"Dog my cats!" said Arizona Bill finally."I don't see how he makes it all so clear."
Judge O'Hara added: "Every time I look at those figures, I feel like a fly in a spider web. I trust we can agree now, Mr. Averoff?"
"Sure, judge. Say, Mr. de Nêche, ain't you the one who pitched in to help my pal Jim Cameron a coupla nights ago? When he got in a fight with Arries? This here catawampus is O. K., judge." Averoff paid his tariff to the court clerk and sauntered out.
The clerk now handed a folder up to the judge, who called the name of de Nêche, and perused the documents in the folder while Nash was taking his seat in front. The judge then listened to the evidence of one of the redcoated police who had made the raid, but with a benign expression that told Nash he had nothing much to fear. As the officer finished, a soldier tiptoed into the courtroom and whispered to the judge, whose expression became foxy.
"Jean-Prospère de Nêche," said O'Hara, "the Private has just sent me word that he needs your services for the defense of our municipality. How say you?"
"Well, your honor, I did have a pretty important job of my own—"
"This is more important, and we need every man. Here I am, hearing all kinds of cases fourteen hours a day because of a shortage of jurists. You shouldn't complain."
"But I'm not a citizen—"
The judge waved an impatient hand."That's taken care of automatically by your oath of allegiance. And you are not a citizen of your former country, either, its king having revoked your citizenship. Now, will you agree to take service under the Private, or shall I order you interned as a stateless alien?"
Nash shrugged and agreed; if they interned him he could not hunt the Shamir any better than if he were a soldier.
The Private was a lean, dark man in a very plain uniform. Nash observed that the musical-comedy colonel who ushered him into the office saluted the sardonic figure behind the desk, and followed the example.
"General de Nêche," said the Private, "I am given to understand that you have had civilian experience as a courier, and are at present seeking employment in that line of work. Is that correct?"
"Yes. Uh... yes, sir. Excuse me, but are you the commander in chief?"
"Naturally, since I'm the only Private in the municipal forces."
"Excuse me again, but just how do the ranks run?"
"Why, generals, being the most numerous, are the lowest. Next come the lieutenant generals and major generals, who are noncommissioned officers. The lowest commissioned rank is that of brigadier general—what are you laughing at?"
"Nothing, sir—I get it now."
"Ump. As I was saying, we are desperately in need of couriers, so many having been killed lately. On the other hand, I learn that you have accounting ability. We have no competent accountants whatever, the last good one in New York having gone south to work for the Oligarchy of Charleston, and our payrolls are in a mess."
"I don't think I'd make a good courier, sir," said Nash."I had a lapse of memory, and I don't know the city any more—"
While he was still finishing his explanation, a soldier rushed in and held a muttered consultation with the Private. Nash caught fragments: "The Lenins... some time this... surround them quickly... Sergeant Berl's brigade—"
When the messenger had left, the Private said: "This is most serious; I was going to assign you to accounting, but a matter has come up that calls for the carrying of a message immediately." He began to write, talking at the same time: "You will take this to Sergeant Berl at once. His brigade headquarters is at Harvard Street and Uranus Avenue—"
"But—Private!" exclaimed Nash."I told you I don't know my way around New York any more— I'll get lost sure!" He suspected Eleanor Berry of having had a hand in this.
"We'll take a chance on that. Don't wait to change into a uniform. There'll be a horse outside. for you. Silence! That's an order!"
Nash unhappily left the commander with the message tucked into one of his gauntlets. On the City Hall steps he almost bumped into a tweedy person with a monocle.
"I say, Chevalier!" cried Reginald Vance Kramer."I've been looking all over for you! Here's my report."
Nash distractedly took the paper and shoved it into his other gauntlet."I'll read it later," he said, starting for the horse that was being held for him.
"Better look it over now, old thing," said the detective.
Nash hesitated, then ripped the envelope open. One glance was enough to make him pore through the whole thing:
I have ascertained that Miss Alicia. Dido Woodson was abducted between 3:15 and 3:20 a. m., the morning of Sunday, November 2nd, by a band of three soulless retainers supporting the sultan Arslan Bey.
Miss Woodson is at present—11:35 p. m., Monday, November 3rd—in the harem of the said Arslan Bey, in his palace at 124 Liberty Street, New York. As far as could be learned. Miss Woodson was and is a most unwilling guest of the sultan. She expressed particular consternation and aversion on being informed that she had been assigned the number 307, and expressed the desire that some stalwart friend would rescue her.
Further reports will follow in due course.
Reginald Vance Kramer.
Nash asked: "What's the significance of that number 307?"
"My word, don't you know? Arslan has accommodations for three hundred sixty-five wives, and he tries to keep his harem at just that number, replacing losses by escape, murder, and other hazards of the harem business as they occur. Miss Woodson is now wife number 307, and today is November 3rd. Figure it out for yourself."
"You mean that today—"
"Exactly, old bottle top."
"But can't you do something? Rescue her?"
Kramer laughed shortly."Not me. Didn't I tell you that wasn't my line? I get you the information ; what you do with it is your own concern."
Just as Nash was sure he was going to explode with anxiety and frustration, a pseudo-Western drawl asked: "What's the matter, partner? Look as if rustlers had lifted your prize stock." It was Arizona Bill Averoff, teetering forward on his Western heels and rolling a cigarette.
Nash explained his troubles. Averoff lighted up and said: "Reckon I can deliver the message to that there sergeant, while you go rescue your gal."
"Do you know the way?"
"Sure, fella, like the palm of your hand."
"That's more than I do. But—" Nash hesitated. True, the cowboy probably would have a better chance of finding Sergeant Berl; true, he had been more or less forced into the army of a government with which he sympathized but to which he owed only the most doubtful allegiance. Still, there were his oath and his orders, Averoff explained: "I owe you a good toin anyway."
"He's right, old man," put in Kramer. Nash gave in, and Averoff departed at a gallop, whooping.
"Hey!" cried Nash to Kramer."Don't go yet! Got any ideas how I could get Alicia out?"
"Hm-m-m—have you any friends?"
"There are the cavaliers of the Dumas Club—"
"Ha—hadn't you heard? O'Hara ordered the club padlocked for ten days because of the duel. So your long-haired pals will be scattered all over town looking up temporary accommodations."
"How about the municipal police? If they can arrest folks for dueling, I should think an abduction—"
"Arslan's an independent sovereign, old thing, so it would be an extradition job. And the city's hoping to wangle a loan from him, so—" Kramer ended with a shrug.
"What then?"
"I don't know—try it single-handed, I suppose. Use some pretext to get in, as that City Hall sent you to negotiate that loan. Risky, of course, but what are you chaps good for if not taking risks? And now I'm off, unless you want more reports; must get back to my book. I'm starting on the ancestry of the zither. Cheerio!"