May 6, 1937:

        “’Looking elsewhere for supplier.’”  The Consul of Rain Island to the United States lowered the telegram.  Tucci’s message was terse, and as was usual there were multiple meanings embedded in it.  Had he said ‘somewhere,’ he would have been retreating into Canada; ‘around’ would have meant east, toward New York.  But ‘elsewhere’ was an indicator that he was headed west, back home.
        ‘Glass bowls’ being broken – whatever he was doing had gone very wrong.
        And the name ‘Milo’ meant that he was in a Godawful hurry.
        The coyote thought for a few more moments then got up and walked to the code room.
        Minutes later an encoded telegram was flashed to Seathl as part of the daily message traffic.


        Tucci paused midway through his breakfast, his coffee cup to his lips.
        He had forgotten something.
        His original plan was still in force, but there was one seriously loose end to be tied before he left Chicago.
        Mabel.
        With Mastny dead her fears would resurface when he didn’t show up to reassure her.  If she went to the police they might quickly start adding things up and the hunt would be on in deadly earnest.
        He needed to allay her fears and quiet any suspicions she may have.
        The hare finished his meal of eggs and toast, remembered to tip the waitress, and walked to the nearest telegraph office.
        He took a message blank and after a few false starts wrote the following:
DEAR MABEL STOP CALLED AWAY BY BROTHER STOP MOTHER VERY SICK STOP DON’T KNOW WHEN RETURNING STOP
        He paused, considering, then wrote LOVE YOU, and signed his name to the telegram blank.
        The clerk gave him a commiserating look as she gave him his change.  “I hope your Mom gets better, sir,” she said.
        “Thanks,” he said.


        Three tickets in three different directions taxed his dwindling supply of funds.  A visit to two pawn shops alleviated that somewhat, but at the cost of his camera and fountain pen.  He drained his bottle of soda and got aboard the Denver Zephyr a reasonable time before it was due to leave the station.
        He settled in with his grip on the floor between his feet, and looked out the window as the conductor cried out “All aboard!” and the train started to move.  He figured he’d arrive in Omaha by the next day, and Denver soon after.
        Tucci showed his ticket to the conductor when asked, then shoved his hat over his eyes and took a nap.
        Several rows up from where the hare sat a dachshund sat, reading a book.


        Richard Broome stood at his office window, paws flexing and not seeing the drizzle that softened the outlines of the cedar and pine forest beyond.  Tucci had apparently failed, judging by the ‘panic code’ telegram he’d sent and the strident headlines in the Detroit press. 
        His operative was on the run.
        Now it fell to him to see to it that he landed in friendly paws.
        He walked over to the doorway and said, “Kathy, could you take messages if anyone calls?  I need to talk to someone.”
        “Sure, Rich.” 
        The fox closed the office door and stood for a moment more, then crossed to his desk and picked up a secured phone.  He dialed quickly and listened impatiently to the intermittent triple buzz-buzz-buzz as the phone rang at the other end of the connection.  “Hello.  This is Vice-Commodore Broome.  Is Captain Smith there, please?  Yes, I’ll wait . . . Captain?  Vice-Commodore Broome.  ‘I tell you three times and what I tell you three times is true.’” 
        He waited a moment, then said, “The word is ‘Torchlight.’”
        A pause.  “The day’s watchword is ‘Ring.’  Yes . . . yes, that’s right, further details will be paw-carried to you . . . San Francisco.  Time?  Not known at this point; we’re awaiting another message.  Yes.  Thank you, Captain.”  He hung up the phone, reopened his door and went back to work.


        Mabel reread the telegram, her eyes moist with unshed tears.
        He was okay . . . and he said he loved her.


        Tucci had been out of his seat three times as the train made its way to Omaha.  Of all the furs in the car as he made his way down the aisle, only one steadfastly refused to look up at him as he passed, and that made the hare suspicious.
        Most furs would look up to see him pass, he’d been taught, with the exception of those who were distracted by something else or asleep.
        And this canine had been reading the same page in his book over and over.
        Who was he?  Probably a railroad detective or something similar, keeping an eye out for con men or thieves.  Tucci was fairly certain that he hadn’t been sighted yet.
        But the temptation to rattle the guy persisted.
        Finally, on his fourth trip to the bathroom (he was regretting having drunk so much coffee, along with the bottle of soda – seriously, what was in that stuff?) he reached out and tapped the spine of the book.  “Hey, Sport,” he said affably, “whatcha reading?”
        The fur, a dachshund, looked at him, flinched almost imperceptibly, and replied, “Crime and Punishment.”
        “Oh yeah?  What’s it about?”  Without waiting for an answer he winked and walked on to his seat.  He sat down and watched the scenery go by, aware that the canine was probably fuming at being spotted so easily.
       

        Why, that cocky good-for-nothing . . .
        The dachshund closed the book and held it in his lap while he got himself under control.  He didn’t know who to be angrier at – the lepine for spotting him, or himself for making himself so conspicuous.
        There were only two dozen rabbits on the train, and only one came even close to matching the description he’d been given. 
        And that guy had made him. 
        And he was aboard the train by himself, giving the hare the opportunity for escape.
        If he lost him in Omaha or Denver he’d never live it down.

   
        Tucci decided to forego getting off the train when it reached Omaha, despite the reputation the local theater had for its performing catgirls.  While he enjoyed his lunch in the train’s dining car a paperboy boarded, hawking copies of the Omaha Free Record.  He paid for a copy and noted no news of any murder up in Detroit.
        Walking around the train after lunch he saw the dachshund again, standing a short walk from the platform and talking animatedly with a taller wolf.  Possibly a partner for the canine, and Tucci squared his shoulders.
        This was going to get interesting fast.


        When the train arrived in Denver the next morning Tucci was one of the first ones off, aware of the dachshund following him at a discreet distance.  That suited the hare; let him watch.  He hadn’t been stopped by a cop or a G-man (yet), so he figured that they hadn’t charged him with anything, nor had they anything to really go on apart from what he looked like.
        They’d lean on him until he cracked, he guessed, basing his guess on a book or two he’d read as a boy.
        He sent two telegrams, and returned to the train.  Once there he noted that the dachshund and the wolf had been joined by another fur, a beefy tiger who looked directly at him and bared a mouthful of properly intimidating teeth.
        The hare stopped at a newsstand and bought the latest paper before boarding the City of San Francisco to continue his journey west.  His ticket was all in order, having been purchased in Chicago.
        The lead article in the paper was an account of the destruction of the Zeppelin Hindenburg, talking about the loss of life and the heroism of the sailors who braved the fire as the airship exploded in flames and crashed in New Jersey.  Tucci shook his head sadly at the article.


07MAY19371000 TO FAR WEST EXPORTS SANFRANCISCO CALIFORNIA ATTN JESSE MESSAGE BEGINS ARRIVING SF OA 10MAY STOP HOPE YOU HAVE NEW SUPPLIER READY STOP SIGNED SPRINGER DETROIT OFFICE MESSAGE ENDS

07MAY19371005 TO SEQUOIA SHIPPING CO SANFRANCISCO CALIFORNIA MESSAGE BEGINS MOMMA IM COMING HOME STOP SIGNED SONNY BOY MESSAGE ENDS


        The tiger had flashed his Minkerton’s badge in order to gain entrance to the telegraph office, and now he scowled as he read the two messages the hare had sent out.  Hastily he scribbled out another message, this one to the Minkerton’s office in San Francisco.
        Recommending that both businesses be checked, and watched.


        Broome smiled at the telegram in his paw.  Tucci was still moving, and now the fox knew when and where the hare was expected to arrive. 
        A shortwave message was sent.


        It started at lunch that day, shortly after the train had left the platform at Denver.  Tucci went to his assigned booth in the dining car to find that he had company.  The three furs he had noted were sitting there reading menus and chatting amiably.  A vacant fourth seat, against the wall of the train car, was obviously meant for him.
        He also knew that he was essentially trapped on the train.  There would be at least one of them following him everywhere he went.
        Oh, well.
        He took his seat and picked up the menu, glanced at it and looked at the fur sitting across from him.  “Read any good books lately?”
        The dachshund’s ears twitched and he growled, “Yeah.  Tell-Tale Heart, by Poe.  Story ‘bout a fur whose conscience is bodderin’ him.”  He showed his teeth.  “Ever read it?”
        “Can’t say as I have,” Tucci replied in a reasonable tone.  “Only the guilty have problems with their conscience.  But if you like that sort of thing, I can give you my copy of Dream of the Fire by Althea Richter.  All the rage in Rain Island a few years ago.”  He gave his menu to the waiter.  “I’ll have the grilled hamburger steak and potatoes, please.”
        “To drink, sir?” the waiter asked.
        “Coffee, please.”
        The other three furs gave their orders and the tiger, sitting beside the hare, leaned over, crowding Tucci further against the wall.  “Hey, rabbit, we hear you got in trouble.”
        “Hare.”
        “What?”
        “Hare, not rabbit.  There’s a difference.”  He pointed.  “Longer ears.  And my mother didn’t raise me to get in trouble.”
        The wolf smiled.  “I heard about hares.  You can hear a moth break wind, so they say.”  He sat back as the steward brought coffee.  “So, hear anything up in Detroit?”
        “Union giving Ford hell, but what else is new?” Tucci replied, shrugging.
        That remark got him a condescending smirk from the dachshund.  “There was a murder up there.”
        “Really?
        “Yeah, really,” the lupine said.  “Police are looking for him.”
        The dachshund smirked again.  “Minkerton’s too.”
        “That so?”
        “Yep,” chimed in the tiger.  “They’re looking for a rabbit with brown fur.”
        “I hope they catch him, then.”  Their meals arrived and the four of them started to eat.
        Throughout the meal the three Minkerton’s agents (Tucci concluded that they were; railroad officers wouldn’t be interested in him, the FBI surely wouldn’t be on his scent yet, and the Detroit police had no jurisdiction) talked about Mastny’s death.  Tucci forced himself to remain quiet as he finished his meal.  He turned away to look out the window and caught the tiger’s paw hover over his coffee cup.
        Only for an instant, and he felt his tail twitch against the seat.
        Very poor tactics, trying to slip him a Mickey so soon, especially when he wasn’t drinking anything alcoholic.  He wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, earning the nickname “Two-Drink Tucci” back home for his inability to hold his liquor.
        He sighed, turned back, and jostled his coffee cup with an elbow.  “Oops, sorry guys,” he said apologetically as he hastened to mop up the spill with his napkin, “just clumsy, I guess.”
        The tiger looked vaguely irritated, but covered it well.  “I guess.  Gonna fall outta window one of these days, huh?”
        The hare asked for a fresh cup of coffee and sipped at it warily, nose twitching.


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