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"Opening Day"
by E.O. Costello ©2006 E.O. Costello Gwladys Buckhorn, Josslyn Buckhorn, Reggie Buckhorn, Thomas Buckhorn, Pierre duCleds are characters created by E.O. Costello Willow Buckhorn/Grace Stagg characters by M. Mitchell Marmel and E.O. Costello Mark French courtesy J.T. Urie  April 23, 1940, 6.52 a.m. The Private Suite Bellevue Stagford Hotel Broad and Walnut Streets, Fillydelphia Truth be told, Gwladys Buckhorn had not been sleeping heavily, so the gentle knock on her bedroom door was sufficient to bring her to full consciousness. "Pardon, Madame, le petit dejuner. Puis-je entrer?" "Of course, Celestine, just a moment." A quick shrug into a dressing gown, and a few flicks of the furbrush, and the Rt. Hon. the Dowager Viscountess Buckhorn was presentable, at least to her maid. Considering the latter had worked for her for getting on twenty-seven years, this was perhaps unnecessary, but certain standards had to be met. The breakfast tray was duly brought in and efficiently laid on the table, the silver covers whisked away, and in an instant, the maid had shimmered away, as only someone in her profession could. Breakfast was an acorn omelette and a pot of tea. The tray was surveyed with a small smile of satisfaction. Management had taken some extra trouble with the silverware and the china, knowing that the part-owner of the hotel was going to dine off them. Even that morning's Inquirer had been ironed. Not, as some think, to get a snappy crease in the paper, though that helps, but to fix the ink so it does not get on paws. Normally, the Dowager Viscountess would not dirty her paws with the Inquirer (ironed or not); she was an Evening Bulletin reader to the core (and she viewed Moe Annenbyrd, the publisher, with some secret distaste). But the Republican Inquirer was, after all, preferable to the Democratic Record, and she was interested to see if there had been overnight developments in Norway (the Allies allegedly captured a number of Germans about 25 miles from Narvik). It was the other headline, however, that made her smile. It was the one she had been looking forward to for nearly three years. "PHILLIES NEW PARK TO OPEN TODAY" "Radical New Design Opens Season, Era" Quietly laying the paper aside, and taking a sip of tea, Gwladys Buckhorn corrected herself. No. This was not a question of three years. It was more like thirty-nine. May 14, 1901 1926 Delancey Street Fillydelpha The coroner ruled the cause of death was a burst blood vessel in the brain. A white lie. Yes, it was perfectly true, of course. Peter Ritterherz had died of a burst blood vessel in his brain. The death certificate failed to mention that the burst blood vessel was caused by one bullet from a .22 caliber revolver. Gwladys Ritterherz stayed in her upstairs bedroom, while business was being conducted downstairs. The usual phalanx of Fillydelphia Lawyers was present. Their post mortem would be conducted by paper, not by a scalpel. While her parents were under the impression that she was a fresh young doe, untrammeled by the hustle and bustle of the world around her, they did not know that she was a keen reader of the daily newspapers. This was a fact that would have, most likely, earned the headmistress of her school a stern rebuke, but this lady fur was one of the new school, who felt that bright young lady furs needed to know more than what was in Mrs. Beeton's book on how to run a household. And she took a great deal of pleasure in her star pupil. Two languages spoken fluently, with two more conversant, and a pithy prose style. There was much that showed promise. If it could be allowed to flower. If. Gwladys paced the floor of her room. She knew full well that in the last few weeks, a titanic battle had been brewing on Wall Street. Control of the mighty Northern Pacific Railway was at stake. With only a small floating supply of stock, prices had risen, unofficially, to over $1,000 per share. Which meant certain ruin for anyfur that had sold the stock short. Something else that Gwladys Ritterherz knew full well: her father was an inveterate plunger in the market. Sometimes his hunches were right, sometimes they were wrong. The deathly quiet in the house in the last week told her all she needed to know about her father's latest hunch. His last hunch. It was almost nightfall by the time there was a soft knock on the door. On the doorstep was the widow Ritterherz, already dressed in black. An old Main Line doe, she was made of stern stuff, so no tears flowed when the news was broken. "Gwladys, I am afraid we shall have to sell the house. There is no other alternative. Mr. Percheron has shown me the figures for your father's losses, and we have to economize in every way, which means..." "No more school, Mother?" "I am sorry, Gwladys. That is how it must be. We cannot rely on anyone else in the family, not after what your father has done. It will not be a public scandal, but enough furs know. And..." Little more needed to be said on that score. Doors would be silently closed. Regrets would be sent. Correspondence would end. "Never mind, Mother. I will take care of myself. And you." "Gwladys, this is no time to be dreaming." "I am not dreaming, Mother. I will find a way." "But Gwladys, think of the..." "Scandal? Do you honestly care what anyfur thinks anymore, Mother? You've just implied we're as dead as Father is, socially." The mother shuddered at this. Perhaps a poor choice of words, even if they were the truth. "Mother, Mrs. Castor has many connections. And you know I'm one of her favorites. I'm willing to trust her. Why don't you?" The elder Ritterherz tightened her jaw and clasped her paws. "Damn your father, anyway. Why on Earth did he have to put us through...?" "Mother, listen to me. I'm going to fix things. Mother. Look at me, Mother. I'm going to fix things." The two does looked at each other. One was determined to do what she said. The other knew it. She gave her daughter a deeply reluctant embrace of assent. April 23, 1940, 7.24 a.m. The Private Suite The Bellevue Stagford The rest of the breakfast was given its due justice, as the Dowager Viscountess made a mental note to compliment the chef. Honest praise cost little, but usually bought much goodwill. The morning routine was adhered to, and the bath had been drawn. Before entering it, Gwladys Buckhorn paused to look at herself in the mirror. Fifty-seven years old be damned, she still looked good. More than enough to get a passing glance or two. She knew her chauffeur was hoping that one day, the old stereotype would assert itself, and she'd have a fling in the backseat of the Packherd. She would let him go on thinking that. It made for a docile employee. As she settled into the warm water, and began to apply the loofah, she did smile to herself. It was, after all, her body that had made her what she was today. Not in the standard fashion, of course... October 9, 1901, 10.26 a.m. Office of the President Minkerton's National Detective Agency The Consolidated Gas Building 37 Wall Street, Gnu York City She had seen the name dozens and dozens of times before. There were dime novels featuring his adventures, real or imagined. His name struck fear in the hearts of criminals, stimulated penny-dreadful writers, and stoked rage in the hearts of socialists. And yet, there he was, sitting across the desk from her. Dribbling cracker crumbs on his vest. Allan Minkerton, Sr. was now well into his seventies. His office was sparsely furnished, save for a portrait of his Civil War patron, and a holographic copy of the Gettysburg Address, which would likely be worth a pretty penny at auction. A younger, nearly identical mink stood off to the side, swishing his tailfur. His attention was somewhat divided between his father, on the one paw, and the fact that there was a well-shined and well-turned hoof within his view. A staccato cough broke the silence, as the younger Minkerton discovered that his father had finished reading Gwladys Ritterherz's letters of introduction. The elder mink was glowering over the top of his pince-nez at his son. "If you're *quite* finished looking at Miss Ritterherz's...qualifications...perhaps you can give me some guidance." "Well, Father, we need all of the different tools we can get to serve our clients. Miss Ritterherz is well-spoken, well-read, speaks three languages..." "And has a well-turned hoof." A blush from the younger Minkerton. "I'm not crazy about the idea of hiring young ladies, Junior. God knows this firm catches enough hell as it is without being accused of running something out of the Arabian Nights." "Bottom line, Dad. It works." Gwladys was fascinated by this conversation, which was taking place as if she wasn't in the room. "For whom? I've been hearing rumours about Trip and that other young lady we hired...what's her name...Victoria somethingorother." "van Pelt, Dad. You remember, the one who figured out who was leaking that information for the U.S. Steel flotation." A grumpy snort from the elder mink acknowledged the fact, but he still looked displeased and not terribly convinced. "Mr. Minkerton?" The eyes swiveled over like the business end of a battleship turret. "Yes, Miss Ritterherz?" "Surely you have no objection to the use of young ladies. Didn't you run an operation all throughout the war using couriers to pass and gather information? I seem to recall you even designed a special attachment for the inside of a hoop skirt..." "Don't believe everything you read in dime novels, Miss." "Or autobiographies? It's in chapter 27 of volume I, at least as far as it goes for the Peninuslar Campaign." Allan Minkerton, Sr. narrowed his eyes, and snorted again. "Not proper reading for a young lady, in this day and age. All right, damnit. But she's *your* responsibility, Junior. If there's any scandal that comes out of this, it's on your tailfur, got me?" A few minutes later, going down the hall to his own office, the younger mustelid chuckled. "Never mind him, Miss Ritterherz. The gout means he can't chase 'em like he used to. I'm sure you'll do just fine." April 23, 1940, 8.19 a.m. The Private Suite The Bellevue Stagford Celestine had laid out her mistress' clothes on the stand, and they were carefully inspected. A great deal of black, as befitted a widow. But, as her couturier smilingly opined, wearing black need not mean one looked gloomy. Certainly not the underthings (not that anyfur would see them) Certainly not the smart skirt-suit ordered from Paris, which had arrived the other week along with a few other items. Gwladys had a feeling that that would be the last reinforcements from Paris for her wardrobe for some time. At least if the Evening Bulletin's analysts were right. Very little jewelry. A strand of pearls, a small pearl pin, and her wedding band. Looking at that, she mused. The only widows she saw that still wore their wedding bands were all cervines. Not something that one would guess from stereotypes. Time for inspection in the mirror. Yes, just one or two small adjustments, and everything passes, ready for parade. And how often has this been done? March 29, 1903, 11.26 p.m Suite 1295, The Waldorf-Castoria Hotel 33rd St. and Fifth Avenue Gnu York City For a secret agent, Gwladys Ritterherz decided, this fur was awfully loud. Indeed, the jaguar had been a continious whirlwind of activity since he had hit town. Rather a pity that almost none of it had to do with his employment by the Republic of Mexico. Well, that might not be true, necessarily. The various firms that were attempting to sell Mexico all manner of modern firearms, weapons and assorted artillery were doing their best to keep their would-be client in a good mood. This meant hitting the best "lobster palaces" in Gnu York, and picking up the cheque. (Of course, this would later be added back into the overhead for the sales, so it would be the campesinos of rural Mexico that would ultimately be paying for the lobster and White Star champagne.) Cheques were not accepted at certain other establishments that the jaguar gave business to. Those were strictly cash. Tonight, however, Don Felipe was in a mood radiant. He had insisted on buying champagne for the two lovely young senoritas sitting at the table next to him. And why not? Certainly the young minkess and the young doe were not of a species he would see back home, and their natural scents were exotic to him. This was not going to be a working dinner, as the gentlefur from Colt had planned. It was a deeply irritated Morgan quarterhorse that saw the two young ladies lead the jaguar back up to his room. For the next few hours, the champagne flowed in two directions. One, down Don Felipe's gullet. The other, into strategically placed potted plants. Don Felipe was getting more and more cheerful as the night wore on. His paws were also getting a little more active, too, to the expressed giggles (and hidden disgust) of the minkess. Perhaps it was her caramel-and-black colouration that appealed to the jaguar. Who knows? It was with some alarm that she saw him begin to unbuckle his trousers, and shrug off his pants. This was not quite in the plan, and she really would rather not expose the fact that she was wearing a knife in a holster underneath her skirt. Or expose anything else, for that matter. With a giggle, her companion, the doe, offered another round of champagne to all three, winking at the jaguar as she flicked her flag. This provoked a booming laugh, and a swift downing of the glass. Followed by a swift downing of the jaguar, as the knockout drops took hold. "Damnit, Gwladys, did you have to cut it so fine? Another minute or so, and this dress was going to be history." "Have to make it look real, Vicky. Romeo will wake up with a splitting headache, and without his clothes. He'll think he had a great old time, even if he didn't. Mels. Anyway, help me toss the room, here. He's bound to have something." The jaguar did. A very nice steel deed box, with a combination lock. Rather large, too. "Any guesses at the combination, Gwladys?" The doe was already fiddling with the dials. In a few seconds, the box clicked open. She winked. "5-0-5. Very patriotic of our little gallant. And my, hasn't he been a busy little boy. Here, you take half, and I'll take the other half." The two femme furs quickly scanned the letters. It looked like there were a few more elements in the overhead, namely substantial bribes being paid to the confidential agent of the Republic of Mexico. Quite a few firms, domestic and foreign, would be more than a little concerned if these letters fell into the wrong paws. Such as those of the President of Mexico, who had had the foresight to hire Minkerton's. It was rumoured that El Presidente was an avid reader of dime novels. The minkess was on the verge of leaving with the refilled deed box, when she turned and saw her partner was busily stripping Don Felipe, tossing his clothes around the room. As a final touch, a heavily scented silk pawkerchief was thrust into the snoring jaguar's paw. Victoria van Pelt admired the theatrical touch, and was mildly jealous she hadn't thought of it herself. Ten minutes later, the two femmes snuck into a horse-drawn carriage, which sped off downtown. February 29, 1904, 11.19 p.m. McGurk's Suicide Hall 295 Bowery Gnu York City No less an authority than the Messrs. Howe & Hummell, attorneys extraordinary to the criminal underworld of Greater Gnu York, had labeled McGurk's Suicide Hall the worst dive in that fair city. Part of this reputation came from the fact that this fabled establishment was nearly the last stop on the express train to hell for prostitutes. Many got off the train at McGurk's, which accounted for both its name and the rubbernecking tourists who stopped by in the hope of seeing something gruesome to discuss in their native hamlets. Some of the yokels were entranced by stories like the one concerning Blonde Madge Davenport and her partner, Big Mame. In October, 1899, they decided to end it all, and to that end they bought carbolic acid, the elixir of choice, at a drugstore a few doors away. Blonde Madge was successful in gulping her final cocktail down. Big Mame hesitated and wound up spilling most of hers...so all she got for her pains was a scarred face and a permanent ban from McGurk's. And this was one of just six suicides that year. Most of the femmefurs who killed themselves were teenagers between 16 and 18. Waiters came to recognize persons who might attempt suicide and formed flying wedges to eject the aggrieved parties before the deed could be attempted or completed. This gives one an idea of the piquant flavour that was McGurk's in this era. There was a gay and festive air at McGurk's this night. An improvement over the usual air of cheap tobacco, stale beer and staler urine that customarily assaulted the discriminating palate (not that McGurk's habitues boasted such as a rule). One of the idols of the Bowery, the Paoli Kid himself, was in the house. He of course was recognized, as garishly tinted lithographs could be found in nearly every barbershop or dive for hundreds of miles, courtesy of the National Police Gazette "Hall of Fame." The Kid's fame largely rested on his splendid handlebar mustache and bulky physique, far more than his technique, which largely consisted of rushing his opponent and pummeling him as hard and fast as he could. Watching all of this was a blowsy doe in the corner, who had already had to fend off four offered transactions in the last hour; the last one required a discreet stein to the ear, not that anyone noticed, not at McGurk's. (Well, strictly speaking, not true. The unlucky fur was quickly dragged off to be stripped of everything he had on him, such as it was. Bad luck for him when he woke up the next morning in some vermin-infested alley. Good luck for him that he woke up at all.) The doe had one eye out for would-be offers (to be rejected), and the other eye out for her target. For once Minkerton's was on the side of the angels, at least as far as the working class was concerned. One of the organizers of the furriers' union had been furnapped by a group in the pay of a manufacturer who had an interesting notion of labour-management relations. The manufacturer had also been dismissive and contemptous of Minkerton's. The union, having been on the receiving end of more than one defeat at the paws of Minkerton's, knew better And for Minkerton's, father, son and grandson, a fee was a fee. The word on the street was that the organizer would be passed from one arm of the gang to the other, tonight. The recipients were notorious for their tastes in "play," and it was evident that it was now or never to get the client to safety. A number of Minkerton ops were scattered over the Bowery, seeing which dive would be the pass-off spot. The doe was getting anxious, irritated and itchy. She really didn't want to think about what was making her itch, but her guts told her that McGurk's was the place, if at all. The Paoli Kid, and the furore he was creating, was ideal cover. Sure enough, while the Paoli Kid was in the middle of a long-winded anecdote about how he "administered the sleeper" to Ratso Wyre in the ninth, the door opened, and a group of four furs, all bulk and scowls, pushed a smaller mouse before them. Hardly anyone noticed. That is, except for the doe, who had memorized the photograph. Heavy odds. How to even them? There was only one way. Slipping a bit further into the darkness, and disguising her voice, she propounded a question to the Paoli Kid. "Hey, ya big baboon! How much didja pay Ratso t'take a dive?!?" The Paoli Kid's train of thought, such as it was, was derailed, his face a twisted frappe of confusion and growing rage, especially when it became clear that not everyone at McGurk's was a Paoli Kid partisan. "Who sez dat?" To the doe's surprise (and relief) at least two other patrons demanded answers. A few other habitues took offence, and expressed their disagreement with fists. That fine old Bowery institution, the brawl, began to erupt. For once, the waiters were caught off guard. It seemed that the Paoli Kid, in his haste to get at his tormenters, cold-cocked two of the burly waiters and accidentally hit a few others. In short order, the chairs and tables were flying. And so were some of the patrons.. The four escorts' retreat was foiled, largely by the crush of battling patrons and airborne furniture, some of which began connecting with harsh force. The mouse, now even more astonished and frightened, was suddenly yanked off his feet into the crush and shoved under a (still standing) table. "Izzy sent me," the mouse was informed by the doe. The mouse barely had time to digest this fact before the doe, looking around, grabbed the mouse by the scruff of the neck and began expertly weaving her way through the milling mob of brawling patrons. Mercifully, the unknown patron who threw the horse through the plate-glass window in front had poor aim, missing rescuer and rescuee by about a foot, covering them with shards of broken glass, but otherwise causing no harm. The tom-tom thrum of police nightsticks beaten against the pavement began to be heard, as the two weaved through the darkened streets. "Where are we going?" "The Consolidated Gas Building on Wall Street. You need safety. I need a bath. And...damnit!...some flea powder." September 12, 1904, 10.42 p.m. Outside the Dakota Gnu York City The old gag had been that the luxurious apartment building had been built so far north in Manhattan (and thus far from civilization), that it might as well have been built in the Dakotas. The owners of the building defiantly adopted the name, and it stuck. One of the current residents of the Dakota had in mind another parallel: he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was a marked fur. Messages had been received. Notes left. Near-accidents barely avoided. Even if they were expensive, Minkerton's seemed the only answer. But for all the money he was paying, the nervous fur couldn't see anything Minkerton's was doing. He had a good mind to go downtown to the Consolidated Gas Building and give them a piece of his mind. In fact, he was going to do it the very next morning, he resolved. If he lived. The street was empty, except for one or two nicely dressed furs. Perhaps back from an evening at the theatre. Sanctuary was almost at paw when the moving shadow caught his eye. The gaslight caught the glint of the knife in the paw as it was quickly raised to be thrown. The gaslight caught another glint from a few feet away. One of the theatre-goers had removed her paw from a muff, revealing a most unlady-like accessory: a strange-looking pistol with a bulbous top. At a range of no more than 20 feet, she could hardly miss. And didn't, catching the would-be killer square in the chest, with an eerily silent shot. The knife fell to the sidewalk with a clatter far louder than the pistol. The doe had slipped her paw back into the muff, and quickly padded off into the night, with merely a quick nod at her astonished client. Who was now of the view that the agenda for his meeting tomorrow had changed. Memo to self: bring chequebook. April 23, 1940, 8.53 a.m. The Private Suite The Bellevue Stagford Chequebook. Chequebook. Damn, her mind was slipping. Of all things, on all days, she couldn't forget that. Neither Mr. Leowey nor Mr. Croark would take kindly to a promise of final payment later. An excuse of "I forgot my chequebook" on a $15,000,000 project would hardly past muster. Not after all the work they had put into it. The fees were enormous, but the paw that wrote the cheques wasn't shaking. Things would come out in the end. The antique desk overlooking the window on Broad Street was a model of organization. Everything to its assigned place, as per the Minkerton's Manual for Operatives (1899 edition, on the bookshelf nearby). Gwladys Buckhorn smirked at the thought. Her daughter-in-law had once accurately guessed where everything was in the desk; evidently, some parts of the Manual had not changed in over a quarter-century. Which is to say that the desk occasionally didn't yield a surprise. Pulling out the chequebook for the Giraffe Bank (a good, old-fashioned Fillydelphia Bank with a beautiful head branch), another chequebook caught her eye. A closer examination revealed it was for Lloyd's Bank, with the familiar portrait of its equine founder. In small, nearly worn-away gilt lettering on the leather cover was a name: Josslyn M.G. Buckhorn. The last cheque counterfoil was dated January 13, 1939 (Thos. Pink & Sons, for two shirts, 13 guineas). Quietly replacing the chequebook, and closing the desk drawer, the Dowager Viscountess brooded. Even in death, the figure of her late mate still loomed large, with constant reminders of his presence making themselves known. A tie here, a furbrush there, a book with annotations (some printable) marked in the margin. Of course, what was today but the dedication of an enormous memorial to Joss? Complete with life-size bronze statue, glowering at home plate from 463 feet away in dead centre field. And in play, too. Such an appealing target for any slugger who dared. Probably few, if they had a notion that a brass cervine golem would exact a painful and loud revenge on them. There was, Gwladys recalled, a ruler of ancient times who had fashioned a bull of bronze, into which he pitched those to be done away with, and heated it up, the yells of the executed sounding very much like the bellows of the bull. On second recollection, Gwladys remembered the ruler being done away with in his own bull. Still, the notion was there. A loud, echoing snort from a bronze replica of her deceased mate would be appropriate. It would match the first things she had heard from him... March 3, 1905, 10.06 a.m. The Day Room Monongahela House St. Peter Churchford, Bucks. "Phhhhhhnort. I don't NEED any bloody secretary." Indeed not, thought Gladys Ritterherz. What he needed was a tailor to attend to a waistcoat that was increasingly under strain, a dermatologist to look at the acne on the muzzle, and someone to take care of that squint. A secretary did come rather low on the list of priorities for Joss Buckhorn, at least if she had anything to do about it. But she didn't. Minkerton's clients, in this case, were George and Fionna Buckhorn, the buck of the duo being the owner of F.R. Buckhorn & Sons, the Anglo-American firm that supplied vast quantities of tinned goodies to herbivores around the world, Gwladys herself included. George Buckhorn had many things: a whole lot of money, an army of workers around the world...and a buck-fawn that seemed to be a bit on the disputatious side. "Now Joss, old man. Of course you need a secretary. After all, you'll be taking on responsibilities soon with the firm." "Right now, you have me sweeping out a warehouse." "Errrr. I...hunh?" "Oh, for God's sake, father, I saw the rota sheet. You signed it yourself." "Did I? Bless me, don't remember it. I say, awfully sorry, you know. Well, look on the bright side..." "There IS no bright side. IT'S A BLOODY WAREHOUSE!" Well, that might explain the acne. The other whitetail doe in the room spoke up. It was a little hard to understand her at first, largely because of the cigar she was smoking, and a rather noticeable Pittsburgh accent. "Joss, yer gettin' a secretary, an' that's it, see? Unless you like sweeping out warehouses." "No, I don't, and..." "Good. Miz Ritterherz here comes recommended." "From whom, may I ask?" "None of yer business, an' don't give me no lip, boy, or I'll put you across my knee." "Oh! I say, Fi, that's a bit..." "Quiet. Or I'll put YOU across my knee." "Oh. Er. Right-ho." What a family. Still, Gwladys could see the logic behind hiring her. All talk of dictation and filing aside, there was the matter of keeping an eye on the sole heir to the Buckhorn fortune. Joss hadn't exactly made friends at Oxford (or so the file said), and there were probably a few who would take a poke at him. Of course, upon closer examination, given the way the buck-fawn was balling up his fists and glaring at his sire, taking merely one poke might be a bad idea. "Besides, boy, it's high time you were around does your age." "WHAT'S THAT BLOODY SUPPOSED TO MEAN?" "Oh, I say, er, Joss?" "What." "Don't you...er...like does?" George Buckhorn was a very likeable client. The pay was very good, even generous. A good chunk of her father's debts would soon be retired, thanks to him. Free room and board in a very nice English country house that, unusually, seemed up to date. The downside was that the head of the family, behind his pale blue eyes and sheepish grin, didn't seem to have all of his wires connected. This last question, while asked in perfect innocence and a desire to know, may well have been ill-timed, given her presence. It certainly provoked a steam-main explosion of wrath from the buck-fawn, who indicated what he thought of the insinuations of the question, followed by an angry stomping out of the room (and a puzzled trotting after by the sire). The silence in the room was broken only by the older doe puffing on her cigar. After a while, she examined it critically, and tossed it into the grate. "Takes after my old man and his brothers, with that hot head of his. I'm sure he likes does, but it'd take a cervine a' steel to hang around that hard one. So, howdya think th' Pirates will do this year?" July 12, 1906, 6.24 p.m. On board an LNER train, bound for London As Josslyn Buckhorn's secretary and all-purpose Doe Friday, Gwladys had to go nearly everywhere he did. At least the parts required for business. F.R. Buckhorn & Sons' main British plant was in Liverpool, so there would be train rides up for inspection trips, with memoranda and letters dictated along the way. At meetings, Josslyn Buckhorn would politely raise his paw to be recognized. If his sire was present, often he would not be called on, because the elder buck would be rambling on about an esoteric topic. On the rare occasions where his father managed to actually notice him, often a chance remark by the younger buck would set the older one off on yet another tangent. In a way, it was worse when George Buckhorn was not present. The chair then passed to an elderly grand-uncle, who had no truck with "book learning." The way to learn to run an enterprise was by getting one's paws dirty, was his motto. He had little patience for his grand-nephew's work, and would glower at the younger buck over his pince-nez. If this didn't work, a series of chuffing snorts would erupt. And if Josslyn was still stubborn enough to persist, as he often was, a frank comment would be made about "cleverness," and the next item on the agenda would be moved to, with a bang of the gavel. There were train rides back down to London. These in dead silence, punctuated only by the drumming of hooves against the walls of the railway carriage. January 17, 1907, 10.51 p.m. The ballroom Monongahela House All work and no play would make for a dull buck, so there were social occasions, both at Monongahela House and in London during the "Season," where parties and balls would be attended. At least initially, Gwladys had little idea of how the London parties went, since, as a quasi-servant, she would not be invited to them. Not that it mattered; there were occasions she thought that habitues of the Bowery were the superior of some elements of the British aristocracy, and she would have loved to have matched one Bowery b'hoy against a few aristos. The imagined results brought a smile to her muzzle. The only guess as to what was happening was the sound of Josslyn Buckhorn returning home around eleven, and slamming the door to his room. At Monongahela House parties, she could get a closer look. Josslyn's smallish size and increasing girth made him a somewhat awkward dancer. For some of the taller does, his muzzle would be more or less at chest height, something that she could see gave him acute embarrassment. When the dance was over, the partner usually made a quick excuse, and departed for refreshments or other dancers. Many dances were sat out, in the dark, with hooves drumming against the floor. August 12, 1907, 4.12 p.m. Secretary's Room Monongahela House One function she heard about only second-paw (to her vast irritation, but she had her orders from Minkerton's). Josslyn had been at one social gathering when a quintet of rowdy Cambridge furs cornered the buck, whose Oxford loyalties were at least known in society (being the first Buckhorn to go to University). The leader of the high-spirited scholars began an earnest enquiry, a tutorial even, on how many settlers the "wild Yankee" buck had scalped, and where his fur-paint and feathers were. Eventually, words were exchanged, and the younger buck was, in time-honoured tradition, "de-bagged" of his trousers (5 on 1 not being conducive to an effective defence). The news quickly made the rounds. A garbled version got back to George Buckhorn and the aforementioned grand-uncle, and a drumhead court-martial was convened with Gwladys present. The sire was puzzled and confused as to why his fawn would take off his trousers and run around half-naked. The grand-uncle referred to his grand-nephew as a, quote, still-spotted limp-hooved limp-antlered little butterball, endquote, with the suggestion that he start hitting a punching bag instead of the books, and it would make a buck out of him, instead of a doe. It was at that point that Josslyn began writing memoranda only for himself, and began to sit in moody silence, both in the boardroom and at the dinner table. The social invitations dried up, but did not seem to be missed all that much. There would be sotto voice mutterings regarding "social butterflies" and "pointless and wasteful frivolity." Pity, Gwladys mused. Much of what was said in the memoranda was quite cogent and correct. Josslyn had an organized mind, and (grand-uncle's advice notwithstanding) continued to read heavily. And given what Gwladys saw of Edwardian society, she thought Josslyn was probably right, too, about the pointless and wasteful frivolity of the social butterflies. She did notice that Josslyn was, increasingly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She resolved to treat him with politeness and courtesy. After all, he was the client. How this deference was received was hard to say. July 23, 1908, 9.45 p.m. The Library Monongahela House "Dear Vee: Congrats on finishing up that railroad case. That took some work, figuring out they put the false bottoms on those railcars. At least you're having fun with a fellow species member. Trip sounds like a real charmer. I wish I could say the same for my boss. I don't let it bother me, God knows I saw worse on some of our Bowery gigs. I saw him in high form today, getting a metal supplier to knock 3/4d off the price of each gross of cans. By the end of it, the guy was lucky to be getting out of it with fur and sanity intact, if not pride. Interesting character, though. I've probably learned more in the last few years watching him than I would have at Penn, or King's, or Collegiate. If they let us in, that is. Which reminds me, what are they writing back home about the suffragettes? There was one case here that's been hushed up, get a load of this: a femme chained herself, not just to a fence, but..." A quiet cough startled Gwladys out of her train of thought. Standing in front of her was the boss referred to in the letter to Victoria van Pelt, in white tie from dinner. There had been one or two improvements. A monocle had taken care of the squint, and a transfer to a desk job had cleared up the irritation that caused the acne. The antlers were now a little more balanced for the head, as well. "I'm sorry, Mr. Buckhorn. I thought you had dismissed me for the day. Shall I fetch...?" "No, no, Miss Ritterherz. Thank you for asking." The quiet and polite tone of voice was a surprise, especially since that same voice had barracked a footfur for dropping a platter of steamed carrots not more than an hour ago, in a voice that thundered through the house. There was an altogether confused look in the buck's eye, but no scent of port on the breath. He shuffled a hoof in embarrassment. "Errrrr. I'm sorry, Miss Ritterherz, if I frighten you and all..." "You don't, Mr. Buckhorn." The buck looked up, even more confused. "Eh?" "I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Buckhorn. I've seen enough of you the last few years. Granted, that's probably because I've lasted longer than most of the furs who serve you," (at this, the buck flushed a bit) "but all the same, I do see beyond your temper." A twitch in the buck's ears indicated he was listening. "I know enough about your affairs to judge that you may be a very hot-tempered buck, and an extremely hard competitor, but you are, after all, at least honest in your dealings. More than can be said for some furs. And I've typed up enough of your memoranda to know their value. It's rather a pity that almost no fur decides to see the positive side of your character, Mr. Buckhorn." The buck's ears twitched straight up. "You...errrr...see a positive side in me?" "Well, yes. But I've probably talked too much, Mr. Buckhorn. If you'll excuse me, I'll go to my rooms." Gwladys collected her unfinished letter, smiled warmly, and turned to leave the room. The sound of a hoof scraping the carpet was the first thing that stopped her. A long, drawn-out snort that sounded like "PHHHHHROOOOONNNNGGGG" was the second thing that stopped her. A pair of buck paws gripping her about the waist was the third thing that stopped her, and by far the most effective. Situations like this did come up in the novels written for the lower-class femme set, but Gwladys Ritterherz was mildly surprised to see it in action. She had considered whether this situation would ever come up, and what she would do if it did. A paw across the muzzle? A scream? A brief thought passed her mind: it *would* be nice to see this house from the upstairs. If she worked for Minkerton's for the next 35 years, it was somewhat unlikely she'd ever see the like, top-ranked and profitable op or no. Gwladys felt a little ashamed at the mercenary nature of her thoughts, but...it was a hard world, after all.. The paw was in fact used, not on the front of the muzzle, but the back of the ears. The other set of paws pushed the newspapers off the long table, and then set to other work. Matters were interrupted about an hour later, after the significant work was done, by a wreath of cigar smoke from a corner. "CONFOUND IT, MOTHER! WHAT ARE YOU...?!" "For gosh sakes, Joss, it isn't like it was a secret. They could hear you Downstairs, with that snort and bellow of yours. It didn't take no genius to figger out what you was doing, or a cracksman to come in here without disturbing you. Don't worry about the scratches on the table, kid. I'll take 'em outta Joss' allowance." "GREAT SCOTT!" "I've *told* you since you were a fawn, you break something, it comes out of your allowance." "HELLFIRE AND..." "Don't you give me that sass, boy. You may be 25, but house rules are house rules. Now be a good buck and give Miss Ritterherz back what's left of her clothes. I'll see you back to your room, dear, so none of the servants see you like that." "WHAT ON EARTH...!?!" "And your father and I will see you in the Day Room tomorrow, Josslyn. You have an important matter to attend to. Thank God, I thought...well, the *day* would never come. I was beginning to wonder if those antlers were just for show." Gwladys Ritterherz felt a strange glow of satisfaction as she was led back to her room. Maybe it was the fact that she was being led, very gently, by the paw and being treated with the respect someone of her position -- or pending position -- deserved. September 4, 1908, 9.03 a.m. Office of the President Minkerton's National Detective Agency The Consolidated Gas Building 37 Wall Street, Gnu York City Allan Minkerton, Sr. did not have as much volume as Josslyn Buckhorn did. But his connections with the Grand Army of the Republic had given him a fluency in expletives that far surpassed any fur Gwladys knew. He was capable of going three minutes without once repeating a blasphemy or scatalogical reference, a capability vividly demonstrated. Victoria van Pelt wasn't making things any better with her presence. A sunny, beaming presence. They say expectant mothers have a glow. Perhaps, though the way she brushed her fur, it was rather difficult to say if that was the sole source. The happy occasion was infectious for Gwladys, though not for anyone else in the room, including a deeply enraged Allan Minkerton, Sr., and a deeply embarrassed Allan Minkerton, Jr. Allan Minkerton III, for his part, had a sheepish grin on his face, fixed there in part because his fiancee had just pinched him below his tailbase. The elderly mink finished up his discourse with a thunderous opinion of femme furs who got themselves pregnant on the job, and he heartily wished damnation on the lot of them. Femme furs didn't act that way when he was their age. Allan (Trip) Minkerton III chose to intervene at this point. "That's not what Gran'ma says." "Out. Out! OUT!" Followed shortly after by a slammed door. "Trip..." "But it's true, Pop. She says..." "I know the full story about my conception, thank you very much, Trip. It's now going to take me twice as long to see to it that neither your fiance, nor Miss Ritterherz, is fired, merely placed on the "inactive" list." "Thank you for taking the trouble, Mr. Minkerton." "Well, Miss Ritterherz, after all you and...errr...Vee have done for Minkerton's in the last years, it wouldn't be fair to treat you like this." "And it's not like I'm leaving the family, Mr. Minkerton. I'm adding to it." The minkess rubbed her belly, and purred. The older mink rolled his eyes, shook his head, and gently went back into the President's office. The sound of shouted obscenities, interspersed with soothing words, could soon be heard. Trip Minkerton gave his fiance a quick kiss, and padded off to his office. The two femmes eyed each other with ill-concealed glee. "Drawing room sofa?" "Nope. Library table. Office desk?" "Horseback." "HORSEBACK?" "Well, what do you expect? It *was* Wyoming." April 23, 1940, 9.05 a.m. The Private Suite Bellevue Stagford Hotel One of the privileges of a grand-doe is that there are never set visiting hours for the grand-fawns. Nearly any time one wishes to pick up and nuzzle a grand-fawn, it is permissible. The Dowager Viscountess Buckhorn was never slow to exercise her grand-doe rights. The eldest of her two grand-fawns was likely out with Nanny, having a bit of a stroll (with Minkerton's guard close by). So this left a visit to the younger of the two grand-fawns. This one was still small; after all, it was barely three weeks old. It had a vivid splash of spots up and down its back, a tiny friz of blonde headfur, and a remarkably powerful set of lungs, as had been demonstrated the Sunday before, when Mary Rose Buckhorn was christened. Evidently, the water in the baptismal font had been quite cold. The mother was holding her fawn, and gently rocking it from side to side. Gwladys stood by and watched, partly enjoying the scene, and partly giving her doe-in-law her rights. It was a warm and friendly relationship, and Gwladys knew that sooner or later she would be asked to hold little Rosie. And she was, while the mother restored the circulation in her arms. Rosie was a beautiful little doe-fawn, with pale blue eyes underneath her headfur. She fussed a little as she was handed over, but gradually settled down to the nuzzling that her grand-doe gave her. "Rosie and Tommy-buck are coming to the opening, aren't they Willow?" The doe-in-law smiled and nodded. "It's a good day for a family outing. Even if there's a threat of rain. Won't stop the festivities, will it?" "Nice of the gods of weather to allow us to show off the roof on its first day. I'm sure Mr. Leowey and Mr. Croark are busy testing it right now. I want to show off my grand-fawns, as well as my new toy." With that, Rosie got another nuzzlling. It brought to mind another April day, long ago... April 1, 1909, 7.43 a.m. The Blue Room Monongahela House "Well, then, Mrs. Buckhorn. You've done well on the milk. The little buck comes in at a very healthy nine pounds, seven ounces." The doctor, a chubby, jolly country squire of a sawbones, was filling in the birth certificate at the table near the window. Name: Reginald Patrick Roderick Buckhorn. Mother: Gwladys Buckhorn. Father: Josslyn Buckhorn. This last entry brought something to his mind. "Nurse? Nurse!" "Yes, Doctor?" "Has the sire been told yet about his buck-fawn?" "Yes, Doctor." "Oh. Well, where is he?" "He was filling a glass from the whisky decanter when I left him, Doctor." "Celebrating, eh?" "Ummm..." "Surely, he is." "Not at the rate I saw him drinking, Doctor." "Piffle. Mrs. Buckhorn? Shall I send for your mate?" The sire was duly sent for, while the buck-fawn was very carefully rubbed down and diapered. It was thus a highly polished child that was presented to a startled and nervous father. The fawn opened his eyes. Sire gazed upon fawn. Fawn gazed upon sire. And the fawn let out a thunderous bleat of pure terror and began squirming frantically in the nurse's paws. The badly shaken father trembled. "GOD'S TEETH! What is that?" Said with shaking finger and trembling chins. The nurse was unamused. "Now, now, none of that." "Hold your blasted tongue, woman. YOU'RE not the one that's responsible for this specimen of gawdhelpus." The fawn, having caught his breath, looked at his sire again and began to bleat with all the force at his command, which was a surprising amount. "Don't you want to hold him, sir?" "HOLD HIM? GREAT SCOTT!" The father fled the room, in search of some restorative brandy. The fawn was restored to his mother, and quieted down instantly, particularly because his ears were being stroked. "Never mind, Reggie. Your sire's just nervous. He'll change his mind." She hoped. April 23, 1940, 9.28 a.m. The Lobby Bellevue Stagford Hotel Gwaldys Buckhorn exited the elevator that was reserved for her exclusive use. Ouf of the corner of her eye, she could see one of the bellhops flashing a sign with gloved paws: two paws held against the chest in the shape of cocked pistols. Signal: very big shot in the lobby. The signal went around like wildfire, so it was not surprising that the hotel's concierge materialized by her side. "Good morning, my lady." "Good morning." "Your car awaits, ma'am. Mr. Lodge telephoned half an hour ago to have it ready." Of course he did. Lodge knew everything. "Your morning courier arrived a few minutes ago, ma'am, I have had the material placed in your car." "Thank you very much. That will be all I require." "Thank you, ma'am." She was about to head out to the (again, reserved) exit to the driveway when some action on the far side of the lobby caught her eye. A small raccoon, in knee pants, was gleefully sliding across the marble floor. Eventually, nemesis in the form of his mother caught up to him, and the fun was brought to an abrupt halt. Pity, in a way... January 4, 1918, 8.23 a.m. The Dining Room Monongahela House "Mummy?" "Yes, darling?" "Have you seen my frog?" "No, darling, I haven't. When did you last see him?" "A few minutes ago. He was in his usual box, but he's escaped, somehow." "Never mind, darling, he'll turn up. Eat your oatmeal like a good fawn." "Yes, Mummy." The buck-fawn began to eat his oatmeal. Unlike a lot of things in this time of war, it was not rationed. The herbivores were somewhat lucky in the war, in part because their menu was a little more diverse, and in part because of the efforts of F.R. Buckhorn & Sons, whose worldwide resources had been brought to bear in the Allied cause. The war had swollen the family bank balance. It had also, somewhat less happily, swollen the temper of the harried head of the family, who was coming down to a somewhat latish breakfast after a long night before. Judging from the loud crashing and banging, his descent seemed to be a bit more rapid and dramatic than planned. It was a slightly disheveled buck that hove into view. "Who's the blasted idiot that left a marble on the landing?" This directed at the fawn; the question seemed to be rhetorical in nature. "Blue or red marble?" came the answer, said in wide-eyed innocence, with a thirst for practical knowledge. "GOD'S TEETH, BOY, DON'T YOU BLASTED WELL START WITH ME AT THIS HOUR OF THE..." "Josslyn." "WHAT?!" "Your tie is crooked." "OF COURSE MY BLASTED TIE IS CROOKED. I JUST FELL DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS!" "Well, do watch where you're going." "I...IT'S...BLAST IT, I...GAAAAAAH!" A pair of hooves stomped off to the cold part of the buffet, in search of some soothing stewed fruit. The lid on the dish was lifted, followed by another bellow of surprise. "AAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIRRRRAAAAAAHHHHH!" "Oh!" "There, darling, I told you he'd turn up." "WHO PUT THIS BLOODY FROG IN HERE? NO, DON'T TELL ME. GET OVER HERE, BOY!" "You'll do no such thing, Reggie." "WHAT?!" "It slipped my mind. *I* put him there, for safekeeping." "IN THE FRUIT?" "Good heavens, you can't expect me to put a frog in hot oatmeal, Josslyn. That would hurt it." The sire at this point turned three different shades of purple and red before bolting out of the dining room, flagging, in search of his car. London was much safer. It had only zeppelin raids, not frogs in the breakfast. April 23, 1940, 9.34 a.m. The entrance Bellevue Stagford Hotel "Good morning, my lady." "Good morning, Phillip. We're stopping at the Giraffe Bank, the main branch this morning, and then it will be to the opening." "Very good, my lady." The wolf, in his grey chauffeur's uniform, was standing stiffly at attention. All of him, Gwladys Buckhorn noticed. She smiled graciously at him as he opened the door for her, and gently took his paw to assist her into the backseat. Yes, he has on the frisky uniform this morning, Lady Buckhorn noted. Phillip obviously harboured the fantasy of being ordered to perform certain personal services for his employer, and was not particularly shy about his qualifications for the job. Indeed, he was in fact well-qualified for the job. A year ago, she had overheard him talking to another chauffeur, gossiping about their respective employers. She was amused, not angry, to hear a rather detailed appraisal of her virtues, and her purported needs. She did not let on that she had heard this survey, though Phillip did get a raise shortly after. Which was all that Phillip was ever going to get from her. It had been a long-standing policy... October 13, 1927, 10.43 p.m. La Salle des Jeux Hotel L'Oceanique Monte Carlo Frankly, Monte Carlo was a queer place for Sir Josslyn and Lady Buckhorn to be. Even in his rare good moods, Sir Josslyn had a marked distaste for gambling. The only attraction Monte Carlo had was the various four-star restaurants, nearly all of which used substantial quantities of F.R. Buckhorn & Sons products. All of which were extensively tested by Sir Josslyn. In the name of quality control, of course. As for Lady Buckhorn, she was given a sum of money, a surprisingly generous amount, and somewhat distractedly shooed off toward the roulette wheel. While there were many furs enjoying the chemin de der, baccarat or roulette tables, other furs were here to hunt. An amazing assortment of royalty and nobility (some of it even real), ablaze in jewelry (some of it even real), was present on the floor. Some were in it for the medium-term, to land a mate with wealth. Others were simply in it for the sport of one night. Certainly, no worries need trouble the mind of Lady Buckhorn. Even with his substantial wealth, his general air of belligerence would deter even the hardiest of gold-diggers. Gwladys knew of only one attempt that had been pressed vigorously, involving a particularly lissome chamois who had gone so far as to secrete herself in Sir Josslyn's bedroom. Unhappily, she had chosen to do this on the night that their son Reginald had been "sent down" from Eton, and she had been treated to a mighty blast of suggestions as to where she could put her feminine charms, and once there, what she could do with them. The chamois had tearfully confessed all to Lady Buckhorn a short time later. "Eh bien, you must wish to give me your hell." "Certainly not, my dear, I wish to give you my condolences." The anecdote proved a popular one in society circles, much to the absolute rage of Sir Josslyn Buckhorn. The reflection on him was bad enough. The fact that it reflected his mate's cast-iron virtue was enough to make him grind his teeth. Not once had he ever been able to find even a shard of evidence to suggest that she was behaving in anything less than a totally above reproach fashion. He, of course, had to behave in the same way, as he was damned if he was going to give *her* the pleasure of enjoying moral superiority. How, then, did she go about life without going totally insane? The fancy men from Vienna have equally fancy, multi-syllabic Germanic expressions for Gwladys Buckhorn's tactics. These involved the use of, inter alia, the full benefit of a careful diet, headfur brushed and cared for until it shone, an ability to use cervine eyes with precision, and an extremely generous wardrobe and jewelry allowance. On first glance, this last item might prove puzzling. Lady Buckhorn was known for wearing very little in the way of jewelry. Her dress was also conservative. Very conservative. Therein lay the secret. As a well-known burlesque performer once said, "it's not what you show, but what you don't show, that counts." Gwladys Buckhorn dressed in a manner that would be welcome in the most strict of four-star hotels and restaurants (which she frequented), but caused the imaginations of mels to overheat. Playing a meek and quiet doe set the bait quite nicely. She had had any number of offers. Most could be turned down quite easily and politely, with a few gracious words. Some would involve some gentle flirtation before an equally gentle let-down. Two-thirds of her mel friends came in this category, mels who thought Lady Buckhorn was "dashed decent," and would cheerfully chat away with her. A source of much useful information. One suitor was diffiult to turn down. With a rack that made his height well over seven feet, and a phyisque that was ideally suited for a kilt and Scottish evening dress, the Marquess of Roxborough, scion of an old Border clan, was enough to make any femmefur's blood sizzle. Add to it a distinguished war record (DSO with bar, MC, mentioned in despatches seven times), and few femmefurs could resist him, let alone a deer. Except, of course, for Lady Buckhorn. His Lordship, with a keen cervine eye, ear and brain, figured out the game, and gallantly played his role. He was getting as much fun out of being the tempter, as she got out of being the temptee. Their relationship was altogether strangely charged and carried out. As she was walking across the floor, Gwladys Buckhorn flagged, and her ears stood straight up in alarm. Her natural instincts had not failed her: indeed, danger was in the room, and present at the bar in the form of the ranking peer of Scotland, Josslyn Hay, the Earl of Errol, and the ranking blackguard of the Scottish nobility, Colin, Duke of Strathdern. Both were as brilliantly lit as the chandeliers in the salon. They also seemed bored, until they spotted their quarry. Canine nudged equine, and vice versa. The game was afoot. For her part, Gwladys slipped into the crowd, and hid as much as she could, given her relative height. She didn't have long to wait. Around the seventh turn of the roulette wheel (Gwladys had placed no bets), there was a waft of whisky, and a paw rather insolently thrust underneath a flag. Josslyn Hay was much better looking than Josslyn Buckhorn. And had a much fouler imagination, as a stream of whispered comments and questions began to show. After the last question hung in the air a moment, the lady cervine paused, contemplated, and reached into her purse, extracting a small silver pencil and a square of paper. She jotted down a few lines, and beckoned one of the elegantly dressed attendants. "Pardonnez-moi." "Ca ne fait rien, Madame. Puis-je vous assister?" "S'il vous plait. Conaissez-vous ma marie?" "M. Buckorn, Madame?" "Oui. Dites-lui ca, je vous prie." The attendant bowed as he was handed the note and a few discreet chips. As he glided off on his duty, Gwladys Buckhorn favoured the Earl of Errol with a sly smile. The peer, whose canine instincts were dulled by a prodigious intake that night of single malt, blinked in puzzlement. That is, until a roar of pure rage rolled out from the dining salon some yards away. Comprehension slowly dawned on Josslyn Hay's face, about a half-beat before the purple-visaged form of Sir Josslyn Buckhorn thundered into the salon. He had not even removed his napkin. At this point, Josslyn Hay made a tactical blunder. He smiled and raised his fists. Perhaps he expected, given Josslyn Buckhorn's tubby physique, that fun was in the offing. First, he would gave the buck's guts for garters, and then he would have a different part of Lady Buckhorn's anatomy afterwards. Unfortunately for him, the Earl of Errol could not possibly have known that Sir Josslyn Buckhorn, against all odds, had won a boxing blue at Oxford. Even worse for the foxhound, Sir Josslyn was of the "stand hoof-to-toe, trade blow-for-blow" school of boxing, and a skull with the density of concrete had allowed pure rage and hostility to triumph over style and technique. The battle, such as it was, lasted a bare ten seconds. Josslyn Hay landed no punches. Josslyn Buckhorn landed three, the last one on the chin. Satsified at the (surprisingly bloodless) carnage he had inflicted, he waddled back to the dining salon, his appetite whetted anew and his mate huffily ignored. Or was she? He walked by her rather slowly. His Grace the Duke of Strathdern removed the fallen from the field of battle. The somber effect was somewhat undercut by his laughter, and the fact that he dropped his good friend twice. It was also undercut by an exchange caught by sensitive cervine ears: "Splendid technique, old man. Loved how you blocked that punch with your chin." "Oh, SHUT UP, Colin." Gwladys Buckhorn headed back to her bedroom. The night had been altogether successful. April 23, 1940, 9.52 a.m. The Giraffe National Bank 116 South 3rd Street Fillydelphia The Giraffes got around Fillydelphia, Gwladys Buckhorn mused. There was the Giraffe Trust Company, over at 159 Chestnut Street, and then there used to be Stephen Giraffe's Bank. Part of the reason the Dowager Viscountess gave her business to the Giraffe National Bank, rather than any of the other myriad of banks in the city, lay before her as the Packherd limousine glided to a stop. The building had, once upon a time, been the First Bank of the United States. A very good idea killed by political obtuseness, in Gwladys' opinion. Some things never change. Giraffe had bought the building, and until he had died in 1831, this is where he had his private bank. The building was a graceful and elegant one, and very much to her taste.  Somewhere, a small clock discreetly chimed ten as she was led into a pleasant boardroom. Yes, such things exist. This one was furnished in old mahogany and leather, and a table that was as solid and substantial as the bank itself bore some small stacks of papers, each with a numbered card on top. Paws were shaken all around. The Fillydelphia lawyers all knew each other, of course. This particular project was quite toothsome, as it was one of the largest mortgages that would be issued this year to a private entity. The Insurance Company of North America, as well as a pawful of the other major banks in the city, had quietly arranged to take tranches of the project. A $10 million mortgage. Only a fifth the size of the mortgage that John D. Rockefeller took out on his massive project in the heart of Gnu York, but one that promised to be almost as profitable to the financial institutions, who would boast of it in traditional Fillydelphia fashion, with plain, unadorned "tombstone" ads in the Evening Bulletin. The meeting started. A small feline, no doubt an associate for the Giraffe Bank's law firm, began reading from a list of documents. As each item was read off, it was presented to one or more furs, who affixed their signatures. A number required the signature of the President of the Fillydelphia Exposition Company, who sat patiently by with some tea and cookies. (Some fur had thoughtfully remembered to place a selection of Zepps on the tray.) The proceedings were quiet and dignified, with hardly more noise than the soft voice of the associate, and the shuffling of papers and the scratching of pens. It was only at the end that there was a slight unbending in decorum. The representative of the Insurance Company of North America, with a flourish, presented Gwladys Ritterherz Buckhorn (or, rather, the Fillydelphia Exposition Company, whose name was on the cheque) with the sum of "Nine Million, Eight Hundred and Ninety-Four Thousand, Seven Hundred Sixty and 53/100 Dollars." While some bank employees quickly took copies of the mortgage off to be recorded with the City and County of Fillydelphia, Gwladys Buckhorn looked at the cheque in her paw. It was by far the largest amount of her own money that she had ever seen in one place. Previous rations of lucre came in smaller increments. June 4, 1931, 8.12 p.m. Suite 2119 The Bellevue-Stagford Hotel Fillydelphia The bath was a long and leisurely one. Fillydelphia could get dreadfully hot, even so early in the summer (or late in the spring, if you went strictly by the calendar). As it was unlikely that her mate was in any mood to venture out for dinner (likely due to the fact that he'd have to dress up), it would be room service. Catch as does can, but no matter. Gwladys could eat her dinner at her own pace, and at her own choosing. The Depression was now in its twentieth month, and looked to be held over indefinitely, though it was hardly due to popularity. Indeed, the factories of F.R. Buckhorn & Sons were some of the few busy places of industry in the entire city. Tins of Buckhorn's Baked Beans, at nine cents the can, were a popular menu item. Still, even if it was a buyer's market, her mate's mood had not improved any. On top of having to deal with suppliers and customers that were in trouble, there was the issue of Reggie, their fawn. Not long before, after he had received his degree from Wharton, he had cheerily presented himself to his sire's office. On horseback. This was the result of an ill-considered remark from the sire as to how his only fawn should show up for his first and, as it turned out, only day of service at the North American headquarters of F.R.B. The fallout from this incident involved a great deal of thunder from one corner, and lightning, in the form of expertly thrown china and glassware, from the other. Gwladys disliked that kind of display -- it reeked of "Bringing Up Father" from the funny papers -- but it seemed to be the only thing to penetrate her mate's resolve. After a week of sleepless nights, an armistice was reached. Reggie would be sent on a lengthy tour of the F.R.B. facilities in Asia and the Pacific. Gathering knowledge on operations, Gwladys was told. The day had been marked with assorted explosions of wrath, starting with the breakfast, continuing to the driving of the chauffeur, both to and from work, the state of Fillydelphia roads, the weather, Fenwick Foods, the quality of lunch, the weather again, the cleanliness of the factory making Bubble Cud, and the likely quality of dinner. Mercifully, Gwladys' only involvement in the day was the receipt of a hastily scribbled cheque in the amount of $18,750, representing her monthly allowance for whatever it was she liked to spend her money on. Her mate neither knew nor cared what, as no books were ever kept. So he thought. One element of the Ritterherz pysche had come through from her sire. She had a fascination with the market. The financial sections of the newspapers were read very carefully (often after being thrown with great force across the room by their original recipient). Josslyn Buckhorn was in the habit of throwing aside, with loud snorts of disdain, the prospectuses and other materials sent by hopeful brokers looking for an easy commission. Note we say: thrown aside. Not away. The problem with her sire, Gwladys reasoned, was that he acted with his guts, and not with his brains. Sometimes this worked. Other times, as with the Northern Pacific...well. The nice part about her training with Minkerton's is that it had honed her ability to read between the lines of reports, trying to figure out what was being said, and more importantly what was being left out. Her mate, in the early 1920s, had refused to lay in stocks of sugar, predicting that the price would collapse in short order. He blamed shifty-eyed traders. Lady Gwladys, who knew where to get Cuban newspapers, had other information that said the same thing, for different reasons. Her mate, in the mid 1920s, reluctantly began to sponsor radio programmes. His view was that, more's the pity, radio was going to become a clap-trap incessantly yowling in any damn fool's ear, and it was better that Buckhorn got there first before (BAH!) Fenwick Foods. Lady Gwladys, talking to some engineers at work on new types of broadcast microphones, came to a parallel conclusion for different reasons. Her mate, in 1929, angrily sold off all of his publicly traded stocks. This might have been the result of an ill-timed telephone call by his broker, who woke him up from a badly-needed Sunday afternoon nap to tell him about the latest sure thing in R.C.A. stock. The broker soon found his office had a great deal of "sell" work, never a good thing. Lady Gwladys' broker, too, soon had a great deal of "sell" work. Short sale work, to be precise. The silk robe had just been tied about the freshly washed cervine body when an enraged bellow erupted from the main room of the suite. The 8.15, Gwladys mused, was running slightly early tonight. Instead of room sevice, though, the purple face and shaking fist of her mate was directed at a hapless messenger-fur, who was getting an earful instead of the hearty tip he had hoped for. The practiced eye of a former Minkerton's op surveyed what had caused the eruption: a rectangular piece of paper with intaglio engraving. "...AND JUST YOU TELL EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR DAMNED EMPLOYERS, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THOSE DAMNED BLOTS, MERRILL, PIERCE, FENNER AND BLOODY SMITH, THAT IF THIS IS THEIR IDEA OF A BLASTED PRACTICAL JOKE, THEY'VE GOT ANOTHER BLOODY THINK COMING!!!" "Josslyn..." "I DIDN'T PUT IN ANY ORDERS FOR ANY BLASTED STOCK, AND THE ONLY ORDERS I'D LIKE TO GIVE YOUR BLASTED HELLSPAWNED BOSSES RIGHT NOW IS AN ORDER TO FIRE AT THEIR BLASTED HORNS!!!" "Josslyn..." "THINGS HAVE COME TO A DAMNED FINE PASS WHEN A FUR CAN'T CONTROL HIS OWN BLASTED MONEY WITHOUT HAVING SOME WALL STREET HALF-WIT DECIDE HE KNOWS BETTER!!!" "Josslyn..." "THIS IS WHAT I THINK OF YOUR BLOODY OFFICE'S ACTIONS..." A flurry of paw actions, and there was shortly some nicely engraved confetti littering the floor. "WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT, EH?!?" "Do you know what I say, Josslyn?" "NO, BLAST IT, AND I DON'T CARE!" "You should. You just tore up *my* certificate." "FOR THE LOVE OF MER---what?" "I think, if you piece that stock certificate back together, you will find that it represents something like 46,129 shares of the preferred stock of the Bellevue-Stagford Corporation." "The what?" "The Bellevue-Stagford Corporation. The owners of this hotel. The one whose walls you're shaking with a misguided fit of temper." "BUT I DON'T OWN ANY BLASTED 46, 129 SHARES OF BLASTED PREFERRED STOCK IN THIS BLASTED HOTEL." "Josslyn, you are not listening. I didn't say *you* owned it. I just said *I* owned it. Young man, pick up these bits of paper and have them issue a new certificate. Have them deliver a certificate of accidental destruction as well, and I shall sign that, too." The fur, grateful for some orders given in a normal tone of voice, accomplished his duty and had vanished inside a few seconds. Gwladys Buckhorn lit a cigarette, and opened a tin of cookies. "Great Scott, woman, don't expect me to finance your blasted lunatic speculations." "In the first place, Josslyn, it is not a lunatic speculation. The stock is already trading at only 5 percent of par, and has passed its dividends twice..." "And you consider that a good investment?!" "I do, when one also owns around 40 percent of the first mortgage bonds." "WHAT?" "The combination of the two will, in all likelihood, give me the largest interest in the hotel when the dividends are passed again later this year. I imagine there will be some sort of plan of readjustment, giving control to the bondholders." "And how much is this little venture into hotelkeeping costing you?" "With commissions?" "Yes, blast it, with commissions." "In round figures, probably about $1.1 million." "GREAT GOD, WOMAN...!" A sigh and an exhalation of cigarette smoke followed. "You don't think I have the money, is that it?" A choked, purple-faced nod indicated assent. "Oh, very well. I'll show you my books and my latest balance sheet." "Your...what?" "Surely, Josslyn, you know the value of keeping good records." "I...but...what? Blast..!" In short order, a letter from Toucan & Co., independent accounts, was produced, indicating a net worth for Gwladys Ritterherz Buckhorn, d/b/a Delancey Street Investments, of approximately $18,211,409.61. The mate goggled, and then looked suspiciously through his monocle. "Where'd you get this money?" "Indirectly? From you." The redoubled repurpled face of her mate showed some suspicions as to how that could be. "And no, Josslyn, it's limited to your allowances that you've given me for the last twenty-two years." "I haven't given you anything NEAR this...this..eighteen million!" "Indeed not. About one and a half million dollars, all told. Some of that spent on my clothes and jewelry. Some spent on Reggie..." Perhaps not a wise thing to say, but the choked, spluttering silence this caused allowed for further words. "...but most of it invested." "You don't know how to bloody invest." "That's not what that balance sheet says." An audible sneer across the cervine muzzle. "And how much were you worth *before* the Crash?" "Only four million. In retrospect, I should have shorted R.C.A. much more." The blinking astonishment this caused allowed the report to be retrieved before more confetti resulted. Further words were interrupted by a knock at the door. Entrance was allowed to a fur in formal dress, who blanched somewhat at the informality of Gwladys Buckhorn's dress, but proved to be game. "The management has received your letter, madame." "Ah, good." "Yes, well, the directors will give your proposals prompt attention. It is to be hoped that we can resolve this matter quickly and to every party's satisfaction." "Oh, I quite agree." A discreet cough. "The directors have also asked me to inform you that the Private Suite has been placed at your disposal for an indefinite period." A winning smile. "I'm delighted to hear that. Send some bellhops to collect my things and have them brought up there." "Immediately, Lady Gwladys. Errrrr...and Sir Josslyn's things, too?" "Hmmmmm. What do you say, darling? Do you wish to be in the Private Suite with me?" Words failed Sir Josslyn, for once. April 23, 1940, 11.19 a.m. The Giraffe National Bank 116 South 3rd Street Fillydelphia "Ahem. Ma'am?" Viscountess Buckhorn was startled out of her reverie by the deferential cough of the bank official. "Oh. I do beg your pardon. Yes, please deposit this at once. Have you cut the two other cheques I have ordered?" "The cashier has them in his office, ma'am. I shall have them sent for right away." April 23, 1940, 11.37 a.m. Outside The Giraffe National Bank 116 South 3rd Street "Where shall I drive now, ma'am?" Gwladys Buckhorn thought, flicking her flag. After a minute or so, she realized she knew the answer. "1926 Delancey, Phillip." April 23, 1940, 11.53 a.m. Outside 1926 Delancey Street The house, indeed, the entire street, had changed little in three and a half decades. Only the motorcars were an indication of the passage of time. The neighbourhood in the late spring morning reposed comfortably in its own sense of well-being. In a way, the solid brick house was a memorial. Peter Ritterherz was not buried in consecrated ground, as a suicide. No matter what the coroner said, that was the truth, and Frances Ritterherz was never one to challenge God. She herself had quietly spread the ashes in the Schulkyll. Gwladys had promised to do the same when the time came, to unite buck and doe once again. In spite of it all, the Ritterherz family was loyal, and if word was given, acts were done... December 24, 1931, 11.12 p.m. The Oaks St. Peter Churchford, Bucks. Some years before, the small house had been a gamekeeper's residence, back when the estate had been owned by a land-rich, cash-poor noblefur. A good chunk of the estate had been sold off to Fred Buckhorn for the building of the first Monongahela House, later the site of the steel-reinforced house that Josslyn had built shortly before the Great War. The Oaks had come with the estate, but without the gamekeeper, whose services were no longer required. It had been empty for a number of years, but for its present tenant, it had been aired out and furnished in simple good taste. One room for the tenant, one room for the nurse. On this particular clear, frosty night, the loudest sound that could be heard outside was the soft crunch of hoof on snow as Mrs. Buckhorn came to pay a call, using her own key, as befitted the lady of the manor. The house was quiet and dark. It smelled vaguely of pine, from the imported pine-cone wreaths that hung in a few places inside the house. There was also a faint smell of warm cracked oats, sitting in a bowl of hot water in the buttery in the middle of the hallway. At the end of the hallway, what had been the sitting room had been converted into a bedroom. There were two occupants, a stolid badger sitting by the fire, knitting, and another figure, hidden in the shadows of the bed. There was only the faint click of knitting needles, an occasional crackle from the fireplace, and the noiseless meeting of snow flurries against glass that had just started. The nurse, upon seeing the visitor, rumbled to her feet, collected her things, and whispered a rustic, gruff and quiet returns of the season, which was warmly returned in a whisper. Upon the closing of the door, the snowflakes were contemplated for a minute, before the gaslight was turned up slightly. The doe in the bed was frail, with paws spotted not like a fawn's, but like one at the other end of the life span. The headfur and the muzzle were greyed, and the face quite drawn. But the headfur was combed neatly, the nightdress buttoned up just so, and the air was of burning logs in the fireplace, not the sadder and more distressing smells of old age. A burst of colour revealed itself when the gas was turned up. It was, of all things, a tropical flower, pressed between two small glass plates and set in a frame with primitive carvings. A small handwritten note was propped up against the display: "Gran: the snacks grow bigger out here! A jolly '32 to you. Love, Reggie." A stirring from the bed made the younger doe turn around. Frances Ritterherz was awake, her eyes focused on her doe-fawn. There was a seat by the bed, and it was taken, as well as the old doe's paw. "Merry Christmas, Mother." A silent, faint squeeze of paw in return. No sound came from the lips. There was a faint gleam of spittle, which was gently wiped away. "I finally did it, Mother. Minkerton's tracked down the last one from Daddy's list. He'd retired about twenty years ago and had moved away, so he was very hard to find..." The elder doe's eyes flickered. "With thirty years and six months of interest. They say the old fellow was surprised. He'd forgotten all about it. Even if I...we hadn't..." The paw was let go for a moment, and Gwladys open her purse, searching for something. Eventually she found it. A document, folded in three lengthwise, and bound with red ribbon. In re the estate of Peter G. Ritterherz, deceased in bankruptcy. The document was opened, and the last name on an eleven-page list was crossed off, before the document was refolded and retied. A few steps to side, and the document was inserted in between two logs. The paper flared brilliantly for a few seconds, and then slowly crumpled, consuming ink and history. The gaslight was turned down low again, revealing that the snow was coming down a little harder. The younger doe lingered for a while in the comfort of the room, holding her mother's paw. There wasn't any need to rush now. April 23, 1940, 12.00 p.m. Outside 1926 Delancey Street The noon bells from the local churches toned in a grave, dignified manner, as only a Fillydelphia church bell would. They startled the Dowager Viscountess out of her reverie, and she reflexively looked at her watch. "Phillip? We'd better head off to the PSFS Building. We shouldn't be late for Mr. Leowey and Mr. Croark..." April 23, 1940, 12.09 p.m. On 12th Street Fillydelphia Phillip had very thoughtfully and discreetly obtained the early edition of that afternoon's Evening Bulletin. There was a special colour section dedicated to Opening Day. While the Athletics had had their own Opening Day some days before, they didn't rate this kind of treatment, even in an American League town. But then again, this wasn't any Opening Day. Flipping randomly through the insert, Gwladys discovered a page or two devoted to the history of the Phillies. "A Colorful Past For Fillydelphia's Senior Circuit Entry." She quietly chuckled. The most colourful thing about the Phillies was the language its long-suffering fans had applied to it. One World Series appearence, and that was a quarter-century ago. The story ran through the lists of the owners, through to its present one. ("Noted Fillydelphia Figure") A few paragraphs were given to her predecessor, too, she noticed. Summarized as "Owner Shepherded Phillies Through Dark Years." Indeed. October 31, 1936, 8.04 p.m. The Savoy Grille London, England Sir Josslyn Buckhorn had been behaving very oddly since the return from the Spontoons. The brief interlude of sharing the same bed had passed, as Gwladys knew it would. The general air of purple-faced belligerence toward all and sundry had returned, as Gwladys also knew it would. But there was a certain spark missing in the tirades, and the colour had not quite returned to her mate's face, as if he had still not wiped all the clotted cream from his muzzle. There is something about a hurled eclair impacting against your monocle that will shake the spirit of even the toughest buck. Even an over-polite enquiry after Sir Josslyn's health and the health of his family, which necessarily included his buck-fawn, could barely raise the colour in his face, and he gloomily ate his asperges aux buerres avec des pommes de terres (double portion). In a way, Gwladys didn't like the change. She had grown used to having fight in (and sometimes fights with) her mate.. (Never paw-to-paw: only hurled insults and chinaware.) What her mate needed was something to stir his blood. Granted, it would be hard to top the news about his future doe-fawn-in-law, but there was something in the old college try. "Josslyn, I've decided to buy the Phillies." "Mmmmrph. I s'pose you'll be getting a matching handbag." "I'm sorry?" "Handbag. Isn't that what you get with a dress, eh? Or whatever you femmefurs natter on about." "*You're* the one nattering, Josslyn. I said: I've decided to buy the Phillies." "Mphrphl." Some more large mouthfuls of asparagus, butter and potato ensued, until the penny dropped, and the spluttering began. "Great God! You're going to do *what?!*" "Josslyn, do I have to say it for a third time?" "I don't care how many blasted times you've said it, woman, out with it again." Ah, this was more like it. "I am buying a baseball team, Josslyn. The Fillydelphia Phillies." This earned an incredulous look through a monocle. "Phillies? Phillies?! Are they still in the whatchamalit, the Federal League?" "National League, Josslyn." "Whatever bloody league they're in, I thought they were out of it." Gwladys had to admit that Josslyn wasn't the only one who was probably of this opinion. "What th' devil d'ye want to buy a baseball team for? Why don't you buy, errrr, whatsit, the team that Arab plays for." "Arab?" "Arab! Arab! You know, the Sultan of Swat, or whatever. Why on earth he has to play professional sports, I'll never know. Probably got tossed out by Communists." "That's the Yankees, Josslyn." "Whatever. Buy them." "They're not for sale. The Phillies are. Besides, I'm from Fillydelphia, remember?" The motion of wiping some butter off the chin with the back of his paw allowed Sir Josslyn to mutter something sotto voice. Gwladys was secretly pleased. "Gwladys, you're insane. This is something that idiot buck-fawn of ours would do." "I don't know, Josslyn. That might depend on what team Willow fancies." The mention of the doe-fawn-in-law-elect caused a shrill, whistling snort that brought a squadron of waiters over to clear the plate, which Josslyn had not yet finished. During the ensuing row, Gwladys Buckhorn pondered. Was she insane? November 18, 1936, 9.47 a.m. The Giraffe National Bank 116 South 3rd Street Fillydelphia "Lady Gwladys, you are insane." Unusual words from a Fillydelphia banker, and Gwladys Buckhorn said so. "Buying five tons of stale manure for 50 cents might be viewed as a bargain, Lady Gwladys, but one must consider what one is up against when the sale is done." "Are you comparing the Phillies to five tons of stale manure, then?" "In one sense. The Phillies stink more." "You're exaggerating." "Am I? They lost 100 games this year, and finished dead last in the National League by thirteen games. They had two pitchers that lost twenty games, and had no one with a winning record. They drew about 250,000 last year, dead last, like they have for eight of the last nine years." "Any team can have a bad year." "They're having a bad decade, Lady Gwladys." "You sound like an expert on the subject." "I am. I have season tickets. Which reminds me: have you seen where they play?" "The Baker Bowl, isn't it?"  "The bastard offspring of a cigar box and a litter box. The only good thing about the home runs the pitchers have been giving up is that maybe one will be lucky enough to knock down the place. They had some stands collapse a few years ago, you know." "Nevertheless, I'm sure the owner wishes to sell." "For God's sake, Lady Glwadys, don't let on you're so eager to buy. He'll think you're a live one." "I've done some research. Mr. Nugent is in financial difficulty." "I'll say. He's sold off everything that isn't nailed down. He'd probably sell his mother, too, except his mother can hit the curve, and half the team can't." "I am sure we can reach a satisfactory arrangement. You will make an initial offer of $175,000, plus the assumption of all debts." The deal was consummated within the week, for $196,000 plus the assumption of all debts, bringing the total sale price to approximately $400,000. November 26, 1936 Headline in the Fillydelphia Inquirer: "PIGEON BUYS FILLYDELPHIA'S BIGGEST TURKEY" Gwladys Buckhorn cancelled her subscription that very morning. December 11, 1936, 2.19 p.m. The Baker Bowl Broad Street, 15th Street, and Huntingdon Street Fillydelphia Granted, on a wet, raw, December afternoon, hardly any ballpark is going to look its best. Emerald green grass has usually given way to manure-brown mud. The paint job that looked crisp and clean in April now gave the ballpark the impression of a rather unfortunate skin condition. The presence of a large, decidely non-anthropomorphic rat that was busily cleaning itself in the home dugout was the last straw. Or nearly so.  The nervous, cigar-smoking canine standing behind Lady Buckhorn didn't know what to expect. He was glad, in a way, the mortgage had been lifted, as he wasn't too sure about the load-bearing capacity of either the box-office, or the steel beams holding the stadium together. He was about to open his mouth when a gust of wind blew a small portion of the left-field roof off, sending a shower of dirty water and pigeon droppings onto the seats below. Lady Buckhorn surveyed the Niagara in miniature, and gave an irritated whistle-snort. "Um, ma'am? Is there anything you're going to do for the old ballpark?" "Yes. Give it a decent funeral. We will move five blocks down Lehigh. Call Mr. Mack and arrange for a lease on Shibe Park for next season. I want it done by the end of the year." Lady Buckhorn gave one last, disdainful look at the condemned. There was a large billboard in right field. "The Phillies Use Lifebuoy" was the official text. Unofficially, an ambitious vandal had scrawled a rejoinder on the bar of soap held high: "And They Still Stink!" Change was needed, the sooner the better. April 23, 1940, 12.17 p.m. The PSFS Building 12 South 12th Street Fillydelphia As the Packherd pulled up, conditions were just right for a view, if from close up, of what furs were already calling the "building of the century."  The sun was darting in and out of the clouds, catching the building every so often in a burst of light. The cool, gleaming reflection lit up the otherwise dull-hued part of Center City. Old Man Depression, you are through, you've done us wrong, indeed. Glancing at her watch and hurrying on, Viscountess Buckhorn smiled. This was the very sort of effect she wanted for *her* toy... December 15, 1936, 9.53 p.m. The Presidential Suite The Waldorf-Castoria 301 Park Avenue Gnu York City Sir Josslyn Buckhorn was not in a good mood. God rest ye merrie gentlefurs, let nothing ye dismaye be God-damned. He'd been the victim of foul and insidious blackmail. He ruled out his buck-fawn. The blockhead was far too stupid to come up with such a subtle scheme of self-advancement. By God, even *he,* Josslyn Buckhorn, probably couldn't have done it, and most furs on Wall Street crossed the avenue across traffic when they saw him coming. This had the paw-prints of does all over it. That blasted blonde that had latched on to Reggie -- God knows why -- was the prime suspect. Never, never, never, never cross another Minkerton's doe again. Never! This was twice in his lifetime a Minkerton's doe had crossed him up. Exhibit B was neatly seated on a sofa, looking at some glossy magazines. Women's rubbish, probably. No, a second glance showed...an industrial design magazine?! Sir Josslyn got a brief, pleasant image of his mate done up in cellophane and placed on sale in one of the posh stores downstairs, off Peacock Alley. The doe sensed a baleful look, and met it cheerily. "Have you made Reggie's travel arrangements yet? After all, he's only a few days away, now." Didn't he know it. Sir Josslyn would prefer a tonne of Blue Coal in his stocking to the sight of his buck-fawn gawping at him. An involuntary shudder. "Well, let me ask you a more pleasant question, then..." "No, I'm not going out tonight." "Not that, dear. Have you ever heard of Raymond Leowey?" A crisp, snarled response caught in the throat. Sir Josslyn Buckhorn was many things, but oddly enough, a truth-telling buck was one of them. As he got older, and felt the shortness of breath, he had of late begun to eye church steeples with apprehension and foreboding. "Errrharph. Yes, well, I have. Industrial designer. His firm has a lot of big clients. FRB had him do the redesign of the Zepps packages last year. And he's been working on the Broad Way Limited for the Pennsylvania Railroad...oh, no you don't!"  "What?" "You will most certainly not." "Oh, for heaven's sake, Josslyn, what?" "You're not touching Monongahela House, d'ye hear?" "I wouldn't dream of it, Josslyn. In any event, with all the steel you've got in the walls, it would take a freight train to even shake the house, let alone move anything. You said Leowey does work for the Pennsy?" "Pennsylvania Railroad." Sir Josslyn was a stickler in this case. The Pennsylvania Railroad had his respect and a great deal of his business. December 16, 1936, 12.43 p.m. Oscar's The Waldorf-Castoria Hotel Pierre duCleds was in the middle of his third martini, and was in mood radiant. They had little effect on him, other than to put a shine on his eyes. "Don't lets talk of railroads, Gwladys my pet. They bore me. I have to endure long and dreary directors' meetings every month." "Now, Pierre, that's exactly why I want to bring it up." "Oh, heavens. Don't you and Joss already have a train with them? In fact, I think I saw it on the siding under the hotel, when my limo came in." "Yes, you did. But you're a director, Pierre, and I need you to find out how to get a hold of somefur in particular. Two, actually." The canine gave a theatrical sigh of exaggerated weariness. "Egad. Pierre duCleds, the canine Rolodex. Well, I can't refuse you anything, Gwladys. Who is it you want to meet?" "Raymond Leowey, for one." "Oh, him? Marvelous chap. He did the GG1 for us this year. The word in the boardroom is that we're going to get him to redo the Broad Way Limited. All hush-hush of course, my dear. If the Central thinks they're going to get the drop with the 20th Century, they've got another think coming. You mark my words, Gwladys, the boys down the street..." here he waved with a paw in the general direction of the nearby Gnu York Central building "...won't know what hit them. No problem, my dear. I'll have my office ring his up tomorrow morning. I'll give 'em the works and glowing recommendation." This was followed by a broad wink. "Behave yourself, Pierre." "Why? It's so boring being good. Got into the habit when the wife was still alive, and I'm finding it hard to break. Delahare can be so un-bracing." "Let's get back to the subject at paw. I know your Rolodex of which you speak. I need another fur." "Name him, my dear, name him." "Howard Croark." The martini glass paused at the lips, a sure sign of great surprise. "Good Lord, did you say Howard Croark?" "Yes." "He's supposed to be batty, you know. Difficult to work with and all. Has strange ideas. You should have seen the design he did when we had the DuCleds Building in Wilimington up for bid. Don't get me wrong, it was a real eye-catcher. The directors didn't know whether to make horn or tail of it, though. All fine for academia, my dear, but for real buildings...why don't you get that fellow Tod, the chap who's working on Rockefeller Center? "He's a braggart." "My dear, now that you own a baseball team, you should be aware of a recent piece of wisdom: it ain't braggin'..." "...if ya can do it, yes, I know. Don't be mean, Pierre. Make a telephone call for me." "Oh, very well my dear, very well. By the way, I hear Reggie got engaged. I might be seeing him in a few days." "Oh?" "Yessss, going to the Spontoons to have a chat with my nephew Les. I may not be getting any less handsome, but neither am I getting any less youthful." "Never." "Stop this idle flattery at once, Gwladys. You'll turn my head." "Well, do look Reggie and Willow up when you're there." December 24, 1936, 3.06 p.m. The University of Pennsylvania Club 12 West 44th Street Gnu York It was probably just as well that Gwladys had an unusual Christmas Eve appointment. Her mate, she discovered, had regained his mid-season form upon receipt of a telegram from their son. The message had to be literally pieced together, and read simply: RATS TO YOU FATHEAD. This in response to a brusque set of orders meted out with the back of a paw. The sire at the moment had a sore head, and an equally sore hoof, the latter coming from a savage kick directed at an unexpectly resilient bureau, which, owing to a resulting lack of balance, caused the former. As the sire of Reginald Buckhorn, Wharton '30, Lady Gwladys had been able to get a membership in the Club for Sir Josslyn, largely without his knowledge, the bills being sent to a trustworthy intermediary. A very recent word with the Club's president, and the promise of a block of advantageous season tickets at minimal cost, ensured that while a doe on the premises (outside of the restaurant) was a rather significant violation of the Club's rules, there would be no repercussions. Awaiting her, in the pleasant confines of the library, was a dapper lion, and a tallish, vaguely abstracted raven. The lion was amusedly toying with a tin of Buckhorn's Zepps cookies: he had designed the logo on the tin. The raven was staring impassively at a black and white photograph of the Fillydephia Museum of Art. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking. "Thank you both for taking the time to see me." Raymond Leowey put down the tin, and gave an amused bow. Roark turned briefly, nodded quietly, and then resumed his study of the photograph. "Your time is valuable..." "Some would not think so." The raven's voice, contrary to stereotype, was quiet and measured. Leowey shrugged and helped himself to a Zepp. "It is valuable to me, Mr. Roark. I will come straight to the point. I wish to build a new stadium in Fillydelphia." "And for this you need both an industrial designer *and* an architect, Mme. Buckhorn?" "You've heard of the stadium the Fillydelphia Phillies play in, now?" Roark turned again. "The one with the railroad tunnel under the outfield?" "Yes. The Baker Bowl is, or I should say, *was*, the laughing stock of baseball. I have engaged Shibe Park for a few seasons. Until I have a stadium of my own. And gentlefurs, I want a stadium that will make the rest of baseball *choke* on its words about Fillydelphia." Roark turned once more, this time to face Gwladys fully. He put his wings behind his back and tilted his head. "A lot of what I see about current stadium design I want on t |