ACT I
April 3, 1935:

        On the whole, she'd rather be in Philadelphia.

        Just not at the Acme Plaza.

        Located in the Old City towards the waterfront, the fleabag hotel, despite its grandiose name, was a decrepit walkup dating back to the colonial era.

        And she was certain the shared bathroom down the hall hadn't been cleaned since then.  The food in the coffee shop was pre-colonial, and possibly pre-Columbian.

        Willow Fawnsworthy, Minkerton operative, sighed and sat down on a creaking chair at a scarred table, scowling at the peeling paint and the occasional waterbug skittering across the ceiling.  Well, at least she didn't have to live here.

        Just get her latest assignment.

        She spared a particularly fierce frown at the red rose in the bud vase.  Dammit, she'd just gotten back from Colorado, posing as a mail order bride for a pronghorn antelope who thought he was going to muscle his way into the Montana silver fields, but who wound up in the company of the U.S. Marshal Service.

        She thought she'd have a few days to rest and relax before the next assignment.

        The red rose said otherwise.

        Willow looked around.  The vase was on the dresser, which was under the mirror...

        The doe reached under the mirror and felt around, finding and removing a large and slightly thick envelope.  That was half of it.  The other half had been retrieved from the aforementioned bathroom.  Willow sighed, stripped the paper cover from the roll of toilet paper and began unrolling until she reached a buff-colored cylinder of a waxy substance covering the usual pasteboard core.

        Now she had both parts.

        She opened her suitcase, and began setting up.

        Minkerton's armorers are very clever and innovative.  After a few minutes, a collection of parts gleaned from her Barker Duofold fountain pen, makeup case and so forth yielded a small paw-cranked Dictaphone.  Willow slipped the cylinder recording onto the spool and took a Chinese fan from her suitcase.  Snapping it open, she folded it into a cone shape and fitted it to the stylus.

        Opening the envelope, Willow took out a sheaf of photographs and started cranking the hand crank.  Listening in, she had an uncomfortable feeling that she was listening to Her Master’s Voice.

        "Good morning, Agent Fawnsworthy," the scratchy voice of Allan Minkerton II said from the cone.  "The woman you see here," a photograph of a dignified late middle-aged peccary in a modest dress, string of pearls, dark hair neatly coiffed, "is Suzanna Teasdale, a wealthy Atlanta widow and current president of 'The Daughters of the Magnolia,' a group of ladies descended from Confederate officers.  The Daughters are holding an observance of the seventieth anniversary of the end of 'the recent unpleasantness,' as they put it, at the Hotel de Cocoanut, a resort hotel in Florida.

        "Minkerton's has been engaged by Mrs. Teasdale's son, Gregory," a handsome lad in his early thirties, hair neatly Marcel-ed, "as he has reason to believe that a local rogue, Andreas 'Papa’ Popadopalous," a heavyset feline with a grizzled gray beard and missing part of his left ear, "has designs on the jewelry of Mrs. Teasdale, aided and abetted by his second in command, Mikhail 'Mike the Diver' Philhellenikos," a handsome canine with wavy hair and a mean look in his eyes, "a former sponge fisherman from Tarpon Springs, Florida.  He's believed to have done time for murder in Greece as well as in Cuba before coming to Florida.

        "Your mission - should you decide to accept it - will involve finding out what Papa is up to and obtain evidence needed to enable the FBI to arrest him and Philhellenikos.  The word is that Mike isn't too fond of Papa, but is under some sort of obligation to him.

        "You will take a train south to Atlanta tomorrow - sorry, Willow -" the doe sighed.  Not much rest this time- "to meet up with your team. From Atlanta, you'll head to Miami by different routes to avoid detection.  What happens next is up to you and your team.  Of course, if you or any member of your team is caught or killed, we will naturally disavow any of your actions."

        Standard warning.
         
        "This recording will self-destruct in five seconds . . . "


          There was a soft mumble at the end and I turned toward the player in an effort to catch it.
          I caught it, all right.
          See, these cylinders are made of guncotton, and the friction of the stylus on the grooves eventually heats the stylus up to the point that it ignites the guncotton.
          Followed by some sound and fury.
          And followed by Willow falling back, coughing, with a sooty muzzle.
        I was trying to wave the smoke away when someone started pounding on the door.  “What?” I coughed.
        “Are you cooking something in there?” the desk clerk demanded.
        “No.”
        “Cooking’s not allowed in the rooms,” and I heard his footsteps walking away.
        I sighed.  I have to break down the player, put the pictures away, and get some semblance of sleep before heading south.  Sleep, yes.  Here, NO!


        Oh, well.  At least my actual digs at the Barclay Hotel, overlooking Rittenhouse Square, were up to my customary high standards.  Heh.  I kicked off my pumps, settled down in a comfortable overstuffed armchair and studied photographs.

        Lessee...Maxwell Bright?  No.  Sheesh, Allan, including him is the oldest one in the book.  The Harvey Boys?  Nah.  Those rabbits were a little young for this one.  Bernie Phlute?  Brr.  No.  Okay, here we go:

        Barnie Collie, electrical genius.  Genial looking, with dark hair and eyes.
        Rollin Pawe, master of disguise and magician.  A slender Afghan, dignified but with a roguish look about him.
        Cardamon Cartwright, fashion model and actress.  Almost a dead ringer for Mrs. Teasdale.
        Villy Armstrong.  Brahman bull, and looked to be about as bright as one, but we were gonna need some muscle to deal with Mike the Diver.

        Off to Atlanta we go!



April 6:

        I arrived in Atlanta late that morning and after some consideration arrived at a conclusion.
        Thank the Lord it’s still Spring.
        I have no idea how I’d survive down here in the summer.  I’ve never had to be south of the Mason-Dixon Line, but I never thought the heat down here would make the Great Plains feel like a cool breeze.
        And the people!  Yeah, there’s a lot of whitetails here, of the Southern variety – and the instant they hear me talk most of them look at me like my tail was three feet longer, two feet wider, and black with a big white stripe down it.
        The Late Great Unpleasantness may have ended seventy years ago, but to some it only wrapped up last week.  Some opinions still haven’t changed.
        The dossier said that I was going to meet the rest of my team at the Excelsior Hotel, in Room 216.  I had a reservation in the name of ‘Ida Noe,’ of Gnu York, and the room was paid up for only one night.  There were identification papers to go with the cover name.
        Allan apparently wanted us to get cracking on this mission as fast as possible.
        I got out of the taxi at the Excelsior and the bellhop helped me carry my suitcase up to the front desk.  “Good morning.”
        “Good morning, Ma’am.”
        “I have a reservation.”
        “Name, please.”
        “Ida Noe.”
        The canine behind the desk raised his eyebrows.  “You don’t know your own name, Miss?”
        “That is my name.”
        “What?”
        “Ida Noe.”
        The clerk glanced up at the ceiling fans.  He looked at me, a patient smile now firmly fixed on his face.  “Name, please.”
        I was starting to cling to my patience as well.  “Ida Noe.”
        “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.  I could only assume he was speaking rhetorically.  I could feel myself start flagging, and promised myself to have a LONG word with whoever assigns cover names at Minkerton's.
        “No, it’s not.  My name is Ida – here, hang on a moment.”  I dug the identification I’d been given and offered it to him.  He looked at it, then looked at me, then at the letter again.
        “Ah,” he said, managing to recover his poise as soon as he realized I wasn’t pulling his leg.  “My mistake.  Welcome to Atlanta, Miss Noe.  Sign here on the register, please, and I’ll get your key.”  He rang the bell for another bellhop and got the key while the lad, just a bit older than kittenhood, trotted up in his tight-fitting uniform.  “Here, Brophy, take this young lady’s bags up to 216.”
        “Yes, sir,” the kitten said.
        I let the bellhop take my bags and told the desk clerk, “I am expecting three friends of mine to meet me here.  Could you direct them to my room?”
        “Of course, Ma’am.”
        I headed for the staircase and encountered the bellhop.  He was only a bit larger than my suitcase, and was having a hard time negotiating the stairs while carrying it.
        He wasn’t carrying it by the handle.  He was hefting it like it was a sofa, all the while muttering, “I got it . . . I got it . . . “
        Once or twice he varied the program by having the case slip from his grasp, whereupon he said with a frustrated sigh, “I ain’t got it.”
        We finally made it up the single flight of stairs and down the hallway – all ten yards of it – to my room.  I tipped him ten cents and he gave me a look that would have turned fresh milk into butter.  “Gee, lady, a whole dime!” he said sarcastically.  “What are you, a Rockefeller or something?”
        “Be glad that’s all I give you,” I said as I closed the door.  I leaned against the door and pressed an ear to the wood in time to hear him stomp off, muttering.  I slumped a bit and looked around the room.
        Turn-of-the-century furnishings.
        Well-varnished dark wood.
        Comfortable-looking bed.
        Yay!
        And just enough time to catch a bit of a nap before the rest of the team is expected to arrive.  Double yay!
        A couple hours later I was still lying on the bed, drifting just on the edge of a full sleep, when there was a knock at the door.  I had my Starr 9mm pistol lying ready to paw and I reached for it as I called out, “Who is it?”
        “Barnie Collie, Miss Noe.  I’m expected.”
        Ah!  “Be right there,” I said, and after very quickly straightening myself out (bed-headfur, you know) I went to the door and opened it a crack.
        Yes, there he was, a confident-looking canine with dark headfur and expressive dark eyes, dressed in a light tan suit that contrasted with his fur.  “Miss Noe?”
        “Agent Fawnsworthy, actually,” I said, ushering him into the room.  “Pleased to meet you, Agent Collie.”
        “Barnie, please.  I’m not a full operative with Minkerton’s,” he told me.  He took a seat next to a table lamp, and started looking at it interestedly.
        “Did you see any other members of our team?”
        “I thought I saw Miss Cartwright,” Barnie said in a distracted tone as he poked at the lamp.  Before I could offer him a glass of water he had removed the lampshade and was unscrewing the lamp.
        Well, he WAS a genius with electricity.  No harm in letting him take a peek at things.  I let him tinker while I kept a lookout at the door.
        Sure enough, here came two more members of the group; a porcine woman that had to be Cartwright, and a thin dapper canine – that would be Rollin Pawe.  They looked like good friends, as they were arm in arm and Cardamom was laughing at some low-voiced pleasantry.
        Pawe spotted me first.  “Ah!  Cardamom my sweet and spicy love, here is a rival for my affections!”
        “Er, no, actually,” I said.  “I’m Willow.”
        “Yes, you sure are,” Cartwright said with only a slightly acid tang to her voice.  I was quite visibly a bit younger and thinner than her.  I DID say she looked a dead ringer for Mrs. Teasdale, didn’t I?
        “Come on in,” I said, “Barnie’s already – “ suddenly every light in the hallway dimmed and I heard a muffled yelp come from behind me.  We all headed for the door and looked inside.
        Collie was a few feet away from his chair, having apparently been thrown there by the electricity.  His headfur looked a bit rumpled and he was sucking his index finger.  “What happened?” I asked as Rollin started to help him up.
        “Wanted to see if it was plugged in,” Barnie said, looking around dazedly.  “Oh, hi, Rollin,” he slurred.
        “Hello, Barnie, old friend,” and we managed to get him back in his chair.  He zeroed in on me.
        “Hi, Willow.”
        “Hello, Barnie.”  The guy’s head seemed to bob around on his neck a bit as he sat and collected himself.  No wonder he had his headfur fairly short – if he hadn’t, the voltage would likely have it sticking straight out in all directions.
        There was a soft knock on the door, and I opened it – and gasped at the sight.
        Sure, I recognized him from his picture.  Villy Armstrong, a Brahman Bull.
        The picture didn’t give me a sense of scale, though.  Villy literally FILLED the doorway.  I didn’t think they made suits that big.
        “Hello,” he said.  Very friendly voice, almost a purr.
        “Come on in.  I’m Willow.”
        “Villy.”
        Pawshakes all around while we got acquainted, and I called the meeting to order.  “I think Allan’s missing a bet here,” I remarked.  “He thinks that Papa might be after Mrs. Teasdale’s jewelry, but there might be larger issues involved.”
        Pawe gave me a look.  “Prohibition’s over, Willow.”
        “True, Rollin, but you can still make money shipping hooch in illegally – or even more money bringing in other stuff.”
        “Like drugs,” Villy added.  I nodded.
        I caught myself revising my estimate of Villy’s intelligence upward.  Practically every time he opened his mouth.
        Cardamom cocked an eyebrow at me.  “Now I know why you asked for me.  I take it you want me to find out what’s up?”
        “It won’t be entirely on your shoulders, Cardamom.”
        “Good.”
        “Mrs. Teasdale’s staying with her ‘Daughters of the Magnolia’ at a resort hotel, which gives us the opportunity to work from various angles.”
        Barnie nodded.  “That gives me a few ideas.”  He started patting himself down, coming up with a small notepad and the stub of a pencil.  He started jotting notes.
        “As soon as I heard the name of the hotel, I recalled the place,” Rollin said quietly.  He smiled.  “They do shows there to draw tourists.  And if I recall, Papa had a room reserved for his use at the place – entertains guests there, and so on.”
        “Which gives us an entrée into the place,” I said.  “Rollin, your skills can get us into the hotel, and I’m sure they can hire a fine strong fellow like you, Villy.”
        “What about you, Willow?”
        I grinned.
        “I always wanted to tread the boards,” and everyone chuckled.  “Let’s not forget that these aren’t nice people we’re going against.  Papa may look like someone’s favorite uncle, but his associate looks like bad news.  Allan thinks that Papa’s got some kind of hold over Mike, which gives us something else to explore – “
        “And exploit,” Cardamom said.
        “Exactly.  And we need to get this taken care of quickly.”
        “Why?” Villy asked.  “Allan didn’t say nothing about that.”
        “I have my reasons, Villy.”


April 8:
        Ugh.
        If anything, Miami feels hotter than Atlanta, although there’s a nice ocean breeze.  The train was a bit more comfortable, though.
        The Hotel de Cocoanut looked like a swanky place from the outside.  Ten years or so old, little mildewed around the edges, which is what you’d expect down here in the jungle.  They were hiring for the season, which helped us out a lot with our planning.  
        Rollin and Cardamom were already at work, Cardamom checking into a room not too far away from Mrs. Teasdale’s in order to copy her walk and mannerisms, Rollin getting himself hired as a magician and stage hypnotist called ‘The Amazing Mystico.’
        Villy got a job working in the kitchen, while Barnie took a room posing as a tourist.  Their first task was to put a tap on the hotel switchboard, so that we could eventually eavesdrop on Popadopalous’ phone calls.
        And me?  Well, The Amazing Mystico needs an attractive assistant, doesn’t he?  Besides, I have the figure to fill out a showgirl costume in all the right places.
        It’d give me a great advantage, as the other showgirls have pretty much the run of the place.  I’ll be able to blend in a bit, as I can ditch the costume for my glasses and prim, school-marmish persona.
        Great plan, huh?
        Well, you know what they say about plans, and in this case they started to go aft gang-agley right out of the gate.
        Rollin and I walked into the hotel, carrying our own bags, thank you, when I heard a loud voice apparently haranguing the staff.
        “I'll cut your pay!"
        "You don't pay us enough!"
        There was a pause.
        Then:  "Well then, I'll give you a raise - THEN I'll dock your pay!"  There was some muttering, and then he said, “Get back to work!”
        There was a brief stir, and the staff came out from around a corner.  A bellhop took our bags and we headed for the front desk.  A short duck with a cigar and heavy eyebrows slipped behind the desk and started eyeing me.  “Do you two have reservations?” and his voice told me he was guy who’d been hectoring the staff.
        “Yes, but we’re checking in anyway.”
        Rollin said, “My theatrical agent should have called you.  We’re booked for a week – look under ‘The Amazing Mystico.’”
        The duck looked unimpressed.  “You don’t look so amazing to me – although you do, Cutie,” and he started leering at me.  “You with him, or are you the one who jumps out of the hat?”
        “I’m his assistant, Janet.”
        “Likely story.  What do you assist him with?  His act or his rabbit?”
        “Eeey, atsa no rabbit.  She’s a doe, Boss.”  This came from a canine with a smarmy manner and a very disheveled bellhop’s uniform.
        “She can’t have too much dough, Benelli.  She’s working for a living.”
        “Atsa no big deal, Boss.  We gotsa lotta working girls here,” and he dodged out of the way of my hoof.
        “Better save that energy, sister,” the desk clerk (whose name tag read Julius) said as he leaned over desk and admired my legs.  “We got an opening for a girl in the chorus.”
        “Oh yeah?”
        “Yeah.  Got anything to fill that opening?  Maybe we can get the Amazing Whatsit here to saw you in half so you can do both jobs.”
        I didn’t want to get thrown out, so with Rollin’s assent I allowed that I could dance, and sing as well.
        “Eeey, Boss, she says she can sing.”
        “That may be, Benelli, but she can’t pin anything on us yet.  You two are in Rooms one-ten and one-eleven, and no commuting.  You, little girl, can expect turndown service.”
        “I’ll turn you down right now, and save you the trouble.”
        “An economist, eh?”  The duck slapped the front bell and a short deer scampered up, his uniform even more askew than Benelli’s and topped with a battered stovepipe hat.  He grabbed our bags and started to open them, causing Rollin and I to wrestle them away from him.
        “He’s not too bright, is he?” Rollin asked, jerking a thumb at the deer.
        “They say that Ponce de Leon found the Fountain of Youth here.  Sometimes I wish he'd found the Fountain of Smarts.”
        Benelli said, “Ey, Randolph’s a plenty smart.  Ey, Randolph. What's two plus two?”
        Randolph produced a small horn.  “HONK! HONK! HONK!”
        “I see Hoover's got to him, too,” Julius said.
        “...HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK! HONK!”
        “Well, what you know? It's split 3:2!”
        “Fine, I'll take one of those.”
        “One of what?”
        “A 3.2.”    
        “That's small beer.”
        “At'sa all right, he's a small deer.”
        My head was starting to spin, so me and Rollin headed for our rooms.
        Reaching the rooms required us to leave the main part of the hotel and skirting the swimming pool.  Two waiters followed us, a tall gangling canine (?) and a short blue-feathered avian.  My ears flicked as I caught part of their conversation.
        “You know, Jekyll?”
        “What’s that, my good Jay?”
        “I was almost killed dead by you,” the bird remarked sorrowfully.  “My knees are almost gone.”
        “Why you didn’t go through?”
        “You didn’t put enough postage on me, you rotten swine you.”  
        “The tube wasn’t that small – “  Mercifully I closed the door on the conversation and sighed.
        Okeh, we were in.
        Now to see what we could find out, and get started doing things.


        That night Rollin and I ate in the hotel’s dining room, surrounded by elderly matrons and a few younger sorts, all sporting small ribbon cockades that featured the Confederate stars and bars.  Waiters circulated and I noticed Villy making his ponderous way around, gingerly carrying a tray.
        The food was good, and employees ate free (but only from a limited menu).
        At one point, I couldn’t resist.  I set my fork down and asked Rollin, “’The Amazing Mystico?’”
        He waggled his long, pendant ears at me.  “Used to be my stage name.  Made a bit of a name for myself when I made an apartment building appear in Atlantic City.”
        “You mean disappear.”
        “Nope.  My dear, any third-rate cardsharp can make something disappear.  It takes a true artist to not only make things appear, but appear with such verisimilitude as to induce people to move in,” and with a smile he returned to his hamburger steak.
        I wasn’t impressed.  People in Atlantic City will believe anything.
        There was a bit of a stir at the dining room entrance and we looked as a certain heavyset feline with a well-trimmed beard sauntered in, escorted by a dapper canine.  He sat at a reserved table in a corner, where he was attended to by the tall dog and the short bird we’d seen earlier.  “Those are the bad guys,” I remarked before taking a bite of my salad.

        Rollin nodded.  “And there’s Mrs. Teasdale.”  I saw a porcine woman enter, dressed in a splendid-looking evening gown with jewelry intruding its vulgarity upon her person.  She was intercepted by the head waiter and immediately shown to Papa’s table.  He stood as she walked up, and gallantly bowed over her paw.  “Quite the gentleman.”
        “Uh huh.  I’ve seen guys like him in Gnu York,” I said.  “But they had Italian names.”
        He nodded, and we slowly went through our dinner while unobtrusively looking around the joint.  The dining room was also the entertainment venue, with a dance floor and a stage along one wall.  Seeing the stage reminded me that I would have to be up there in about another hour.
        No time for stage fright, Willow.
        I think Rollin sensed something.  “Just follow my lead, Willow.  You’re basically supposed to look pretty and be a distraction.”
        I grinned.  “I think I can manage that.”
        We finished dinner just as Cardamom and Barnie entered (not together) to take over watching Mrs. Teasdale and Papa.  I headed for my room and paused, hearing hooves behind me.
        I turned and there was that short deer – what was his name?  Randolph.
        He looked at me.
        I looked at him, and took a couple slow steps backward.
        He advanced.
        He chased me all the way to my room, where I slammed the door on his muzzle.

        After a few minutes to wash up and change, I slipped out of the room, wrapped in an overcoat to hide my assistant’s uniform, and headed for the stage door behind the kitchen –
        - and almost leaped out of my fur.
        HONK!  HONK!  HONK!
        Randolph again!  He chased me in and I slammed the door shut.  As I collected my wits, panting and flagging like crazy, I heard a throaty chuckle behind me.
        “Don’t worry, Doll, he does that to all the girls.”
        I turned around to find that I was among friends; i.e., the rest of the chorus girls.  They were in various stages of dress, mostly their costumes.  They were going to go on before I did, and wrap up the show after Rollin was done with his piece.
        “If he chases me again, I might introduce him to the pool – with me standing on him,” I grumbled.
        The thin bear laughed again.  “When you go back to your room, stay with us – safety in numbers, you know.  Name’s Clarice.”
        “Janet.”
        “Pleased to meetcha.  I’ll introduce you around.  We’re due to go on in about fifteen minutes, and you can watch from the wings.  You part of the magic act?”
        “Yeah.”
        “Hope he’s good.  I had to open for Woland the Magnificent back in ’30 – he stunk up the place.”  She snorted.  “Literally – he was a skunk, see, and he had this way of taking care of hecklers – “
        I didn’t wish to know that.
        Clarice was good enough to help me with my costume, complete with a headpiece topped with a spray of feathers, and critiqued my makeup as the band regaled the diners with a few tunes before the show.  A stagepaw poked his head in and said, “Five minutes, girls!”
        “C’mon, Janet,” Clarice said, “come and watch the show.”
        I took my place in the wings and watched.  The girls really put on a nice show, mostly old show tunes with a fine display of dancing.
        “Not bad.”
        I almost jumped out of my fur again.  Somehow Rollin had managed to end up standing at my elbow, and he gave me a smile.  He was dressed in black tie, with the trademark opera cloak and top hat.  A stagepaw had a few boxes of props and a few other things covered by a black drape.
        “Ready, my dear?”
        “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
        After a while the dancers moved off the stage to a warm round of applause, and the duck from the front desk waddled up to face the audience.  “And now, ladies and gents, put your paws together for a good magic act.  A good magic act?  It’ll be quite a trick if the owners could manage that.”  There was a brief titter.  “Here they are, folks, the Amazing Mystico, and Janet!”
        We were on.
        I’ll have to give it to Rollin; he started out with a flourish, going through a few passes, producing a feral rabbit from his top hat and performing a number of card tricks.  I didn’t have much to do but help him and smile pretty for the audience.
        “How do you know Janet's dress is skimpy?” Julius suddenly called out.  “The couturier only works part-time.”  That got a laugh, and I felt my ears get a bit red.
        “Now, may I have a volunteer from among the people in the audience?” Rollin said.  He pointed into the shadows.  “You, sir!  Yes, the canine gentleman in the corner!  Please, sir, step right up.”
        I wondered what he was up to, as Mike the Diver made his way to the stage and stood looking at Mystico as he shook paws.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir!  Might I know your name?”
        “Mike.”
        “Mike.  Well, sir!  If you’ll stand right here, please, and Janet will stand between us – come, come, Janet, there’s no need to be shy . . . “
        I had every reason to be shy, thank you.  This was one of the Bad Guys we were going to have to deal with.  I hoped that the makeup I was wearing (a lot more than I usually wore) would be an effective disguise.
        “Now, ladies and gentlemen, observe!”  Rollin removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.  “Nothing concealed on my arms or in my paws, except for this paltry token,” and he pulled a small trinket from a pocket.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I pray silence, please,” and he nodded at the band, who obligingly started a soft drum roll.
        Rollin made a few passes over the small trinket, while I smiled and Mike the Diver merely looked bored.  Suddenly the Amazing Mystico made a further pass – and the trinket was no longer in his paws.
        “As you can see, the little gaud is no more, lost in the ether, dear friends.  Wherever could it have gone?”  He clapped his paws three times.  “Mike, will you check your pockets, please?”
        The canine didn’t look pleased, but complied.
        Suddenly his eyes went wide.
        He slowly pulled his paw from his trouser pocket and there was the trinket, which I now recognized as a St. Christopher medal.
        To a solid round of applause Mike gave the trinket back to Rollin, who bowed and applauded him off the stage.  
        A few more tricks and the Amazing Mystico declaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, you have been a most willing audience, but it is time for us to go!  We’ll be here all week!”  Applause was general as I curtsied and accepted a rose from Rollin.
        As soon as we were off the stage I sagged.  “Lord, that was awful,” I gasped.
        “Nonsense, you did great,” he said.  “This was just the first night.  And we got a close look at the Diver, too.”
        “You took a risk.”
        “Everything in life is risk, Janet.”
        Don’t I know it.
        “How did you - ?”
        A sly grin.  “Never ask a magician to reveal his secrets, Willow,” he whispered.  He winked.  “I slipped a duplicate into his pocket while I shook paws with him.”
        Ah.
        “You saw how the boss was paying court to Mrs. Teasdale?”
        Rollin nodded.  “Oh yes.  Mike looked a tad disapproving.”
        “Something we can use?”
        “Possibly.”


        The next step was to find a way into Papa’s rooms and see the lay of the land before sending Barnie in.  Logically, one of us gets to go in disguised as a maid.
        I’ve had to play a lot of roles in Minkerton’s.
        But when Rollin held up the mirror, my ears went straight down.
        “What the HELL have you done to me?”
        Rollin looked apologetic.  “Well, you DID want to look nondescript – “
        “I said, ‘Nondescript,’ not indescribable!”
        I was wearing a suit of thin latex overlaid with fake fur that had been dyed.  That and two prosthetic boots to conceal my hooves had transformed me.  I now looked like some horrible crossbred canine shoehorned into a maid’s uniform (the disguise had also filled me out about three sizes larger).  A small nametag proclaimed my name to be Conchita.
        Even my scent had been changed.
        I had only two consolations – that I wouldn’t be dressed up like this for very long, and that Rollin looked equally ridiculous.
        He’s an Afghan, so he (or rather Maria, judging by his nametag) looked a bit more appropriate in drag, with graying headfur and a fur pattern glued to the latex that looked like he had a bit of cervine blood in him.
        “No one will notice us,” Rollin said for the third time.  “It’s a perfect disguise.”
        “For YOU, maybe,” I growled.  I was already stifling under the layer of rubber and the maid’s uniform.
        We slipped out of the room and appropriated cleaning materials and a cart of clean linens, then proceeded to actually clean a couple of rooms on the way to Papa’s digs, just to get into the pattern.
        “Allo,” Rollin called out as he knocked on the door.  “Esto es housekeeping.”
        The door opened to reveal the feline, dressed in a faded flannel bathrobe and scratching under his whiskery chin.  His tail twitched at the sight of us, his gaze lingering on my tailfur.  “You’re early,” he said sleepily.  “You’re here before the room service.”
        “We come back, si?” Rollin said.
        “Hmm.  Nope, you stay, get the place cleaned up,” and the feline muttered something – Greek, I think – as he walked back to his desk and took a seat.
        Rollin and I started cleaning, me changing the bedding while he dusted things off.  He then cleaned up in the bathroom while I dusted things in the office.
        While I dusted I took a look around.
        The office was done in very nice wood paneling, getting a lot of light from the southern exposure.  There were framed photographs on the walls – Papa with local celebrities, mainly, a few family portraits, and one large picture of him and Mike the Diver.  The strangest thing was the trophy on the wall behind his desk.
        No, not the fact there was one there.  Lots of men have fishing or hunting trophies.  It’s a man thing, I guess.
        The odd thing was that the trophy was a huge sponge.
        The plaque said that it had weighed seventy-eight pounds.
        The phone rang and I resisted the urge to jump, instead listening closely as Papa picked up the pawset.
        “Yeah?  ‘Course it’s me . . . no, Mike . . . no, I can’t talk right now, the maids’re here . . . yeah, one of ‘em’s pretty enough,” and he winked at me.
        I did my best coquettish look and retreated as Rollin finished up.
        On our way out the door we were met at the door by Jekyll, holding a loaded breakfast tray, and that little chasing cervine Randolph.  Jekyll wandered past us while Randolph leered at me and Rollin.  “HONK!  HONK!”
        “Keep it down,” I said in a bad Spanish accent.
        He obligingly pulled out a much smaller horn.  “Beep beep.”  He then pulled a whisk broom from his coat and waved it around.
        “No, we finished cleaning already.”
        He pouted, and pulled out a feather duster almost the same size as he was.
        “No,” I said patiently, then had to splutter as he vigorously dusted me down.  He then turned to Rollin, seized him and started to dance a slow waltz out of the room.  Before Rollin could react, Randolph hugged him a bit too tightly.
        A very tight hug.
        With a side order of wandering paws.
        The vacant grin on Randolph’s face suddenly changed.  Rapidly.
        He backed away a step, then two, then turned and ran, honking as he shed his coat, hat and shirt and then flung himself into the pool.
        The last I saw of him as Rollin and I beat a hasty retreat (me for a long tub bath; I needed to cool off) I saw Randolph vigorously scrubbing himself in the pool with a bar of soap.
        Sigh.  That reminds me.
        Spirit gum is MURDER to get out of fur.
        
        
        Rollin had taken the time while cleaning Papa’s rooms to leave behind a few things.
        Which caused Papa to start itching within a few hours.
        The phone rang in Barnie’s room, and Cardamom answered it.  “Switchboard,” she said in a bored Southern drawl.
        “This is Papadopolous.  Send an exterminator around to my room.  I got fleas.”
        “Yes, suh.  We’ll get one down there quick.”  The sow disconnected the line and smiled at Barnie.  “Showtime.”
        “We’ll wait another hour,” the canine said with a smile as he opened the latest issue of ‘Electronics Enthusiast’ magazine.  The current month’s centerfold was the schematic of a magnetic tape recorder, recently developed by a German firm.
        Suddenly there came a loud banging on the door, and Cardamom went to answer it.
        Framed in the doorway was a tall gangling youth.  “What’s going on in here?” he demanded in a loud, accusatory tone.
        “Nothing.”
        “Oh.  Well, I’ll be off then.”  The canine went shambling off.
        An hour later Barnie was entering the hotel grounds wearing a set of light gray coveralls and carrying a sprayer and a small satchel.  The satchel had a false bottom that concealed the electronics parts he needed to install.
        There was a sound of running feet behind him, and he turned to see one of the chorus girls from last night, now wearing street clothes, being pursued by a canine, a short deer and a duck with a wretched-smelling cigar in his bill.  The chase disappeared down a side corridor.
        One knock on the door and the feline opened it.  “’Bout time,” Papadopolous growled, scratching at his chest fur through his open shirt.  “I’m being eaten alive in here.”
        “I’m very sorry, sir,” Barnie said quietly.  He reached into his satchel and offered a small brown bottle.  “You’ll need this.”
        “What the hell is it?”
        “Apex Pest Control prides itself on delivering exceptional customer service,” the canine said, as if reciting a long-rehearsed speech, “and for that reason supplies all of its clients with this complimentary bottle of fur shampoo, specially formulated for Apex.”
        Papa hefted the small bottle.  “Shampoo, huh?”
        “Yes, sir.  I suggest you use it while I take care of the little beasts in here.”
        “Hell with that,” the feline said.  “I need to go to the gym anyway.  I’ll shower there.  How long will it take?”
        “Just a couple of minutes – but we really don’t recommend you coming back in for at least two hours.  The smell, you know.”
        Papa nodded and walked out, and Barnie set to work.  He pumped up the pressure on the sprayer and moved into the room.
        The substance in the sprayer was only water, mixed with chemicals that would make it smell foul for a short time.  Papa really didn’t have fleas – all Rollin had had to do was be seen scratching, and the power of suggestion did the rest.
        Spraying done, he set the sprayer aside and opened his satchel, laid out his tools and set to work.  The first target was the telephone in Papa’s office.  
        He picked up the pawset, opened the mouthpiece and inserted the small device he’d been working on.  As he screwed the mouthpiece back on, he heard voices as the door opened.
        “Ey, Randolph, ya gotta stop chasing the faster ones, yanno?  Ya let that one get away!”
        Barnie looked around the corner to see the small cervine honk his horn mournfully.  Randolph spied him and grinned, honking loudly and happily.  His expression changed as the smell of the spray hit him.
        Benelli’s tail swished.  “Phew!  Ey, guy, whatsa that ya spraying?  Smells likea da garbage.”
        “It’s flea spray.”
        “Fleas!  Ya say dey gotta the fleas in here!”  Benelli turned to his sidekick.  “Ey, Randolph, ya hear dat?”
        Randolph nodded frantically and pulled a flit from his coat, which he proceeded to wave around wildly, pumping insecticide everywhere.
        “Stopa that!” Benelli said.  “He already sprayed.  Now, whaddaya gonna do about these fleas?”
        The cervine put a paw to his chin and flagged for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pulled what looked like a pawful of rice from his pockets.
        Barnie and Benelli leaned forward and looked closely.
        Mousetraps.
        Tiny, flea-sized mousetraps.
        “Ah, atsa no good,” Benelli demurred.  “You gotta get the fleas outta da room.”
        Randolph pouted and put the traps back in his pockets, then grinned and started taking things from his pockets, placing them on the carpet in front of the door.
        A small Ferris wheel, several tents and a small highly decorated cage on wheels.
        The canine slapped his forehead with his palm.  “Ey, atsa good!” Benelli exulted.  “We’re gonna trick ‘em inta joining da circus!  Atsa good, huh Boss?”
        “Yeah, just great,” Barnie said.  “Tell you what, you wait for the fleas to get into the cage, and I’ll finish up, okay?”
        “Yeah, yeah, whatever ya say, Boss,” Benelli said, watching the tiny circus with Randolph.  He suddenly backpawed the cervine.  “Ey, whatsa matta you?  You forgetta da cotton candy!”
        “Why don’t you two jokers run away and join that circus?” Barnie asked, pausing at the door.
        “It’sa no good.  We overqualified.”
        “HONK!”
        Barnie shook his head and went back to work.  Stepping into the office he switched off the lights and moved to his next target, a brass diver’s helmet that had been converted into a table lamp.  The helmet offered ample space to run a small microphone.
        He finished the task and walked into the bedroom to do the same thing with the overhead light.  
        The canine was standing on the bed when Benelli walked in.  “Whadday doin’, Boss?”
        He switched on the light.
        ZAP
        The voltage threw Barnie across the room and Benelli said, “Ey!  Looks like he getta charge outta his job!”
        “HONK!  HONK!”
        “Atsa good one, Randolph – atsa onea my current jokes!”  He grinned as Barnie staggered to his feet.  “AC, DC, easy, eh Boss?”
        The two ran from the suite as Barnie chased them to the door, then the canine packed up his equipment and left the room.  The effect of the electricity coursing through him had made his headfur stand out on end, to a depth of three inches.
        He was only slightly staggering down the hallway when he encountered the duck.  Julius took his cigar from his beak, regarded the lit end for a moment and told Barnie, “Better comb that down, Eraserhead, or you might set a new fashion.”


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