousands of bits and pieces of information that he brings together to make sense out of things that baffle the rest of us. Tell him the truth about the artifact, but, please, Indy, do so when you two are very much alone and your conversation is secure."
Indy looked about him. Obviously the taxi in which he was riding didn't belong to any cab company. It had to be government property, used for just such "unusual transportation" as of this moment. And since Henshaw would be a very tight member of the group trying to find out what Indy was after, those incredible discs or crescents or saucers, or whatever they were, well, Treadwell was right. Get Henshaw started as soon as possible in his own special investigative way.
"Harry, is this cab secure?" Indy asked the man at the wheel.
"Secure? Indy, this thing is armored. So is all the glass. You could empty a Thompson submachine gun at this cab and the bullets would bounce off."
"I don't mean that," Indy said quickly. "Any recording equipment? Mikes, radios?"
"No, sir. She's clean."
"Harry, Treadwell wants you brought into the picture about that artifact."
The cab swerved suddenly; Henshaw was that taken by surprise. "I . . . I'm glad to hear that," he said. "I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't, well, hanging on the edge to know about it."
"Don't bother looking at the stars, Harry."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what the expression 'red herring' means?"
"Yes. A false lead. Something you plant to mislead other people."
"Well, that cube's a red herring."
The colonel kept his silence for a while. "You're certain of that, Indy? I mean, we've been hearing such wild stories—"
"You're supposed to hear them," Indy broke in. "That's been the plan from the beginning. Of course, you do not repeat this to anyone else. Treadwell's convinced there's a leak somewhere in his organization, so he's playing everything close to the vest. But it was his decision you be informed as to what's going on. If Treadwell is right, that cube could give us some good leads."
Henshaw laughed humorlessly. "You know something? I was hoping, you know, a wild sort of hope, I guess, that it really was from, uh," he gestured with one hand, upward, "from out there."
"Not this time, Harry." Indy studied the scene outside the cab. "We're almost there. I want you to let me off about two blocks away. Around a corner so no one at the club sees me coming from this cab."
"Got it. You want a backup?"
"No. This is a solo job. You know where our group is staying, right?"
"We'd had the place screened and covered before you landed there."
"Thanks. It's good to know." Indy gestured to the next street corner. "Let me off just ahead."
Henshaw eased the cab to the curb. Indy waited until no pedestrians were near the cab. Before Henshaw realized what was happening, Indy had slipped away and was just turning the corner.
The burly man wearing a heavy windbreaker, scuffed boots, and a seaman's knitted cap shuffled clumsily toward the entrance to Chicago's jazz and blues club, The Nest. Indy limped badly in a lurching motion as he approached the brightly lit awning and an entrance doorman about the size of a small grizzly bear. Mike Patterson was all show as a doorman. An exprizefighter who failed to make the big time, he was big and tough enough to handle his real job as a bouncer, and as an entrance guard to keep out the bums and riffraff like this shufflefooted geezer trying to get inside.