"Let's not waste time," Lafayette said, tossing the key to Lom. "We have some plans to make."
2
"Geez, don't you ever sleep?" Percy inquired aggrievedly as he halted before the cell door. "What you want this time? I told you already chow ain't till one pee em—" He broke off, peering between the bars into the gloomy cell. "Hey—it seems to me like there was another mug in here wit' youse. A little geezer—" He broke off with a grunt, doubled over, and went down. Lafayette thrust the door open and stepped over the prostrate turnkey as Lom came forward from the dark corner where he had lain in wait.
"He'll be all right, won't he?"
"Ummm. I just gave him a touch of
angina
," Lom said offhandedly. "He'll be as good as new in half an hour. Now what?"
"There's still Oglethorpe to deal with. Come on." Stealthily, the escapees moved along the corridor, past empty cells, to the archway beyond which the corner of the warden's desk was visible, supporting a pair of size-fourteen boots with well-worn soles.
"Give him a shot in the ankle," Lafayette murmured. Lom eased forward, focused his sound projector, pressed the stud. There was a muffled exclamation; a large, hairy hand came down to massage the foot. Lom administered a second dose; with a yelp, Oglethorpe swiveled in his chair, swinging his feet out of sight as his head and shoulders rotated into view. Lom took careful aim and zapped him again. The big man roared and slapped his own jaw with a report like a pistol shot. As he jumped up, the old gentleman sighted on his lumbar area and gave him yet another blast. Oglethorpe arched backward, lost his balance, and cracked his head on the desk on the way down.
"Got him," Lom stated with satisfaction.
"You're going to have to simplify that procedure before it replaces a sock full of sand," O'Leary told him. "He made more noise than a rumble between rival gangs armed with garbage can lids."
"Still, we seem to have occasioned no alarm. After all, who would expect a jailbreak at this hour of the day?"
"Well, let's not just stand here congratulating ourselves. We've got ground to cover. Let's take in those lockers and see what's available in the way of disguises."
Five minutes of rummaging turned up a pair of shabby cloaks and a worn canvas pouch full of battered tools.
"We're plumbers," O'Leary said. "I'm the master pipefitter, and you're my assistant—"
"Quite the contrary," Lom interrupted. "A silver-haired apprentice would hardly carry conviction."
"All right—let's not fall out over a jurisdictional dispute." Lafayette adjusted the cloak to cover as much as possible of his grimy silk shirt and baggy satin trousers. In a desk drawer he found the keys to the heavy grate that barred the passage. They lifted it, occasioning a dismal groan of rusty metal, eased under, lowered it back in position. Ten feet farther, the passage branched.
"Which way?" Lom wondered aloud. "I confess I have no sense of direction."
"Come on," O'Leary said, leading the way toward a steep flight of stone stairs. At the top, a cross passage led two ways.
"To the left," Lafayette hissed. "We have to pass the squad room, so take it easy."
"How does it happen," Lom whispered, "that you know your way well?"
"I did time down here the first week I was in Artesia. And since then I've been down a few times to visit friends."
"Hmmm. You know, my boy, at times I'm tempted to believe your story . . ."
"Whether you believe it or not, we're in this together. Now let's go before we're arrested for loitering." Lafayette advanced stealthily, risked a peek into the room. Three harquebusiers were seated around a table spooning up beans, their shirts unbuttoned, their floppy hats laid aside, their rapiers dangling from wooden pegs on the wall. One of the trio looked up; his eyes met O'Leary's.
"Yeah," he barked. "Who youse looking for?"
"Roy," Lafayette said promptly. "He said it was a hurry-up call."
"Shorty ain't on until six pee em. A hurry up call, hey? You must be the vet."
"Right," Lafayette improvised as the man rose and sauntered toward him, hitching at his purple-and-green suspenders. The cop eyed O'Leary's tool bag, prodded it with a thick finger.
"What's a vet doing wit' a bunch o' pipe wrenches?" he demanded. "And hack saws, yet. Youse ain't planning a jail break?" He grinned widely at the jape.
"Actually, we do a bit of plumbing on the side," O'Leary said. "We're combination animal doctors and plumbers, you see."
"Yeah?" the cop scratched the back of his thick neck. He yawned. "Well, if you can fix old George's plumbing, Jemimiah'll be your friend fer life." He guffawed, cleared his throat, spat, and gave Lom a suspicious look.
"Ain't I see youse before, Pops?"
"Not unless you've been down with an attack of goat fever, Junior," the old man snapped. "And don't call me Pops."
"Well, we'd better be getting along," Lafayette said hastily. "Actually, it was a leaky faucet we were after. In the tower, Roy said. So—"
"Nix, Bub. Nobody goes up inna tower. Off limits, like. Quarantine."
"Yes. Well, Roy's point was that the drip was annoying the patient—"
"What patient? There ain't no patient inna tower. They're all in the Royal Apartment wing."
"The patient fellows on duty there, I was about to say," O'Leary recovered nimbly. "Just imagine pulling four on and four off with a leaky faucet going drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip . . ."
"Yeah, yeah—I get the idear. Well—as long as it's fer the boys. I'll send Clarence here along wit' youse." The NCO beckoned to a slack-faced loon with unevenly focused eyes.
"That's all right, Lieutenant, we can find it—" Lafayette started; but the cop cut him off with a curt gesture.
"Nobody don't go inna tower wit'out he got a escort," he stated firmly.
"Well—in that case," O'Leary conceded the point. Clarence pulled on his coat, strapped on his sword, gave O'Leary a vague look and stood waiting.
"You, uh, kind of got to tell Clarence what to do," the NCO said to Lafayette behind his hand. "Like, in detail, if you know what I mean."
"Let's go, Clarence," Lafayette said. "To the tower."
3
In the courtyard, bright with the late-afternoon sun, Lom overtook O'Leary. "When are we going to dispose of this cretin and make our escape?" he whispered.
"Change of plan," Lafayette murmured. "Getting Clarence was a big break. With an escort we can go where we want to."
"Have you lost your wits? Our only chance is to get clear of this place, and regroup!"
"Let's face it: we'd never get past the gate."
"But—what can you hope to accomplish, skulking about inside the lion's den?"
"Just as I told the gendarmes—the tower—up there." Lafayette pointed to a lofty spire soaring high in the blue sky, a pennant snapping from the flagstaff at its peak.
"Whatever for?" Lom gasped. "We'll be trapped!"
"Classified," Lafayette said.
"Hey," Clarence spoke suddenly in a hoarse whisper. "Hows come we're whispering?"
"It's a secret mission," O'Leary replied. "We're counting on you, Clarence."
"Oh, boy," Clarence said happily. Lom snorted.
Lafayette led the way into the palace proper via a side door—the same door through which he had left that night—only two weeks before, but seeming like a lifetime—for his ill-fated rendezvous with the Red Bull. Inside, he motioned Lom and Clarence along a narrow corridor that passed behind the State Dining Room. Through a half-open door he saw the long tables spread with dazzling linen, adorned with colorful floral centerpieces—a glimpse of another life.
"Looks like they're making ready for a celebration," Lom observed.
"Yeah," Clarence nodded vigorously. "A big blowout scheduled fer tonight. Duh woid is, duh king, he's gonna make a speech, which all duh notables dey'll be dere."
"Keep moving!" Lom hissed. "We'll be seen—and I doubt if the household major domos will be as readily satisfied with explanations involving medical ministrations to sick pipes as those flatfoots!"
"Hey—dat sounded like it could grow up tuh be a doity crack at us cops," Clarence muttered.
"No offense," Lom reassured him.
They resumed their cautious progress, paused at a brocaded hanging through which Lafayette poked his head to survey the mirrored grand hall. "Come on—the coast is clear."
"Where is everybody?" Lom queried. "The place is like a mausoleum."
"Never mind questioning our good fortune. Let's just take advantage of it."
They reached the back stairs without incident. On the second floor, they passed a red-eyed maid-servant with a mop and bucket, who gave them a tearful look and hurried on. Three flights higher a guard lounged on the landing, reading a newspaper with the aid of a blunt forefinger.
"Whazzis?" he inquired, looking suspiciously at the two adventurers. "Who's these mugs, Clarence?"
"Dat's uh like secret," Clarence whispered. "Shhhh."
"Special mission," O'Leary amplified, "under the personal supervision of Sir Lafayette—"
"You mean King Lafayette, don't you, pal?"
"Right. Now his Majesty has his eye on you, corporal—"
"Corporal, my grandma's pickled bananas," the fellow growled. "I been in this outfit nine years and I ain't got stripe one yet."
"You'll have two, as soon as this job is over," O'Leary said. "I personally guarantee it."
"Yeah? Whom did you say you was, sir?"
"A . . . a person in whom his Majesty resides special confidence."
"And where do you think you're going?" the guard inquired as O'Leary started past him.
"Up there," O'Leary pointed.
"Uh-uh," the man planted himself in Lafayette's path. "Not without a OK from the sergeant, chum."
"Don't you think a king outweighs a sergeant, corporal?"
"Could be—but I work for the sergeant. He works for the lieutenant;
he
works for the captain;
he
works for the colonel—"
"I'm familiar with the intricacies of the military hierarchy," O'Leary snapped. "But we don't have time to waste right now going through channels."
"Nobody goes up without a pass," the guard said.
"Will this do?" Lom inquired at O'Leary's elbow. There was a soft
bzapp!
The unfortunate sentry stiffened, staggered two steps, and fell heavily on the purple carpet.
"Tsk. Drunk on duty," Lafayette said. "Make a note of that, Clarence."
They hurried on, Lom puffing hard, Clarence bringing up the rear, around and around the winding staircase. The steps narrowed, steepened between bare stone walls. The climb ended on a small landing before a massive wood-plank door.
"Wh-what's this?" Lom panted.
"This is as far as we go—without an understanding," O'Leary said. "Note the lock on the door. I know the combination. You don't."
"So?"
"Give me that trick ball-point, and I'll unlock it."
"Not likely," Lom snapped. "Why should I give a rap whether you unlock it or not?"
"Listen," O'Leary invited. From the stairwell, sounds were rising: sounds of alarm.
"They've found that chap we dealt with down below," Lom said. "We should have hidden him—"
"They'd have noticed he was missing. They'll be here in a minute or two."
"Trapped! You treacher, I should have known better—"
"Shhh! Clarence won't understand," Lafayette said softly as the guardsman arrived, breathing hard. "Anyway, we're not trapped—not if we hide in there." He hooked a thumb at the door.
"What's in there? Why did you lead me into a cul-de-sac—"
"It's Nicodaeus' old lab. He was an Inspector, sent in here by Central to investigate a Probability Stress. It's full of special equipment. We'll find everything we need—"
"Well, for heaven's sake, get it open, man!" Lom cut in as the sounds of ascending feet rang clearly from below.
"First, the zap gun, Lom. Just so you aren't tempted to use it on me."
"And what's to keep
you
from using it on
me
?"
"I won't—unless you make a false move. Make up your mind. We have about thirty seconds."
"Blackmail," Lom muttered, and handed over the weapon.
"Once inside we're home safe," O'Leary said. "Let's see, now. It's been a long time since I used this combination . . ." He twirled the dial; the feet pounding below came closer. The lock snicked and opened. O'Leary pushed the door wide.
"Clarence—inside, quick!"
The harquebusier stepped through hesitantly; Lom ducked after him. O'Leary followed, closed the door and set the lock.
"Full of equipment, eh?" Lom rasped behind him.
He turned; in the dim light filtering down through dusty clerestory windows, Lafayette stared in dismay at blank stone walls and a bare stone floor.
"Stripped!" he groaned.
"Just as I thought," Lom said in a deadly tone. "Betrayal. But I'm afraid you won't live to complete your plans, traitor!" Lafayette turned, was looking down the barrel of a slim, deadly-looking pistol.
"Another of your inventions?" he inquired, backing away.
"Quite correct. I call it a disaster gun, for reasons which you'll, alas, not survive to observe. Say your prayers, my boy. At the count of three, you die."
4
Outside, boots clumped on the landing. Someone rattled the door.
"Geez, where could they of went?" a querulous voice inquired.
"Maybe t'rough duh door," another replied.
"Negative, it's locked, and nobody but King Lafayette don't know the combination."
"Nuts, Morton. Let's bust it down—"
"I say negative, Irving! They didn't go that way! You must of give us a bum steer. They never come up here—"
"Where else could they of went? They gotta of went t'rough duh door!"
"They din't!"
"How do you know?"
"They din't because they cun't, rum-dum!"
The door rattled again. "Yeah—I guess yez'r right. Like you said, nobody but King Lafayette could spring dat latch."
The booted feet withdrew.
Lafayette swallowed hard, his eyes on the gun. "Well—what are you waiting for? They're gone. Nobody will hear you killing me. And I deserve whatever happens for being dumb enough to forget to search you."