“Damn you, Rover!  I want those bastards found, and found fast!”
        The canine winced at the noise coming out of the pawset of his phone.  J. Edgar Rover, Director of the FBI, was not the sort of fur used to having people shout at him.
        Even if that person was Henry Ford.
        So far, the automaker had accused everyone from union agitators to the head of General Motors (Sloane was from New Haven, so it was easy for Ford to link him to the Red Fist) to the International Jewish Conspiracy.  Rover guessed Ford would start blaming President Long fairly soon.  The canine was particularly venomous when referring to the man behind the Share Our Wealth program.
        “I assure you, Mr. Ford,” he said carefully, “the FBI will do its best to help the Detroit police – “
        That launched another tirade, this time against the corruption and laxity of the police in the Detroit area, and a hint that the Purple Gang might do a better job of investigating the murder than the actual guardians of the law.
        Which was rather unfair.
        Rover frowned, then sighed.  “Mr. Ford.  I assure you – again – that the FBI will do what it can to catch whoever did this.  Yes.  Good-bye.”  He set the pawset into its cradle and spent several minutes composing himself.
        His next act was to arrange a phone call.


        Tucci frowned at the headline on the front page of the Chicago Tribune’s late edition, paid the newsboy for a copy and settled onto a bench to read. 
        The fire had been snuffed out quickly, but not before burning up quite a lot of paper.  The police, according to the article, had recovered a coat rack that they felt might be the murder weapon (and again he felt his fur stir, chilled at the thought he had killed Mastny).  The assailant was described as a tall, heavily-built rabbit with brown fur.
        He suppressed a smile at the description.  There were perhaps thousands of lepines in the Detroit area with that general fur color, and while he wasn’t a dwarf he wasn’t exactly a beanpole either.  But the fact that the authorities had even that much of a description worried him somewhat. 
        And if they got even one good fingerprint off the coat rack – well, it was assumed that the American FBI had the fingerprints of every member of Rain Island’s diplomatic staff working in their country. 
        Tucci folded the paper up and stood.  He had a call to make.


        The mahogany-lined office was built to muffle loud sounds.  In fact, the loudest sound came from the soft ticking of an elaborate New Haven clock on the fireplace mantel.
        The three seated furs each had a telephone next to them, and they were each regarding the instrument with clinical interest in a silence they expected to be broken at any moment.
        Which it was, not with a harsh jangle, but a soft purring noise, not unlike the one minks make when pleased.  An irony not lost on the mink who picked up the receiver.
        "Good morning, Mr. Director.  Allan Minkerton here.  May I have my assistants pick up extensions?"
        There was a growling grunt on the other end, interpreted as an assent.  The Argentine maned wolf and another mink picked up their receivers.
        "What can I do for you, Mr. Director?"
        "Just got off the line with Henry Ford.  You heard about the incident last night?"
        "It was reported to me by my Detroit office.  Someone at the Ford design office in Dearborn was killed last night.  Thrown out of a window, right?"
        "That's right.  Ford was giving me hell about it.  Blaming this, that and the other furs."
        Minkerton eyed his colleagues.  There were no prizes for guessing which faith and which labor organization were at the top of the list.
        "I see, Mr. Director.  Ford, though, isn't a client of ours.  They have their own internal security force."  Left unsaid: one that resented any outside interference.
        "Oh?  Good.  But you do have a lot of railroads for clients?  Well-placed furs?"
        "Oh, certainly, Mr. Director."  Most dime-novel readers knew that Minkerton's had been chasing train robbers back in the time of the first Allan Minkerton, before the Civil War. 


Later:

        Born in Berlin, Joachim Schmidt had emigrated from Germany to the United States before the turn of the century and had made his way to Chicago.  He was an old and established citizen of the city now, and owned his own business.
        That night Schmidt closed up his shop, a small photography studio, and waited for a caller at his back door. 
        Everything had been arranged beforepaw.
        It wasn’t too long in coming, and he opened the door fractionally.  “Ja?”
        “It’s me.”
        “So I see.  Komm herein, mein Kamerad,” and the hare slipped in past the bear, who shut and locked the door.  “You were not seen?”
        “Made sure of it,” Tucci said.  “You’re looking good, Joachim.  How’s business?”
        The bear, a good head taller than the Rain Islander and easily outweighing him by a factor of three, laughed heartily.  “Business is always good, my friend.  The mothers and fathers always like to bring the Kinder here to chart the passage of time, so?  Now, what can I do for you, Comrade?”
        The hare smiled.  Schmidt’s family had been old-time Socialists in Berlin, finally leaving when the Kaiser’s government started using more heavy-pawed tactics.  “Comrade, I’m asking you to develop some pictures for me.  Just to negatives – something I can slip in a pocket.”
        The bear waggled his bushy eyebrows and winked at the hare.  “Those kind of photos, eh?”  They both laughed.  Schmidt also ran a small after-hours operation in the back of his shop dealing in ‘art studies.’  The more straitlaced members of Chicago’s population would probably call the art studied there ‘pornography,’ but to each his own.
        Tucci smiled again.  “You might say that.  And no questions asked.  I’ll make it worth your while, of course.”  He’d used the ‘old boys’ network of American Socialists before – Rain Island’s anarcho-syndicalism was, after all, a type of socialism.
        The bear considered, paw to chin, for a moment.  “Let us have bier, and then I shall set up my darkroom.”


Earlier:

        "Can you get your men to help the Bureau watch some trains?"
        A raised eyebrow.  An unorthodox request.  Perhaps there was more than met the eye.  Still, it never hurt to be cooperative. 
        "The Agency will extend whatever help it can, Mr. Director.  Are you searching for something or someone?"
        "Lepine.  Witness didn't get a good look at the fur color, but it's either grey or brown-grey.  Tall, stocky build."
        The two minks and wolf frowned.  Not very detailed.  "Is that all the witness had, Mr. Director?"
        "That's all the witness had."
        "What was the name of the victim?"
        There was a shuffle of paper on the other end of the line.  "Mastny.  Jacob Mastny.  Originally from Austria-Hungary, then was in New Haven, spent a few years in prison there, came to America."
        The older mink tightened his grip on the telephone.  "I see.  Interesting."
        "You still friends with that buck, you know, the one way the hell out in the Pacific?"


Later:

        Schmidt was good at his job, and when Tucci offered to pay him the big bear merely smiled and tapped the side of his muzzle with a meaty forefinger – even as he accepted the money.  “Times, they are not so good, ja?  I feel bad to take your money, my friend, but it is necessary.”
        “I understand completely.  Now, did you make any copies for yourself?”
        The ursine promptly looked offended.  “What, you think I am the stupid or something?  If those are found here . . . no, Comrade, I did not.  And you do not worry about the Polizei, eh?”  He laughed then, his paunch wobbling as he shook.  “’But, Herr Offizier, I see so many rabbits here, eh?  But that is the nature of rabbits, ja?  Ha-ha!’”
        Tucci grinned as he slipped the small container of developed film into his pocket.  Schmidt could be counted on for knowing nothing and seeing nothing.  His work was useful to those who profited from his ‘art studies,’ and a cop could always be induced to look the other way.
        Guns would be a different matter, of course.
        The hare thanked the bear again, left the same way he entered and headed back to the small transient’s hotel he was staying at.  He had work to do, and he had to get some sleep before he did.


Earlier:

           "Well, the victim had spent some time in New Haven."
            Dead silence.  "Franklin?"
            "I heard you, Allan.”  The long distance connection sounded very distant today, making the buck’s voice seem as if it came from the Moon.  “New Haven, you say?"
            "Yes.  The fur's name was Jacob Mastny, he'd apparently spent some time in New Haven in the early 20s, right after the war.  He was one of the furs behind the Automatic Arms scandal, you might recall."
            "Yes.  Quite vividly."
            Allan Minkerton was a little puzzled as to why this response was snapped out, but put it down to either bad memories or the early hour.
            "Do you think the suspect might be going east, on the Pennsy or the Central?"
            "Even were the subject going east - which I doubt - an agent of the current government would hardly take such a direct route.  You and I both know that their taste runs to more conspiratorial methods of transportation."
            "True.  New Haven operation?"
            "Possibly another player.  I have my doubts.  Mastny's most likely forgotten back home.  You have no indication of anything missing?"
            "Well, the reports I got from Detroit said the office was pretty badly burned up, so no clue as to what might be missing."
            "How many hours have passed?"
            Minkerton looked at his New Haven clock with a sense of irony.  "About fourteen hours, give or take."
            "Many options.  Rumrunners' boat if he's crossing the Great Lakes, Windsor customs if he's a cool customer, intercity bus if he's on a tight budget and has time, train if he has money and not much time."
            "Boat means we've lost him."
            "My instinct tells me he's thought of it, but isn't doing it, and he doesn't want Canada.  I'm also thinking he's probably left a cloud of tickets to send you in different directions.  The squid technique.  I'd first check pawnshops near the train stations – our friend won't want to risk a bank transaction, and he's going to need at least a few hundred for his fares, and things being how they are, that will attract attention.  He's also going to spread out his ticket purchases.  He'll likely be traveling light.  And forget the high-end Pullman fares; he's going to want to be as inconspicuous as possible.  Plain salesfur type traveling on a company account.  Look at the luggage labels to see if any have spent a lot of time in Detroit."
            "Makes sense.  Picket points?"
            "Omaha is your best bet for points west, and I'd put your best team there.  Also check . . . let's see . . . Minneapolis, Des Moines, St. Louis, Cincinnati and Cleveland.   Minkerton's still has those passes, right?"
            "Right."
            "Then the usual.  No delays, don't want to spook him.  Board two furs at each end, meet in the middle."
            "Indeed.  Any other thoughts?"
            "Not right now.  I'll telegraph if I do."
            "Collect, Franklin, of course."
            "Of course, Allan.  My best to Vee."
            "I'll give her your regards."


            Rosie Baumgartner was sure of only one thing: the telephone call had spoiled the mood of the moment, and her Franneleh's mood.  No angry words, no angry gestures.  Just a slow snapping of a whitetail flag and a set jaw. 
            Best to leave him to his juice.  Time enough for other matters tomorrow morning.


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