CHAPTER 12

Lord Bontriomphe had not misjudged the time very much; it was less than four minutes later when Darcy and Bontriomphe climbed out of the coach in front of the big, bulky, old building that housed the Admiralty offices of the Imperial Navy. They went up the steps and through the wide doors into a large anteroom that was almost the size of a hotel lobby. They were heading toward a desk marked Information when Lord Darcy suddenly spotted a familiar figure.

“There’s our pigeon,” he murmured to Lord Bontriomphe, then raised his voice:

“Ah, Commander Ashley.”

Lord Ashley turned, recognized them, and gave them an affable smile. “Good afternoon, my lords. Can I do anything for you?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Lord Darcy.

Lord Ashley’s smile disappeared. “What’s the trouble? Has anything happened?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to tell me. Why is the Navy so interested in a certain Paul Nichols, the night manager at the Royal Steward?”

Lord Ashley blinked. “Didn’t Captain Smollett tell you?”

“Sure he did,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “He told us all about it. But we forgot. That’s why we’re here asking questions.”

Commander Lord Ashley ignored the London investigator’s sarcasm. There was a vaguely troubled look in his seaman’s eyes. Abruptly he came to a decision. “That information will have to come from Captain Smollett. I’ll take you to his office. May I tell him that you have come to get the information directly from him?”

“So,” said Lord Darcy with a dry smile, “Captain Smollett prefers that his subordinates keep silent, eh?”

Lord Ashley grinned lopsidedly. “I have my orders. And there are good reasons for them. The Naval Intelligence Corps, after all, does not make a habit of broadcasting its information to the four winds.”

“I’m aware of that,” said Lord Darcy, “and I am not suggesting that the corps acquire such habits. Nonetheless, His Majesty’s instructions were, I think, explicit.”

“I’m certain it was merely an oversight on the captain’s part. This affair has the whole Intelligence Corps in an uproar, and Captain Smollett and his staff, as I told you this morning, do not have any high hopes that the killers will be found.”

“And frankly don’t much care, I presume,” said Lord Darcy.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, my lord; it is simply that we don’t feel that the tracking down of hired Polish assassins is our job. We’re not equipped for it. Our job is the impossible one of finding out everything that King Casimir’s Navy is up to and keeping him from finding out anything at all about ours. You people are equipped and trained to catch murderers, and we — very rightly, I think — leave the job in your hands.”

“We can’t do it without the pertinent information,” said Lord Darcy, “and that’s what we’re here to get.”

“Well, I don’t know whether the information is pertinent or not, but come along; I’ll take you to Captain Smollett.”

The two investigators followed the commander down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another corridor toward the rear of the building.

There was a middle-aged petty officer sitting behind a desk in the outer office who looked up from his work as the three men entered. He did not even bother to look at the two civilians.

“Yes, My Lord Commander?” he said.

“Would you tell Captain Smollett that Lord Darcy and Lord Bontriomphe are here to see him. He will know what their business is.”

“Aye, my lord.” The petty officer got up from behind the desk, went into an inner office, and came out again a minute or so later. “Compliments of the captain, my lords. He would like to see all three of you in his office immediately.”

There are three ways of doing things, Lord Darcy thought to himself, the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.

Captain Smollett was standing behind his desk when they went into the room, a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, his gray-fringed bald head gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows at his back.

“Good afternoon, m’luds,” he said briskly. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Trust you have some information for me.”

“I was rather hoping you had some information for us, Captain,” Lord Darcy said.

Smollett’s eyebrows lifted. “Eh? Not much, I’m afraid,” he said, speaking through his teeth and around his pipestem. “Nothing new has happened since this morning. That’s why I was hoping that you had some information.”

“It is not new information I want, Captain Smollett. By now, indeed, it may be rather stale.

“Yesterday afternoon at 2:54 your agent, Commander Lord Ashley, returned to the Royal Steward Hotel. After that, several other of your agents came and went. The General Manager, Goodman Lewie Bolmer, has informed us that he is under strict instructions from the Navy, in the King’s Name, to give information to no one, including, presumably, duly authorized Officers of the King’s Peace, operating under a special warrant which also permits them to act and speak in the King’s Name.

“I could have forced the information from him but he was acting in good faith and he had enough troubles as it is. I felt that you could give me all the information he has and a great deal more besides. We met My Lord Commander downstairs, but doubtless he, too, is under orders, so, as with Goodman Lewie, it would not be worth my time to pry the information out of him when I can get it from you.

“This much we know: Goodman Paul Nichols, the night manager, failed to show up for work at midnight last night. This, apparently, is important; and yet, your agents were asking questions about him some nine hours before. What we want to know is why. I shall not ask you why we were not given this information this morning; I shall merely ask that we be given it now.”

Captain Smollett was silent for the space of several seconds, his cold gray eyes looking with unblinking directness into Darcy’s own. “Um,” he said finally, “I suppose I deserve that. Should have mentioned it this morning. I admit it. Thing is, it just isn’t in your jurisdiction — that is, normally it wouldn’t be. We have men looking everywhere for Nichols, but he hasn’t done a thing we can prove.”

“What do you think he’s done?”

“Stolen something,” said Captain Smollett. “Trouble is, we can’t prove the thing we think he’s stolen ever existed. And if it did exist, we’re not certain of its value.”

“Very mysterious,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “At least, to me. Does this have a beginning somewhere?”

“Hm-m-m. Beg your pardon. Don’t mean to sound mysterious. Here, will you be seated? Brandy on the table over there. Pour them some brandy, Commander. Make yourselves comfortable. It’s a rather longish story.”

He sat down behind his desk, reached out toward a pile of file folders, and took an envelope out of the top one.

“Here’s the picture: Zwinge was a busy man. Had a great many things to keep an eye on. Being Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London would be a full-time job for an ordinary man.” He looked at Lord Bontriomphe. “Be frank, m’lud. Did you ever suspect that he was working for the Naval Intelligence Corps?”

“Never,” Bontriomphe admitted, “though Heaven knows he worked hard enough. He was always busy, and he was one of those men who think that anything more than five hours sleep a night is an indication of sloth. Tell me, Captain, did My Lord Marquis know?”

“He was never told,” said Captain Smollett. “Zwinge did say that he suspected that My Lord de London was aware of his Navy work, but if so he never mentioned it.”

“He wouldn’t,” said Lord Bontriomphe.

“No, of course not. At any rate, Zwinge had a great many irons in the fire. More things going on in Europe than just this one affair, I can assure you. Nonetheless, he felt it necessary to go to this Healers and Sorcerers Convention. Look odd if he didn’t, he said, what with his being right here in London and all. But of course he kept right on working, even there.”