The Investigations of Avram Davidson (21 page)

“You get out of my house,” said Granny Goodeycoonce, “or I'll—”

“Call the police? Oh, I doubt that, my good woman; I doubt that entirely. How would you explain all those cork fenders in the cellar? The copper cable, raw rubber, Turkish Sipahi cigarettes, Polish hams? To say nothing of enough sailcloth to supply a regatta, a ton of tinned caviar, five hundred
oka
of Syrian arrack, twenty canisters of ambergris, several score pods of prime Nepauli musk, and, oh, simply ever so many more goodies—all of which, I have no hesitation in declaring, are the fruits of, I say not ‘theft,' but of, shall I say, impermissive acquisition. Eh?”

Granny Goodeycoonce, during the partial inventory, had recovered her aplomb. “Well, you simply couldn't be more wrong,” she said, a smile of haughty amusement on her lips. “‘Impermissive'? Poo. We have the best permission anyone could ever want. Neely, show this foreign person our permission.”

Still pale, and muttering phrases like
I'll be an old man when I get out,
Neely unlocked an antique cabinet in one corner of the room and removed a flat steel case, which he handed to his grandmother. She opened it with a key of her own, and reverently extracted a parchment document festooned with seals, which she displayed to the Marquess with the words: “Look, but don't touch.”

He fixed his monocle firmly in his good eye and bent over. After a while he straightened up. “Mph. Well, I must confess that my knowledge of Seventeenth Century Dutch orthography is rather limited. But I
can
make out the name of Van Goedikoentse, as well as that of Petrus Stuyvesant. Perhaps you would be good enough to explain?”

Nothing could have pleased Granny more.
“This,”
she said in tones both hushed and haughty, “is a Patent from the Dutch West India Company, granting to my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Nicolaes Jacobus Van Goedikoentse,
and
‘to his heirs forever,' the right of collecting customs in the harbor port of Nieuw Amsterdam. It was granted in return for Myn Heer Van Goedikoentse's valiant help in resisting the insolent British demand for surrender in 1662. Governor Stuyvesant promised he would never forget.”

For a moment no word broke the reverent silence. Then, slowly, Lord Grue and Groole removed his cap. “And naturally,” he said, “your family has never recognized that surrender. Madam, as an unreconstructed Jacobite, I honor them for it, in your person.” He gravely bowed. Equally gravely, Mrs. Goodeycoonce made a slight curtsy. “Under no circumstances,” he went on, “would I dream of betraying your confidence. As a small effort to amend for the sins of my country's past I offer you my collaboration—my very, very
experienced
collaboration, if I do say so.”

Three hundred years (almost) of going it alone struggled in Mrs. Goodeycoonce's bosom to say No. At the same time she was plainly impressed with Lord Grue and Groole's offer—to say nothing of his manner. It took her a while to reply. “Well,” she said finally, “we'll see.”

*   *   *

D
ON
S
YLVESTER
F
ITZ
P
ATRICK
, Second Vice-President of the Mafia (Lower Manhattan Branch), was nervous. The survey was almost finished, and the Grand Council still hadn't made up its mind about blowing up the Brooklyn Navy Yard. In fact, it was even now debating the project in their Chamber, at the window of the anteroom to which Don Sylvester now sat. Elation at being at long last removed from the artichoke detail had gradually given way to uneasiness. Suppose they
did
decide to blow it up? Would the United States Government take the same broad view of this as the Dons did? Visions of being hanged from the yardarm of, say, the USS
Missouri,
danced like sugar plums in Sylvester's head.

A flutter from the crates at his foot distracted his attention. In one was a black pigeon, in one was a white. Very soon the mysterious Mr. Tosci would appear with $87,000,000 in plain, sealed wrappers, and be told the Grand Council's decision. Even now the Mafiosi bomb squads were standing by at the ready in Brooklyn. Informed only that morning that police had put the traditional, semiannual wire tap on the Mafiosi phones, the Mafiosi had brought out the traditional, semiannual pigeon post.

“Now, remember,” Don Lefty McGonigle had instructed his son-in-law, “d' black boid has d' message
Bombs Away
awready in d' cap-sool fastened to its foot. And d' white boid's got d' message
Everyt'ing Off
inscribed on d' paper in d' cap-sool on
its
foot. Ya got dat?”

“Yeah, Papa,” said Don Sylvester, wiping his face.

“So when ya get d' woid,
Yes,
ya leddout d'
black
pigeon. But if ya get d' woid,
No,
den ya leddout d'
white
pigeon. An' nats all dere's to it. Okay?”

“Okay, Papa.”

“Om depending on you. Philomena is depending on you. So don't chew be noivous.”

“No, Papa,” said Don Sylvester.

*   *   *

W
HEN
F
ORRANCE TOLD
Daisy that the “Nafia” was awaiting delivery of the first of its new fleet of trucks he was speaking optimistically. The new truck was “new” only in the sense that it was newer than the one it replaced, a 1924 Star, which had to be thawed out with boiling water in cold weather and cranked by hand before it would start, in all weather. The Nafia treasury had suffered a terrible blow when the Cherry Street Mob, in the mid-fifties, took over the distribution of birch beer south of Vesey Street—during the course of which epic struggle Guts had his ears boxed and Blood suffered a sympathetic nasal hemorrhage; as a result, the treasury could only afford to have the single word NAFIA painted on the side panels. Still it was
some
thing.

“Rides like a dream, don't it,” Forrance said, as they headed along South Street one bright afternoon.

“No, it don't,” said Blood. “It liss.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘it liss'?”

“I mean, like it liss ta one side. Look—”

Guts said, “He's right, boss. It
does
liss. Them new gumball machines ain't equally distributed. They all slide to one side.”

Forrance halted the truck with a grinding of gears. “All right,” he said resignedly; “then let's take'm all out and put'm back in again, but
evenly
this time.”

So the smallest criminal organization in New York got out of its fleet of trucks to unload and reload its gumball machines.

*   *   *

T
OSCI PAUSED ON
the deck of the yacht to receive his superior's final instructions. “I have counted the money,” he said. “Eighty-six million in negotiable bearer bonds, and one million in cash.”

“Very well. Perhaps they will have time to spend it all before we Take Over; perhaps not. I have instructed the Chief Engineer to test the engines in order that we can leave as soon as the decision is made. They
say
the bombs are set for four hours, but who knows if we can believe them?”

As if to confirm his fears, the Chief Engineer at this moment rushed on deck, grease and dismay, in equal parts, showing on his face.

“The engines won't start!” he cried.

“They
must
start!” snapped the Project Supervisor. “Go below and see to it!” The Chief, with a shrug, obeyed. The Project Supervisor scowled. “An odd coincidence—if it is a coincidence,” he said. “Personally, I have never trusted sailors since the Kronstadt Mutiny.” To conceal his nervousness he lifted his binoculars to his eyes, ordering Tosci not to leave the ship for the time being. Scarcely had he looked through the glasses when an exclamation broke through his clenched lips.

“There is a truck on the waterfront,” he cried, “with the Mafia's name on it! And three men are lifting something from it. Here—” he thrust the glasses at Tosci—“see what you can make of it.”

Tosci gazed in bewilderment. “Those machines,” he said. “I've never seen anything like them. I don't understand—why should the Mafia be unloading such strange devices so near our ship?”

Suspicion, never far below the surface of the Project Supervisor's mind, and usually right on top of it, burst into flames. “They must be electronic devices to keep our engines from functioning!” he cried. “They think to leave us stuck here in the direct path of the explosions, thus destroying alien witnesses! Clever, even admirable—but we cannot allow it. Come—” he seized Tosci by the arm holding the portfolio in which the bonds and money were—“to the launch! We must see about this!” Together they rushed down the gangway ladder into the boat.

*   *   *

“W
HITE PIGEON IF
it's No,” Don Sylvester mumbled. “Black pigeon if it's Yes. White, No. Black, Yes. I got it.” But he was still nervous. Suppose he fumbled his responsibilities at the crucial moment—
suppose he bungled the job?
For the hundredth time his fingers examined the catches on the cage, lifted one up a fraction of an inch, closed it, then lifted the other—and there was a sudden sound from the cage.

Don Sylvester's startled fingers flew to his mouth. The catch snapped up. The black pigeon hopped out, fluttered to the window sill, cooed again, and—as Sylvester made a frantic lunge for it—spread its wings and flew out. It soared up, up, up, circled once, circled twice, then flew off toward Brooklyn.

Sylvester stared at the air in wordless horror. Then he stared at the door of the Grand Council Chamber. Any moment now, it might open. He tiptoed over and listened.

“I say
no!
” a voice declared.

“And I say
yes!
” declared a second voice.

Helplessly, his eyes roamed the anteroom, fell at length on the telephone. Regardless of possible wiretaps, he quickly and fearfully dialed a number. “Hello?” he whispered hoarsely. “Hello, Philomena? Listen, Philomena—”

*   *   *

T
HE BLACK PIGEON
flapped its way toward Brooklyn with leisurely strokes, thinking deep pigeonic thoughts. Now and then it caught an updraft and coasted effortlessly. It was in no hurry. But, of course, it really was not very far to Brooklyn, as a pigeon flies.…

*   *   *

“E
ASY DOES IT
—watch my toes, ya dope—down, down.”

“Good afternoon, boys,” said Daisy. “I just came out to mail a letter to Turkey. Did you know that airmail is ten cents cheaper to the west bank of the Hellespont, because it's in Europe? Oooh—gumballs! Let me see if I have a penny—”

“No, let me see if
I
got one, Miss—”

“No, lem
me
see, Forry—”

“Aa, c'
mon,
I gotta have one—”

While the three Nafiosi were plunging in their pockets, the yacht's launch drew up to the pier. Out of it came Tosci, the Project Supervisor, and three crewmen. “What are you up to?” Tosci shouted.

“What's it to you?” Forrance countered.

“I order you to remove those machines from this area at once!”

Instantly truculent, Forrance thrust out his jaw. “Nobody orders the Nafia what to do with its machines,” he said. “Anyways, not south of Vesey Street,” he amended.

“Put them on the truck and see that they are driven away,” Tosci instructed a crewman, who began to obey, but was prevented by Blood. The crewman swung, Blood's nose, ever sensitive, began to bleed, and Daisy, aroused, cried, “You let him alone!” and wielded her pocketbook with a will. The crewman staggered. Guts, gauging his distance to a nicety, swung his ponderous belly around and knocked him down.

“Take the girl,” shouted the Project Supervisor, in his own language. “She is undoubtedly their ‘moll.' We will keep her aboard as a hostage.” And while he, Tosci, and one of their men engaged the tiny syndicate in combat, the other two sailors hustled Daisy into the launch, muffling her cries for help.

*   *   *

M
RS
. G
OODEYCOONCE
, N
EELY
, Denny, Guido, and Lord Grue and Groole were out for a walk. No decision had yet been made on the noble lord's proposal, but nevertheless everyone seemed to be growing somewhat closer. The Marquess was telling about the time that he rescued the Dowager Begum of Oont from the horrid captivity in which she had been placed by her dissolute nephew, the Oonti Ghook. All listened in fascination, except the dog Guido, who had heard the story before.

So taken up in his account was the Marquess that he absentmindedly abstracted from his pocket a particularly foul pipe (which respect for the lady had normally prevented his smoking in her presence), and proceeded to charge it with the notoriously rank tobacco swept up for sale to the inhabitants of the lower-income quarters of Quetta; and struck a match to it. At the first unconsidered whiff Mrs. Goodeycoonce coughed. Then she gagged, then she inhaled with a harsh, gasping breath. And next she turned white, green, and bright red.

Neely was the first to notice. “Granny!” he said. “Granny?” Then, “It must be your pipe—”

The Marquess was overcome with confusion and remorse. “Terribly sorry,” he declared. “I'd knock the dottle out, except that's all it
is,
you know—dottle, I mean. I say, Mrs. Goodeycoonce—oh, I
say.
”

But Mrs. Goodeycoonce's face had taken on an almost masculine appearance. She rolled up first one fist, loosely, and then the other, placed them in alignment, lifted them to her eyes, and peered out upon the River. And in a gutturally accented and heavy voice quite unlike her usual tones she declared, “Zound der alarm! Beat to qvarters!
Zo, zo, wat den duyvel!
”