Tucci put the paper down and stepped back, paws raised placatingly.  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Mastny.  I wanted to see it with my own eyes – “
        “So you sneak in like a thief!”
        “No.  Like an interested buyer.  I’m interested in buying this – “
        “It is not for sale!”
        “Please, Mr. Mastny, please keep your voice down and let’s discuss this like civilized furs.”
        “Hah!  Civilized furs do not skulk around like thieves!  Those plans are my life’s work, and I will not see them stolen by the likes of you!”  Mastny huffed an angry breath through his nose.  “I told you, I do not work for Communists.  What are you, German?”
        “My grandparents came from Italy – and I’ve told you before, Rain Island is most definitely not a Communist country.”  Tucci struggled to keep his temper reined in.  “I made you a serious offer at your apartment, sir.  And I’m making you a serious offer now.  What can I do to convince you?”
        “Nothing,” Mastny spat.  “You and that feline in New Haven – you’re one and the same.  You will take advantage of an older fur just as he took advantage of a credulous one those years ago.  I am having none of – put those plans down!” he shouted as Tucci reached for the blueprints again.  “You leave now, yes?  Or I shall call for the guards to take you away.”
        The hare looked the otter over, his ears dipping and angling back along his skull.  Tucci was younger and heavier than the otter.  “Mr. Mastny, I’m very sorry you feel this way, but one way or another I am leaving either with these plans or with you.  Your choice.”
        “Here is my choice!”  The otter screamed a string of epithets in hoarse Czech and grabbed at the metal coat rack.  He lifted it and charged at the hare, swinging it like a mace.
        Tucci dropped into a crouch, paws up and ready as the otter charged.  As Mastny swung the heavy metal pole the hare grabbed it and spun, ignoring the sting of his palms as they absorbed the shock of the blow while turning the momentum against Mastny, who went flying.
        It was a textbook move.
        Unfortunately the room wasn’t large enough to allow Mastny to hit the floor and roll.
        Instead, the otter flew headfirst into the window.
        There was the sound of shattering glass.
        There was a hoarse, strangled scream.
        There was a sodden thump five floors below.
        There was silence.


        Ohdamnohdamnohdamnohdamnohdamnohdamn . . .
        Tucci raced to the shattered window and leaned out to see the crumpled form on the pavement below. 
        From the angle of the neck and the dark smear spreading against the lighter concrete, Jacob Mastny would not be designing any more weapons.
        As the hare stared down at the body there was a sound of running feet and two security guards arrived to see what was going on.  One of them looked up.
        “Hey!”
        The shout broke the spell, and the hare drew hastily back from the window.  He dithered momentarily as his mind sorted priorities, then he leaped for the light switch and plunged the room in darkness. 
        Now, the plans.  His cover was surely blown, and there was a dead man lying down there.  He now had very little time to make the tragedy worth it.  He shuffled the papers together by the dim light coming in the broken window, folded them roughly and thrust them down the front bib of his overalls.
        One more thing.
        He shoved papers around and found a small case of blue-tip matches; thumbing one alight with a fingerclaw he dropped it on the scattered drawings of automobile bodies before bolting from the room.  Tucci hoped that the fire would provide enough of a distraction to allow him to escape.
        He took the stairs two and three at the times, at one point stumbling and almost falling, a flailing paw catching a railing just in time.  The fire exit door took his boot right in the center and it flew open.
        There was a loud “Oof!” from the other side of the door as it caught a guard straight in the muzzle, sending him reeling back as Tucci hit the pavement running.
        Running like a thief.
        Shouts followed him as he ran into the shadows, hitting the fence and fairly vaulting over it before dashing down a side street and into an alley.  Feral cats yowled and scattered in his wake as he pelted down the narrow passage, finally slowing to a stop and leaning against a wall, chest heaving.
       
        Okay, boy, calm down. 
        Think.
        Tucci gulped air back into his lungs, feeling the folded papers between his overalls and shirt rustling with every breath.  Finally he managed to compose himself.
        First things first, and that was figuring out where the hell he was.  He had run pell-mell away from the Ford plant without paying any attention to his direction.  Once he got his bearings he could get back to his apartment and make further plans. 
        “I need a drink,” the hare muttered.  He pulled the blueprints from his overalls, refolded them more neatly and replaced them, and headed back the way he’d come.
        There was a small bar up the street about a block, and he deliberately kept his step even and his breathing normal.  He stepped inside the establishment and paused, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the slightly brighter light.
        “Hey, Mac!” the bartender hailed him.  “You okay?  You look a bit pale ‘round the ears.”
        The stranger shrugged and his ears dipped.  “Eh, some guy almost run me over a few blocks down.  I need a beer.”
        The bartender, a feline, chuckled.  “Bet ya do.  What’ll it be?  Stroh’s?”
        “You got Odenwald?”
        “On tap.  Coming right up.”  A pause and a foam-topped mug appeared on the bar.  Tucci placed a nickel in the feline’s paw and took his beer to a table in one corner, sat down and took a deep swallow of the brew.
        The radio was on, the Johnson Wax Program’s latest episode of Fibber McGee and Molly, and some of the customers were chuckling at the antics of the characters.  Tucci listened along with them, smiling at the jokes and comparing them unfavorably to the Four Fools back home.  The Fools were bawdier, and as a result not likely to be as welcome or as popular in the United States.
        It was a funny show, though – especially the closet gag.
        Nearly half an hour later his mug was empty and he felt much calmer.  “Thanks for the beer, Friend,” he called out as he left the bar.  The feline waved as he served another customer.
        Tucci headed up the road to a corner and hunched over as the skies began to drip rain.  It was an instinctive reaction, of course, but it would also help protect the blueprints.  He paused and took a long look at the street signs on the lamp post before heading south to his home.


        The next morning he blinked bleary eyes at the wan sunlight coming in his window and got out of bed.  It was still raining and he hadn’t slept well; his neck ached and he stretched until he felt better before walking into the apartment’s tiny kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.  While it started cooking he spread the blueprints out on the kitchen table and looked closely at them.
        Mastny was an artist, that was for sure – the drawings were meticulously done and a great deal of care had gone into describing every tiny detail. 
        Would actually using the plans produce a gun? 
        That was outside his area of expertise.
        He poured a cup of coffee, took two slices of bread from the breadbox and buttered them, and declared them to be breakfast.  Munching away at the first slice he switched on the kitchen light and walked to his closet.  He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for.
        The small Kodiak Junior still had film in it, so he stood on a chair and photographed each piece of paper from three different angles.  He figured that at least one of the three pictures would come out and show enough detail to be reproduced.  When the last photo was taken he rewound the film.
        The blueprints were taken into the bathroom, placed in the tub and burned, Tucci using a phone directory to fan the flames and waft the smoke out the bathroom window.  When the papers were consumed he crumbled the ashes up into powder, then flushed them down the drain before adding water.  He then stepped into the tub and started to clean up.
        If the pictures didn’t come out, the entire operation was a flat failure and Mastny would have died in vain.
        A failure now would look bad in more ways than one, he reflected as he soaped up.  He’d likely die in prison, while his country’s reputation would suffer greatly if the truth ever came out. 
        Even if it had been an accident.
        He rinsed out his fur and dried off, a plan of action starting to form in his mind.
        First things first, so he got dressed in a nondescript brown suit that contrasted with his fur, his hat and eyeglasses.  The glasses had plain lenses, but hopefully no one would look twice at them and they would help to disguise him a bit.
        He selected a small grip, large enough for perhaps two days’ worth of clothes and toiletries, and started packing by placing a thick sweater in the bottom of the small suitcase.  The camera containing the undeveloped film was wrapped in another sweater to cushion it, and it was surrounded by the remaining clothes, his furbrushes, and assorted other toiletries such as a tin of pomade for his headfur.
        Tucci then got on his paws and knees and reached under his bed, pulling a loosened piece of wainscoting away from the wall and extracting a small strongbox.  He opened it and took out two envelopes, one fat and tied up with string, and the other thinner.  The fat one contained money, nearly three hundred U.S. dollars in worn bills; the other contained a Rain Island passport with its distinctive red and black cover and papers identifying him as a consular officer.
        The hare looked at the papers again to make certain they were current before folding them up and placing them in the passport, then placing them in his suit jacket. 
        Just in case.  He was confident that he could blend in with a crowd.  He spoke the same language, although with a Rain Island accent (a mild cross between American and Canadian) and a few First Race dialects.  If pressed he recalled a few words and phrases in Italian learned from his grandparents but doubted that would be any use at all to him.
        A quick scan of the apartment as he made sure the lights were switched off, and his free paw grabbed at the carrying handle of his typewriter.  It had been useful for writing reports, and now it would be useful for something else.


        Mabel Rosen showed up for work at the Ford plant that night to find the place acting like a kicked hornet’s nest.  One of her coworkers came up to her as she punched the time clock and asked, “Mabel!  Did you hear the news?”
        “What news, Janice?”
        The jenny nickered.  “There’s been a murder.”
        “Oh?”  The otteress’ eyes went wide.  “Who was it?”
        “Mr. Mastny, up in the design shop.  Someone threw him out his window.”  Janice’s voice dropped to a whisper.  “They’re saying it was the union, or maybe the Mob.”
        “Oh, says you, Janice,” another woman, a squirrel, interjected with a derisive chitter.  “I heard it was those ruffians over at General Motors.”
        At first Mabel didn’t say anything, then excused herself and went to the bathroom.  Washing her paws she stared into the mirror and wondered two things.
        Who had killed Mastny?
        And where was Enzo?


        Tucci counted the money again and stuffed it in a pocket along with the ticket.  “Thanks.”
        “Come on back when you pay off,” the pawnbroker said.  “It’ll be waiting here for ya.”
        “Okay.  Thanks again,” and the hare walked out.  Losing the typewriter wasn’t exactly necessary, but it would relieve him of another thing to tote around.  The money would go to good use.
        He walked to the nearest telegraph office.


04MAY19370823 TO FAR WEST EXPORTS WINDSOR ONTARIO CANADA ATTN MILO MESSAGE BEGINS SHIPMENT GLASS BOWLS BROKEN STOP LOOKING ELSEWHERE FOR SUPPLIER STOP SIGNED SPRINGER DETROIT OFFICE MESSAGE ENDS
        Tucci signed the telegram and paid the operator.  If his cover was blown and the police were already after him, the last thing he wanted to do at this point was draw attention to himself by showing up at the Consulate.  A message to his trade region’s Canadian office, on the other paw, would be relayed to the Consul.
        Enzo headed for the bus station and took the next available seat for Chicago.


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