Cardamom was lounging by the pool, playing the part of a tourist as she saw Julius and Mrs. Teasdale walking along.  The duck was muttering, “Fleas?  In our rooms?  Nonsense.  These rooms aren’t fit for fleas!”
        Mrs. Teasdale, dressed in a floral chintz gown in deference to the warm weather, looked distressed and wrung her paws.  “My stars, Mr. Quackenfall, of all the bothersome things!  I do hope that these fleas won’t cause me to move our group to another hotel!”
        The duck gave her an arch look.  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Teasdale.  I raised the rates on their room, and we’ll soon see the backs of them.  Actually you’ll have to get very close to see the backs of them, as they’re so small.  They are fleas, you know.”
        “Well, that is a relief.”  The porcine femme fanned herself.  “Now, Mr. Quackenfall – you know, that is a very interesting name,” she said, a coy look coming to her muzzle.  “However did you come by it?”
        “Honestly, what do you think?”  Julius waggled his eyebrows at her.  “If you must know, it’s been in the family for years, along with the mortgage.  One of my ancestors in the Old Country – “
        “Which old country?” she asked.
        He glared at her.  “They never would tell me – I expect it was any old country.  Anyway, one of my ancestors coined it when they shot him at dawn.”
        Benelli had been walking by, scratching vigorously.  “Heh!  So after he-a coint it, he bought it, huh Boss?”
        “Benelli, they can use men like you in the Service, holding the targets in front of themselves.”
        “Ah, that’sa lotta bullseye.”  Anything else the canine might have said was eclipsed by a clatter as Julius pushed him down the nearby stairs.  The clattering was associated with what sounded like a rack full of pots and pans falling over.  
        Villy, his waiter’s jacket encrusted with spaghetti sauce and pasta, came staggering up the stairs and headed back to the kitchen.  A lone meatball sat perched on top of his head.  
        Benelli followed the bull, a plate in one paw and a fork in the other.  “Ey!  Ya wanna bring back some garlic bread!”  He then started singing ‘On Top of Spaghetti’ in a warbling, slightly off-key tenor.
        Julius went back to Mrs. Teasdale and took her paw very gently.  “Mrs. Teasdale, ever since you came down here you’ve swept me off my feet.  It was love at first sight – well, second anyway.”
        Cardamom guessed that Mrs. Teasdale was missing the late Mr. Teasdale.  “Oh, Mr. Quackenfall.”
        “Julius.”
        “Suzanna.”
        The duck looked up at the sow.  “That’s your given name?”
        “Why, yes.”
        “Take my advice – give it back and get your deposit.”
        Ignoring some of the byplay, Cardamom concentrated on studying Mrs. Teasdale’s walk and manner of speaking.  Copying those and her wardrobe should be fairly easy.
        Her jewelry, on the other paw . . .
        She had a small case that bulged with paste copies of various ornaments, but those pearls looked to be one-of-a-kind.
        Some swift action would be required.
        She turned idly to see Villy taking another tray out of the kitchen, this time being careful to watch for any sign of Benelli.
        As she watched Villy, Randolph stole up behind him and honked his horn.  The Brahma bull gave a start and turned; the shorter deer turned with him, lifted the cover on the tray and took a slice of garlic toast.  He waited until Villy had started on his way again before sounding his horn a second time.  When Villy turned, Randolph lifted the cover and took the second piece of toast.  Still finding nothing behind him, Villy headed for the room with the order, only to turn again as Randolph honked at him a third time.
        Villy turned faster this time, and Randolph ran, stopping a short distance away and honking.  The bull eyed him suspiciously and turned around.  Randolph pronked over to him, honked, and ducked behind Villy as the bull turned.  The deer lifted the tray cover and took the entire plate of spaghetti with meatballs and slipped down a side corridor, munching placidly.
        Cardamom stifled a chuckle as Villy scratched his head, then moved on.  Someone was in for a surprise.
        “No.”  At the sound of Willow’s voice the porcine femme turned to see the whitetail doe stamping off to her room, Rollin chasing after her.  “No, Mystico.  I flat-out refuse.”
        “Damn it, Janet . . . “ He went into the room with her, and Cardamom supposed they were having an argument about the night’s performance.


        The door closed.
        “Look, Willow – “
        “NO, Rollin.”  I stamped a hoof for emphasis.  “I’m not doing it.”
        “Why not?”
        “I have my reasons.”
        “Look, Willow, you’re going to be perfectly safe,” and his voice was reassuring.
        I was *not* reassured.  “Rollin, I do trust you – I really do.  But to get shut up in a box – “
        The Afghan snapped his fingers.  “I’ve got it.”
        “Well don’t give it to me.”
        “You’re worried about the act, right?  Well, let’s go back to the stage and I’ll get in the box.  Will that satisfy you?”
        I wrung my paws, but had to admit to myself that he had a good idea.  And the act tonight was part of the plan to get closer to both Papa and Mike the Diver.
        “Okay.”
        “Good,” he said, with a smile on his muzzle.
        A few of the chorus girls were practicing for tonight’s show as Rollin and I came out on stage with the major prop for the night, a tall box that rode on small casters just barely visible at the bottom.  Rollin was careful to position the thing just so, whispering to me that the placement was critical.  He opened it up and showed me the trapdoor in the bottom that led to the matching electrical access in the stage.
        Wow.
        You learn something new every day.
        “Now,” Rollin said, “I’m going to get in, and you start putting the swords in.”
        “Okeh,” I said, still a bit doubtful.
        “And whatever you do,” he said as he closed the door on himself, “don’t stop.  You keep going until all of the swords are in.”
        “R-right.”
        I selected one of the swords.  Heavy thing, and obviously real.  I tested the point and the edge before fitting it to one of the pre-cut slots in the box and shoving in.
        “AHHHH!”
        I ended up ten feet away from the box in one pronk, my flag twitching and fluffed out three sizes larger than it should be.
        Julius had paused in berating the waiters long enough to call out, “Looks like he got the point.”
        One of the chorus girls, a lissome skunk named Nadine, stopped giggling long enough to say, “You heard him, Janet!  Keep going!”
        I gulped and approached the box again, selected another sword and looked at the box.
        No blood.
        I chose another spot and thrust home.
        “OOOOH!”
        Another ten-foot pronk, and now the rest of the chorines were giggling and urging me onward.
        The third sword I didn’t drive in; I went at it slow.
        “Arrgh . . . “  Rollin groaned like a lost soul as the sword went in up to the hilt.
        I picked up the fourth, and put the tip of it to the box.
        “AHHH!  Oh, the agony!”
        I paused.
        The sword wasn’t even in yet, and I was hearing moans and groans.
        The other girls were openly laughing now, and my ears blushed red.  I turned to look at them, and stopped, sword in paw.
        Rollin was standing behind them, paws muffling his muzzle and making groaning noises.
        The chorus parted like the Red Sea and he yelped as I swatted him under his tail with the flat of the blade.  “You about scared me to death!” I yelled as I chased him in a circle around the stage.
        Finally he stopped and held up his paws in surrender.  “So you’ll do it?”
        I threw the sword down.
        “All right.”
        The other girls cheered.
        A bit later, back in our rooms, he made a suggestion and I accepted.


        That night we followed the chorus, a few of the girls blowing me kisses and trying to reassure me that it was all part of the act.
        Ha ha.
        Yes, all part of the act, and Lord forbid we discuss the gray hairs in my headfur.
        Mystico went into his act, and after a few card tricks and a neat display of plate-twirling, he had me wheel out the box.
        “Now, my dear friends, please take a moment to examine the container that the fair Janet is bringing out for our next illusion!  Observe closely how stout and sturdily-built this box is – “
        “It looks big enough to carry his mouth,” Julius called out.
        “And, you may wonder, what is the purpose of this box?”  Rollin carried on as I moved the box around and thumped each side of it with my fists and hooves.  “Why, ladies and gentlemen, I propose that I shall have my fair assistant, the beautiful Janet, step into this very box and emerge from it *alive* after I have thrust these instruments of death into it!”  With this he made a flourish and two waiters brought in the rack of swords.  
        Rollin bowed them off the stage and proceeded to demonstrate that the swords were real by slicing up fruit with them.  This made sure that all eyes were on him as I made sure the box was exactly where it should be.
        “NOW!  Will the lovely Janet step into the box?”  I stepped in, facing the crowd and waving with a brave smile on my face as Rollin closed me in.
        I could hear him carrying on with his spiel as I tripped the trap and slithered down into the area under the stage, taking care to close things up after me.
        Rollin brandished the first sword, moved to the back of the box and thrust.
        There was a scream.
        Blood sprayed out, causing a small ruckus as a few members of the band dodged the droplets.
        The crowd gasped, seeing a rivulet of red dribbling down the front of the box.
        "You rotten swine!" one of the waiters shouted.  "You have deaded her!"
        Undeterred, Rollin continued until he had half a dozen blades sticking in the box and women were almost swooning.
        “NOW, ladies and gentlemen!  You think the Amazing Mystico to be heartless and cruel, to have condemned the fair Janet to an agonizing death in this chamber of horrors!  No!  For her faith in my powers have translated her from the box!  Behold!”  He yanked out the swords and flung open the box.
        A gasp arose as the assembled matrons saw that I was no longer in the box.  He swung the lid closed, and another gasp as they saw that the blood had disappeared.
        “Janet, speak!” Rollin called out above the din.  “Assure our audience that you are alive, and whole!”
        I put two fingers to my mouth and whistled, and the crowd and the spotlight swung around.
        There I was, dressed in full feathers and warpaint, seated primly on Mike the Diver’s lap.  The canine looked a bit nonplussed while Papa, seated nearby, clapped his paws and roared with laughter.  Mrs. Teasdale was part of the party, and she managed a ladylike titter, fanning herself.
        I got to my feet as the audience cheered, and I gave Mike a gentle, chaste kiss on the cheek.  The spotlight swung back to Rollin, who bowed and accepted the applause of the crowd.
        I got back to the stage as an encore was demanded, and I saw Mike among the ones who were on their feet.
        Hooked, I guess.
        Rollin begged off the encore, instead promising more delightful illusions in the succeeding nights as the Daughters of the Magnolia convention continued.  He bowed me off the stage and waved as he followed me.
        I mopped my brow as the other girls slapped me on the back and cheered.
        And here is where the story *really* starts.


        I took a deep breath before walking into the hotel bar after the act had ended for the night.
        I had no way of being sure that my rather sotto voce invitation to Mike Philhellenikos would be accepted.  After all, he was canine and I was a whitetail deer.
        And then there was the matter of the ring on his left ring finger.  Even in the dark there was no missing that much gold.  There had been no sign of Mrs. Philhellenikos, and I wondered where she might be.  
        Hopefully not sleeping with the sponges.
        So the hook had been tossed out, and I took a seat at the bar, waiting for a nibble.  “Club soda, please,” I told the barkeep.  Soft drinks and beer were free to performers at the hotel.
        The bartender passed me the glass and watched me intently as I drank.  “What?”
        “Just seeing if you were going to leak all over the place,” the raven said with a smile.  “Caught the act tonight.”
        I raised the glass in salute.  “We’ll be here all week.”
        “Manhattan, Joe,” a deep voice to my right.  A stool creaked.
        “Right away, Mr. Philhellenikos.”
        I gave a swift glance to my right as I sipped my soda.  Yes, there he was, looking around a bit as the bartender busied himself.  His eyes met mine, and he winked.  “Mike.”
        “Janet.”
        “Good act tonight.  That was a great stunt you two pulled.”
        I smiled and gave a little toss of my headfur.  “You should’ve seen us when we played St. Joe.  They loved us there.”  I sipped at my club soda.  “You’re married.”
        “You got good eyes.  Pretty ones, too.”  Another wink.
        A coquettish smile from Yours Truly.  “You too.”
        “The wife don’t come to these things,” he said after slurping down part of his cocktail.  “Says it’s beneath her.  Hah.”  He raised his glass in a mock toast.  “Muriel, the cat who lands on my feet.”
        “Hers, you mean?”
        “Nope.  Meant what I said.”  He drained his glass, signaled for another, and started talking.  I kept up a string of nods and noises, encouraging him to continue.
        Mike had been a sponge diver upstate on the Gulf coast at Tarpon Springs (“It’s good work, and after Cuba I was ready to settle down a bit”).  He’d met Papa and his sister up there, and Muriel had apparently found the canine’s good looks a bit south of irresistible.
        Andreas had found out about it.
        I clucked my tongue sympathetically.  “Speargun wedding?”
        A heavy chuckle as he had a third Manhattan, a Bronx and Staten Island, too.  “Something like that.  Andreas – “  He turned his head and spat on the floor  “ – Andreas never lets me forget it.  C’mon,” and he tossed some money on the bar, “I want to show you something.”
        Uh, oh.
        Think fast, Willow.
        “Never on the first date,” I say and flicked my flag at him.
        His tail wagged as he laughed.  “Don’t worry.  C’mon.”
        At least he acted a bit like a gentleman, but to my surprise we didn’t head to his room for any etchings.
        Instead we headed for Papa’s suite, and he used his own key to open it up.  “Papa’s taking the Teasdale dame out on the ocean in his boat for the night, trying to butter her up.  It’s in here,” and he led me into the office.
        He made a beeline for the huge sponge mounted on the wall and ran a paw over it.  “Mine,” he said softly, his accent getting more pronounced as the liquor started hitting him harder.  “Brought it up with my own two paws, back in ’33.  Fought it up to the surface, and by that time my lungs were aching for air.  Now I can see it, but it has to stay here,” and he muttered something Greek.
        It might have been curses, but it was Greek to me.
        He brushed a paw at his wavy headfur and looked at me, then looked at the table lamp.  “Used to be my diver’s helmet, too.  Most expensive thing I ever owned.  *He* took it and made a damned lamp outta it!” he snarled.  “If I could, I’d – “
        His paws made clenching motions, as if there was a neck between them.
        I felt some sympathy, and I took him by the paws and hugged him.
        I wanted to hug him.  He’d just given me some priceless info.  I gave him a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “You’re a better man than he is, Mike.”
        “I know.”
        And on that note I made some excuses and slipped out of his grasp, leaving him still looking at what used to be his livelihood.
        As I was walking back to my room I heard a soft hiss, followed by a *Foomph* sound.  My ears swiveled and homed in on the noise, which seemed to be coming from the direction of the hotel’s small laundry.
        Interesting.
        

        The next day I asked about the whooshing noise I’d heard the previous night.
        Since my interlocutor was that crazy duck, I almost wished I hadn’t.
        “The hotel has a very noticeable pneumatic feature,” Julius informed me as he scanned the morning’s racing form.  “But enough about the waitresses.  Mail can be sent quickly throughout the hotel.  But not the waitresses.”
        I nodded.  Lots of places had that kind of system, delivering mail and messages rapidly.  All it took was tubing and a good air compressor.  The Minkerton’s building had a pretty extensive one – in fact, instructors will play tricks on new agents by sending test scores up a random tube and it’s up to the tyro to track it down within a certain time limit.
        My best time was under thirty minutes.  
        I think Bernie Phlute is still searching for his – in Ashtabula.  His theory is that the instructors are being deceptive.
        An obviously disgruntled-looking member of the staff stormed up to the front desk and growled at Julius, "If we don't get a collective bargaining agreement out of you, we'll call our lawyers."  
        The duck seemed singularly unimpressed.  "Oh, a union suit eh?  Pardon me while I call a moth I know."  He then straightened up as a stout cougar strolled in.  “Ah, Senator Padgett!  How are things up in Washington?”
        Before the feline could reply Julius snapped, “How are things on the foreign front?”
        “Well – “
        “How are things between you and your wife, you BEAST!”
        The Senator promptly looked bewildered and confused by this, a condition that promptly faded away the instant he laid eyes on me.  
        Uh, oh.
        “Have we met, my dear little fawn?”
        I blinked.  I haven’t been a fawn in years.  I said, “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure – “
        “Too bad,” Julius cut in.  “This fine upstanding individual is Senator Jedidiah Padgett.  Fond of bathing beauties, French postcards and little green-backed French novels.”
        “Yeah,” the disgruntled employee added.  “He’s addicted to naughty pictures and bootleg hooch.”  I guessed he was abandoning all hopes of either a raise or continued employment.
        Padgett was so stunned by this catalog of his sins that he just stood there, huffing and puffing like a bellows and blowing through his whiskers.
        Benelli poked his muzzle into things just then.  “An addict, ey?  Whatsa the treatment?”
        “A weekend with his wife,” Julius said as the employee stormed out.
        “Which one is she?” Benelli asked, the pooch eyeing me up.
        “His dear wife ... Messalina,” Julius said.  “She's the one with the mustache and the rolling pin.  I think the rolling pin is fake.”
        “Well, if his wife's Messalina, I no clean it up.  Ey, Boss, waita minnit.  Messalina...ain't that near Siracusa?”
        “Noooooo, it's near Buffalo.”
        “Whatsa near Buffalo?”
        “The senator's wife, she's near Buffalo.  She's about as close to a buffalo as a cat can get.  In fact, she's so like a Buffalo it's Erie.”
        I decided a strategic withdrawal was in order – sort of like the Germans when they pulled back to the Hindenburg Line – as the respected Senator started brandishing his cane like a sword.  Time for me to go exploring, because I’d heard pneumatiques before, and there was no way this hotel needed one *that* big.
        I really should have been sleeping in, as Rollin and I had another show that night.  Instead, I wandered around the hotel, staying away from Randolph and Benelli (who, from the occasional honking sounds, were managing to keep Julius and the Senator occupied) and trying to pry into things as unobtrusively as possible.
        The laundry room was the last stop, and that’s when I noticed it:
        The laundry space was smaller than the room it was supposedly housed in.
        Finding a way into the room required a lot of my training, and fortunately Minkerton’s does a lot of instruction on how to spot secret rooms and doors.  The headquarters building in Gnu York is a great place to explore if you’re into funhouses like that.
        The door was located behind one of the dryers, with the catch hidden in a dummy floor drain.  I eased the door open and slipped in, careful to not let my clothes or fur get snagged on anything.
        The room was lit by a bare light bulb and dominated by three things – a large air compressor, a single tube, and what looked like a stack of paint cans.  The tube was the same diameter as the paint cans.
        I didn’t think they handled that much mail.
        One of the cans had a stain on it, a smear of some kind of clear oily substance.  I swiped a finger though part of the smear and brought it to my nose.
        Sniff.
        I reeled back, snorting and flagging as my head seemed to suddenly expand to three times its normal size and the tips of my ears started burning.  My eyes watered and I ducked out of the room the instant my vision cleared.  I washed my paws in the laundry sink as I sneezed and coughed, getting my bearings back and leaving things as I found them.
        After I beat a retreat from the laundry room I leaned against a palm tree and took stock.
        I recognized the effect, if not the smell.
        Catnip oil.
        Now, most of you lead fairly clean lives, but for the demimonde-set, catnip – whether chewed, smoked or sniffed – is a very potent drug.  The Harrison Act specifically forbade its importation into the United States, which made it a prime smuggling item.  
        It mostly affects felines, of course, but there are certain other species that get very – well, excited – on exposure to catnip.  That includes some cervines, but I’m a bit allergic to it.  It just hits me like a blast of pure ammonia right to the nose.  Fortunately, that reaction also allows me to spot it right off.
        That one leaking paint can could hold a few thousand dollars worth of refined oil.
        Which brought up two questions.
        Where was the other end of that pneumatic tube?
        And what was Papa up to?  The answer to that one was fairly easy; with Prohibition a dead letter, gangsters had to come up with another line of work, and the drug trade had basically been in place long before rum-running became fashionable.
        I sneezed and felt an angry flush sweep over me.
        Time for a bath and a nap, Willow.


        “A nip of the old nip, huh?” Cardamom asked as I was putting my makeup on that night.  The artful use of a small amount of fur dye and some makeup had transformed her into a fairly good Mrs. Teasdale for the next stage of the plan.
        “Seems that way,” I said.  “I say we pass the word to Barnie to start poking around.  We need to find where that line ends.”
        “Good idea,” Rollin said from the next room.  He paused at the doorway, doing up his tie.  “I’ll pass the word to him.  He told me that he’s getting good reception on the microphones.”
        “Great.”
        We froze as someone started pounding on the door.  Rollin went to answer it.  “Yes?”
        “Hey!  What’s going on in here?” Jekyll demanded.
        “Nothing.”
        “Oh.  Well I’ll clear off, then.”
        Rollin closed the door and shook his head.  “I was thinking yesterday that this place was an insane asylum.  I was wrong.”
        “Why do you say that?” I asked.
        “It’s not as well run.”
        

        Getting the necklace was almost absurdly simple.
        Cardamom made sure that Mrs. Teasdale had left for the day, shopping with other members of the Daughters, and then used a passkey to slip into her room.  The pearls were in a locked velvet case, and she admired them momentarily before fastening the triple rope around her neck.  The porcine femme then made sure she could slip out just as quietly.
        As she walked through the lobby on the way to the pool she saw Senator Padgett at the front desk talking to Julius.  “I want to register a complaint,” the panther said in a loud voice.
        “You want to complain?  Why, look at these shoes!” and the duck stepped out from behind the desk to show his footwear.  “I just bought these last week and they’re already falling apart.  But most people accuse me of having no sole anyway.”  Before the panther could respond to this Julius asked, “Not that I care much, but what seems to be your problem?  The girls running too fast for you to catch them?”
        “Harrumph!  There’s water running down the walls in my room!”
        “Is that so?  What did you expect?  You’re not paying enough for champagne, you know.”
        Padgett spluttered.
        “Say, that’s a good impression of an outboard motor.  You should rent yourself out for ocean excursions.  Oh, I forgot, you do rent yourself out but only to Rockefeller and Morgan.  Do you realize you haven’t stopped talking since you came in here?  Anyone would think you were back up in Washington.  And why anyone would get their backs up at Washington is beyond me.  Don’t you think Moosevelt’s doing a bang-up job?  Zangara did.”
        The panther threw his paws up and stomped away.  Julius suddenly spotted Cardamom and threw himself at her.  “Mrs. Teasdale!  Come with me and let us dine!”
        Cardamom put herself into the role effortlessly.  “Heavens, Mr. Quackenfall, I have already dined.”
        “It looks like it.  You could paint a swastika on you and pass for a Zeppelin.”
        There was nothing to say to that, so Cardamom merely adopted an offended expression and fanned herself as Benelli and Randolph came in, shaking water from their clothes.  Randolph shook himself like a feral canine, flinging water all over her.
        “Good heavens!  What on Earth is the matter with you?  Both of you act like a pair of anarchists!”
        “What'sa anarchist?”
        “Why, an anarchist is someone who doesn't believe in law,” Cardamom said patiently.  
        Benelli waved a dismissive paw.  “At'sa silly.  If you gotta no law, whattya gone put on you sandwich?”
        “HONK!  HONK!”
        “That's cole slaw,” Julius said.
        “Eeeeey, I no elect this Cole.  How come he getta to make the law?”
        “Probably because he's a merry old soul.  Or he's got a rubber sole, which allows him to sneak away with taxpayer money.”
        “Ehh, he ain't got no rubber sole.  He ain't no bunny."  Benelli thought this last was a great joke, as he seized Cardamom and started to dance her around the room.  Randolph grabbed her from the other side and the three went into a very clumsy pas de trois in the center of the lobby.
        Julius remarked, “Looks like you’re trying to dock the Queen Mary.”
        “HONK!  HONK!”
        Cardamom managed to extricate herself, straightening out her dress.  She looked at the entrance to the hotel and stared.
        A car had pulled up, and Papa was helping Mrs. Teasdale from the passenger seat.
        “Ey, where you going?” Benelli said as she left the area at a fast walk.  “We’re down for da next two dances!”  He shrugged and started dancing with Randolph.
        “Honk Honk Honk?”
        “Only inna da matin’ season.”
        Mrs. Teasdale swept into the lobby a few seconds later, and the pair stopped dancing and ran towards her.  They started dancing with her again, and she shouted, “What is going on here!?”
        Papa Popadopalous came in and grabbed Randolph by the scruff of the neck.  He snatched at Benelli’s coat and hauled them both aside, roaring, “What the blazes is going on with you two?”
        Mrs. Teasdale left the lobby as Randolph honked, and Benelli said, “Ey, Boss!  We was justa catching up on our dance with the lady!”
        “What dance?”
        The canine snapped his fingers.  “Ey, I know what’s goin’ on,” Benelli said to his chum.  “He’sa havin’ onea dese whaddaya callum halloosinootions.”
        Randolph looked serious and nodded solemnly, then pulled a gaily colored pinwheel from his coat and twirled it before the big feline’s eyes.
        “Atsa good!  Ya hypnotooze him and he’ll get better, ey?”
        “Get that out of my face, you!” Papa said, letting both of them go so he could swat the offending toy away.  Randolph pronked away a few feet and grinned manically at the big cat.  “Now, what was this about a dance?  Mrs. Teasdale and I were out with the rest of her group.”
        “Izzat so?” asked Benelli in a skeptical tone.  “You got any witnesses?”
        Papa snorted, then swatted at Randolph again as the deer came up and tickled his beard under his chin.  “Stop that!  We were over on Sand Key.”
        Julius lit another cigar.  "That so?  You got any sand in your feet?"
        "Ey, Boss, 'e gotta the sandy claws, eh?"
        “Don't be foolish, Benelli.  If he had Sandy Claws, where's he put the reindeer?”
        "His gut?"
        The duck looked impressed with the canine’s reasoning.  “Well, eating the help.  There's an idea for the Chamber of Commerce to keep down unions.”
        Just then there was a scream and every ear in the lobby flicked in the direction of Mrs. Teasdale as she burst back into the lobby sobbing, “It’s gone!  It’s gone!”
        “What’s gone?” Papa demanded.
        “Oh, Andreas,” the sow sobbed as she flung herself into his arms.  “My necklace . . . those beautiful pearls . . . they’re gone – stolen.”
        “Stolen?  HERE!?” the feline roared.  “IN MY PLACE!”
        “I want – I want you to call the police,” Teasdale said as she regained control of herself.
        “The police!”  Popadopalous clearly didn’t like the prospect.  “We can find it without calling the police in, Suzanna.  I’ll put the house detective – “
        “No, Andreas,” Mrs. Teasdale said, stamping one trotter irritably.  “I want the police here, and I want them now.”
        “If I find your jewels, Mrs. Teasdale,” Julius said grandly, “I will throw them before your trotters.  Then again, why cast pearls before swine?”


        Cardamom could be entirely unremarkable in her appearance, but being made up to resemble Mrs. Teasdale when that woman was still around made her quite conspicuous.
        Marking her further was the fact she still had the pearls with her.  Not around her neck, of course – the instant word had spread that the police were being called she took the jewelry off and hid it.
        Now she had to get rid of it before anything else happened.
        Like her coming into contact with the woman she was portraying.
        Several of the chorus girls were lounging by the pool, and Cardamom caught Willow’s eye as she walked past.  A subtle wink and a nod, and the doe got up and headed back to her room.


        “What’s up?”
        Cardamom told me, and I started flagging.  
        I had expected to be the team leader, and get to sit back and watch as the members of the team orchestrated the plan and accomplished the mission.  
        Now I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might end up in a room with soft walls if this went on much longer.
        “We’ll have to think of something,” I finally said.  “I think we should – “ I stopped as a scent wafted past my nose.
        Canine.
        Mike stepped around the corner and spotted me.  “Hello, Janet, Mrs. Teasdale.”  He grinned.  “You look very lovely today.”
        I was wearing a bathing suit and a matching thin robe.  It didn’t reveal too much, but at his appraising look I drew the robe closed around me.  “Hello, Mike,” I said, returning his smile and batting my eyelashes at him.  I turned to Cardamom and said in a serious tone, “I really haven’t seen your necklace, Mrs. Teasdale, but I’ll spread the word.”
        Cardamom, bless her, caught the penny before it dropped.  “Thank you very much, Janet.  Mr. Philhellenikos.”  She brushed past him in the corridor ducked out of sight.
        “I was wondering,” Mike said as she left, “if you and I could go out after your show tonight.  Dinner, maybe?”
        “Oh, I’d like that very much, Mike,” I replied in a very pleased tone.  
        Don’t look at me like that.  He was really quite handsome.


        Rollin had been reading the morning edition of the paper when the sound of sirens heralded the arrival of the police.  A large dark blue-painted paddy wagon pulled to a screeching halt at the front entrance, and a full two dozen officers in dark blue uniforms tumbled out of it.  Their leader, a big-eared fox with a chunky build and his headfur sticking out at odd angles, started yelling at them.  The group fell in, then drew notebooks and pencils and entered the hotel.
        The fennec walked up to Julius, who had taken up his usual position behind the front desk and said, “Captain Easy, Miami Police.  We heard there’d been a robbery.”
        “That’s what they say,” the duck confided.  “But have you seen the latest show at the Copacabana Club?  For what they charge there, you really should be investigating that place.”
        “Well, music and passion are always in fashion at the Copa,” Easy said.  “Now, look here, I’m going to start by interviewing the staff, while my men question the guests.”
        “Well, you do that.  In fact, I’ll help you.  Benelli!”
        “Yeah, Boss?”
        “Benelli, do you know what an interrogator is?”
        “Sure, we gots lots of 'em in the swamps.”
        Julius looked over his glasses at Captain Easy, who said in a threatening tone, “If you don’t start talking, we're going to give you the third degree.”
        “At'sa fine, it's hot outside.”
        “But it's twenty degrees cooler inside your head,” Julius said.  “Must be the breeze blowing through.  Now, Benelli, have you ever been to Miami?”
        “You got a sister?”
        “What?”
        “A sister named Amy?”
        “No, Miami.”
        “I no wanna know about you an' your sister.”
        “That's fine, I'm sure she doesn't want to know about you, either.  Let’s try something easier . . . what county is this?”
        “Dade.”
        “Well, that's appropriate.  Ever seen this joint on Friday night?”
        “I wanna know more about your sister.”
        Julius wagged a finger at the canine.  “Oh, no, you don't!  You're NEVER going to Tampa with her!”
        “So whatsa county is he from?” Benelli asked, pointing an accusing finger at Captain Easy.
        The fennec looked surprised.  “Polk, if you must – stop that!” he said as Randolph produced a yard-long pointer from his coat and started poking the captain.
        “Ey, at'sa funny. He thinks this is a polka number.”
        “Not that I care, but what county is he from, Benelli?”
        “He's a Key Deer.”
        “What key?”
        “C.”
        “A Deer Key in C?”
        “Yep.”
        “Well, throw him a life ring and drag him out.  You know, Benelli, you’re making things hard on yourself.  We have ways of making you talk, but we'd prefer to make you shut up.”
        Captain Easy interrupted and asked, “Randolph, is that an assumed name?”
        “No, its'a English, I t'ink.”
        Rollin stood up, folded his paper and started to walk out only to stop as the fennec ordered, “Stop right there!”
        The Afghan turned.  “Yes, ah, Captain?”
        “Your name?”
        “Rollin Pawe.  I’m registered here at the hotel as a performer.”
        “He’s supposed to be a magician,” Julius remarked, “but I think he’s a fraud.”
        “Why is that?”
        “The audience hasn’t disappeared yet.”
        Rollin chuckled.  “Thanks for the compliment.”
        Randolph pronked over to him and produced a bottle of ketchup from his coat, which he offered to Rollin.
        The Afghan shook his head.  “COMPLIMENT,” he said, enunciating each syllable carefully.  Randolph looked disappointed, then grinned crazily and sprinted in the direction of the pool.  His honking startled a covey of chorus girls who were doing their bathing beauty impressions by the pool.  The covey broke cover and dashed about in all directions, shrieking and squealing as the diminutive deer pursued them.
        Some of the policefurs joined in the fun, and fairly soon there were people running every which way.
        Julius puffed at his cigar.  “He always reminds me of the dog who chased cars.”
        “Oh?” The canine and the vulpine eyed each other before giving the duck a mutual hard glare.
        “Yeah.  Always wondered what he’d do with one if he ever caught it.”


        Barnie Collie walked into City Hall and asked the receptionist, “Where is the Planning Office, please?”
        The bovine in the cheap chintz dress popped her gum and said, “Are you sure you wanna go there?”
        “Yes.”
        “Really sure?”
        Barnie smiled.  “Yes, I’m quite sure.  I need to look over some records – “
        “Okay.”  The receptionist sounded doubtful.  “You want to leave your next of kin with me, just in case?”
        “What?  No, I just want to step in there and look at some papers.”
        “Your funeral.  Down the hall to your right, take the second hall to the left, fourth door on the right.”
        The canine shook his head as he walked away.  “Almost like she didn’t want anyone going there,” he muttered.
        The sign on the door said Planning Office; it actually opened onto a stairwell that led into the basement.  Once there another door with the same sign sat near the boiler room and a janitor’s closet.  A smaller sign scrawled on paper and affixed to the frosted window with tape read ‘Beware of the Leopard.’  Barnie shook his head again and walked in.
        The room was fairly large, but stuffed with books, folders, file portfolios and loose paper that stood piled up to the ceiling.  Towers of documents teetered precariously, apparently awaiting only a breath to topple over completely.  Narrow paths and at least one tunnel pierced the mess, which seemed to be buttressed by a collection of automobile parts, bits and pieces of scrap lumber, and at least one saxophone.
        “Hello?  Anyone in here?” Barnie called out.
        There was a rustling noise and a smaller pile of papers collapsed.  A short elderly rooster shook himself free of the mess, slicked his feathers back (revealing he had a bald spot on top of his head) and said in a quavering voice, “Yes.  Yes, there is someone in here.”
        “Good.  I need – “
        “Is there someone in here?  There’s no one here but us chickens.”  The rooster looked about owlishly.  “Ginnie?  Ginnie?”
        “Charley?  Is that you, buddy?”  A hen poked her head out from behind another pile of paperwork.  “Haven’t you gone upstairs yet?”
        “No, I haven’t gone upstairs yet, Gin.  There’s someone in here.”
        “There’s someone in here?  We’ll have to have the diggers come back and shovel him out.”
        “No,” Barnie cut in.  “I’m right here.”
        The hen gave a breathy shriek and toppled over into a paper-drift, and the rooster produced a pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses.  He put them on and gave a start.  “Oh!  Hello, young man.  What can I do for you?”
        “I need to look at the plans for the Hotel de Cocoanut, and I’d also like to – “
        A tall pile of papers suddenly succumbed to gravity and crashed to the floor, raising a cloud of dust and feathers.  “Ohhh, Charley!  Oh, I have been struck down!” Ginnie keened.
        “You’ll have to dig yourself out again, Ginnie,” Charley said.  “I’m with a customer.”  To Barnie he said, “What can I do for you, young man?”
        Barnie’s tail twitched as he repeated his request.  “Ohhh, ooh, ahh,” Charley said, and he clambered into a pile of documents.  
        For several minutes there was no sound except for rustling noises and occasional exclamations and clucking noises from the elderly couple.  Finally the canine was presented with an armload of papers, two plat books, a portfolio of architect’s blueprints, and a picture catalog of wildlife of the Serengeti.
        “Do I have to read these here?” Barnie asked.
        “You can read them on the Moon for all we care,” Charley quavered.
        “We’ve plenty more where that came from, buddy,” Ginnie added.
        “You know, you could get some shelves in here.  It would help you out a lot.”
        “Ahhh,” Charley said.  “We’ve asked, but the City said no.  Y’know why?”
        “Why?”
        “They said you can’t get the wood, you know.”
        Barnie decided to read the documents over in the Janitor’s closet.  It was better-lit, and he could always shove the papers back into the Planning Office when he was through.  
        Using the description of the pneumatique Willow had given him, he had a bearing on which to trace a possible route.  To move something as large as a paint can-sized object a large compressor was needed at both ends, and only the barest minimum of curves could be allowed.  He had used a slide rule and determined that a maximum distance for the pneumatique would be about ten miles.
        Sewer lines ran perpendicular to the line, so he discarded that as a possibility.  The addition to the hotel’s laundry didn’t show up on the blueprints did not surprise him, and he almost set aside the blueprints when something caught his eye.
        There were a few notes, in an untidy scrawl:  “Utilities.  Biscayne.  Return.”
        He set the blueprints aside and drew a map to him.  Ten miles dead south put the other end of the tube at the northern end of Biscayne Bay, north of Black Point.
        Perhaps, Barnie thought, a little drive down the coast would be a good idea.


        I got Barnie’s report that afternoon after I got up from my nap.  Actually, I got two noteworthy items.
        Barnie’s jaunt in the countryside had turned up a small shack of a place that had a lot more power lines and activity around it than it really warranted.  It made sense that boats from Cuba or points south would drop off the merchandise there, and compressed air would take it the rest of the way.
        I asked Barnie to see if there were ways to sabotage the system, and he said he’d look into it.
        The other noteworthy item was an invitation from Mike, asking to take me out to dinner that night after the show.  I know he’d already asked me to my muzzle once, but I admired his persistence.
        As I was getting dressed I heard a ruckus starting up, and looked out in time to see my erstwhile beau being wrestled to the ground by two cops.
        “What on earth is going on here?” I demanded to know.
        “We found the necklace!” one of the policefurs exulted.
        “Oof!  Janet – please – tell ‘em it wasn’t me!” Mike pleaded.
        I was a bit of two minds about this.
        One, having Mike the Diver out of the way while we finished our mission was certainly appealing.  On the other paw, we wanted to drive a wedge between him and Papa Andreas, something that couldn’t happen if he was in stir.
        “Where was it found?” I asked.
        “In his pocket,” came the reply.
        “When was it stolen?”
        “This morning, according to Papa,” Mike gasped as a burly officer, a bear, sat on him.
        “I’m sure he didn’t take it,” I said.
        “Oh, really Miss?  And what makes you think that?”
        I smiled sweetly at the officer.  “He was asking me out to dinner this morning.”  
        The minions of the Law looked disappointed at this, but the bear sitting on Mike’s back said, “We’ll have to wait for Captain Easy, Miss.”
        That worthy, a big-eared fox, came stamping up.  “Sergeant Arbuckle!  Get off him!  Corporal O’Tubbs, report!”
        O’Tubbs, a slim black bear, said, “We found the pearls in this guy’s pocket, Cap.  The lady here says he was askin’ her out to dinner at the time.”
        “Hmm.”  The captain looked me over.  “How do you know him, Miss?”
        “He’s a guy who caught our act a couple nights ago, and we had drinks last night,” I replied.
        “I see.  Lothario, eh?”
        “Nothing like that,” I said hastily.  “I’m a good girl, I am.”
        “No one’s doubting that, young lady,” the fennec said as Mike was helped to his feet.  “While we were investigating, a few other things have turned up missing.  We’re looking for a short cervine fellow, named Randolph.”
        “So, you think Randolph took the jewelry, and planted it on Mike?” I ventured.
        “It’s a possibility, and you vouch for him, so this man’s got an alibi.”  Easy gestured to the officers to take the pawcuffs off, and they looked very disappointed as they complied.
        Mike straightened himself out and asked the cops, “Are you all through pestering me?”
        “For now,” Easy assured him, and the trio of cops moved off.
        Mike came up to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  “Thanks, Janet.  I owe you one.  Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
        I smiled and gave him a hug.  “Sure thing, Mike.”
        I watched him head back to Papa’s room as I slipped back into mine.  There was a bottle of wine in the room, and I took a short glass of it to steady my nerves before getting cleaned up.


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