The World Shuffler (9 page)

“You have more confidence in my powers of contemplation than I do,” Lafayette said. “Anyway, my case is different. I’m innocent, just an inoffensive tourist; all I want is a chance to explain matters to his Grace the duke, after which I’ll put in a good word for you, and—”

“Tch. You’re wasting your wind, fella. You goofed when you didn’t ditch your mad-monk suit before you pulled the caper. Half the ducal guard’s been combing the town for a week to apprehend that blackguard, which he’s pulled ten jobs right under their noses. And you musta been consumed wit’ unholy lusts or something to jump her ladyship’s carriage right in front of the gate, not that I blame you. She’s a looker, all right, all right.”

“Is that, er, all they have on me?”

“Jeez, kid, ain’t that enough? The duke hisself’s got a eye on her Ladyship. He don’t take kindly to mugs which they make a pass at her.”

“I mean, there isn’t any old charge left over from yesterday or anything silly like that? Anything they’d want to, say, cut my head off at dawn for?”

“A beheading rap? Naw, this is nothing like that, just the standard workout wit’ the irons and then a nice clean garroting. There was a axing slated for dawn, but I heard the guy turned out to be a wizard: he turned into a bat and flew up the chimbley.”

“How clever of him. I wish I knew his secret.”

Lafayette squeezed his yes shut.

“I’m back in Artesia, out in the desert,” he whispered urgently. “It’s a nice night, and the stars are shining, and all I have to do is walk about twenty miles through loose sand and I’ll be back at the palace and—”

“Hey, nix on the spells,” the executioner broke in reproachfully. “You got enough on your plate wit’out a necromancy charge.”

“It’s no use, anyway,” O’Leary groaned. “I thought I had it back, but I guess I was just kidding myself. I’m stuck here—unless I can talk to the duke,” he finished on a note of desperation. “Won’t you at least try? If I’m telling the truth, it could mean a nice promotion for you.”

“I don’t need no promotion, chum. I’m already at the top o’ my profession; I’m happy wit’ my work.”

“You
en joy
being a torturer?”

“That ain’t a term us P.P.S.’s like, mister,” the man said in a hurt tone. “What we are, we’re Physical-Persuasion Specialists. You don’t want to get us mixed up wit’ these unlicensed quacks, which they’re lousing up the good name of the profession.”

“You mean it takes special training to raise a blister with a hot iron?”

“There’s more to it than that. You take like the present assignment: I got strict instructions to keep you in what we call an undergraduate status until her Ladyship gets back. And since she figures to be gone a couple weeks, you can see I got a delicate fortnight ahead. Not any slob could do it.”

“Say, I have a suggestion,” Lafayette offered brightly. “Why not just kind of forget I’m here until maybe just before the deadline? Then you can paint on a few stripes with Mercurochrome and fake up some wax welts, and—”

“Hold it right there,” the P.P.S. cut in sternly. “I’m gonna pretend like I never heard that. Why, if I pulled a stunt like that, I’d be drummed outa the guild.”

“Tell you what,” O’Leary said. “If you promise not to tell, I won’t either.”

“Cheese—it’s a temptation—but no.” The P.P.S. poked at the coals, rotating the iron he was holding to ensure an even cherry-red heat. “I got tradition to think of. The honor of the calling, all that stuff. I mean, it’s thoughtful of you, bub, but I couldn’t do it.” He lifted the glowing poker and studied the color critically, licked a finger and touched it lightly, eliciting a sharp hiss.

“O.K., I guess we’re ready. If you don’t mind just stripping to the waist, we can get started.”

“Oh, no hurry,” Lafayette protested, retreating to the back wall of the cell, his hands searching frantically over the rough masonry. Just one
loose stone,
he pleaded silently. One little
old
secret tunnel ...

“Candidly, I’m already behind,” the P.P.S. said. “What say we warm up on a little light epidermal work, and then move into the pressure centers before we break for midnight snack? Hey, I forgot to ask: you want a box lunch? A buck-fifty, but I hear they got chicken salad tonight and a jelly roll.”

“No thanks, I’m on a food-free diet for the duration. Did I mention I’m under a physician’s care? No sudden shocks, particularly electrical ones, and—”

“If it was me, I’d throw the chow in free, you know, American plan. But—”

“What do you know about America?” Lafayette blurted.

“Everybody knows Luigi America, the big noodle and egg man. Too bad the duke’s too tight to go along wit’ the meal-ticket scheme—”

“I heard that, Groanwelt,” a resonant baritone voice rang out. A tall, well-muscled but slightly paunchy man with smooth gray hair and rimless glasses had stepped through a door in the far wall. He wore tight-fitting yellow trousers, red-leather shoes with curled-up toes, a ruffled shirt, a short cloak trimmed with ermine. Jewels sparkled on his fingers. Lafayette looked at him, speechless.

“Oh, hi, your Grace,” the torturer said casually. “Well, you know I never say anything behind your back I w’unt say to your face.”

“One day you’ll go too far,” the newcomer snapped. “Leave us now. I’ll have a word with the prisoner.”

“Hey, no fair, your Grace; I just got my number-four iron up to operating temperature!”

“Need I point out that I would find it somewhat difficult to carry on a lucid conversation with your client amidst an odor of roasting callus?”

“Yeah—I guess you got a point.” Groanwelt shoved the iron back into the coals and cast a regretful look at O’Leary. “Sorry, chum. But you see how it is.”

The gray-haired man was studying O’Leary with narrowed eyes. As soon as the door had closed behind the P.P.S., he stepped close to the bars.

“So it is you,” he said and broke off, frowning. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded sharply. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“N-N-Nicodaeus?” O’Leary whispered.

“If that’s supposed to be some kind of password, I don’t recognize it,” Duke Rodolpho barked.

“You’re ... not Nicodaeus? You aren’t a sub-inspector of continua? You can’t make a fast phone call and have me whisked back to Artesia?”

The duke glared at O’Leary.

“Enough of these obfuscations, Lancelot. First you burst into my audience chamber spouting nonsense; then you escape from my maximum-security dungeon under the very eyes of my alert guard staff. Next, you openly appear in a waterfront dive, fairly begging to be brought in again—whereupon you once more fly the coop—only to invite arrest a third time by accosting a certain great lady in full view of her guard. Very well, I may be a bit obtuse, but I think I get the message: you have something to sell.”

“Oh?” Lafayette squealed. “That is, oh. So you finally caught on.”

“And?” Rodolpho glared.

“And, uh ... what?” O’Leary inquired brightly. The duke frowned.

“So you intend to keep me on tenterhooks, do you? Well, it won’t wash, fellow! Disappear again, go ahead, amuse yourself! But don’t expect me to come crawling to you begging for information regarding the Lady Andragorre ...” He finished on a semi-interrogative note, almost a pleading look in his eyes.

“Lady Andragorre?” Lafayette mumbled. “Me, tell you ...?”

“Very well,” the duke sighed. “I can see I’ve handled you wrongly from the beginning, Lancelot. All right, I acknowledge my mistake. But you can hardly blame me, considering the affair of the poached egg and the incident of the bladder of ink! Still, I’m ready to make amends. I’ll even apologize, though it goes against the grain. Now will you consent to sit down with me and discuss this matter in gentlemanly fashion?”

“Well, ah, of course I want to be reasonable,” Lafayette ad-libbed desperately. “But a torture chamber is hardly the proper surroundings for a heart-to-heart.”

The duke grunted. He turned and yelled for Groanwelt.

“See that this nobleman is released, washed, fed, garbed as befits his station, and brought to my apartment in half an hour,” he commanded. He gave O’Leary a sharp look. “No disappearing until then, Lancelot,” he said gruffly, and stalked from the room.

“Well, that’s the breaks,” Groanwelt said philosophically as he unlocked the door. “Looks like we don’t get together on a professional basis tonight after all. But it was swell meeting you anyway, kid. Maybe some other time.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Lafayette aid. “Say, Groanwelt, what do you know about this, er, Lady Andragorre?”

“Nothing special. Just that she’s the richest, most beautiful dame in Melange, is all, which the duke is carrying a torch the size of the Chicago fire for her.”

“You know about the Chicago fire?”

“Sure. A beer joint. Burned down last week. Why?”

“Never mind. You were saying?”

“Too bad fer his Grace, he’ll never get to first base wit’ her Ladyship.”

“Why not?”

Groanwelt leered and lowered his voice. “On account of there’s another guy, natch. It’s the talk of the locker rooms.”

“Another guy?” Lafayette felt his heart lurch violently under his sternum.

Groanwelt dug an elbow into Lafayette’s ribs. “Duke Rodolpho don’t know it, but he’s playing second fiddle to a rogue name of Lorenzo the Lanky—or is it Lancelot the Lucky?”

“Lorenzo the Lanky?” Lafayette croaked as Groanwelt struck off his gyves.

“As a matter of fact,” the P.P.S. said in the tone of one who imparts a confidence, “right now milady is officially on her way to visit her old-maid aunt and twelve cats. But between you and me, the word is she’s headed for a hunting lodge in the Chantspels for a trial honeymoon wit’ the lucky geezer.”

“T-trial honeymoon?”

“Yep. Now, let’s go turn you over to the chamberlain, which he’ll doll you up in shape for yer audience wit’ his Grace.”

Duke Rodolpho was sitting in a big soft-leather wing chair when Lafayette was shown in, clean and fragrant and dressed in a fresh outfit of spangled silk which almost fit.

“Sit down, Lancelot,” the duke ordered with an air of forced cordiality. “Drink? Cigar?” He waved a hand, which took in a deep easy chair, a low table with a decanter and glasses, and a humidor.

“Thanks.” Lafayette flopped gratefully, then yawned earcrackingly. “Sorry. I’m up past my bedtime. By the way, my name’s Lafayette.”

“You dined adequately?”

“As adequately as you can while six handmaidens are scrubbing your back, putting Band-Aids on your hurties, and massaging your bruises. Not that I didn’t appreciate the attention.”

“Excellent. Now let’s not beat around the cactus bed, Lancelot. Just what is your, ah, connection with the Lady Andragorre?” The duke nipped at a hangnail, eyeing Lafayette sharply.

“My connection with the Lady Andragorre,” Lafayette temporized. “Well, ah, as to that—the fact is, I’m her husband.”

The duke’s face went rigid. “Her husband?” His voice cracked like a snapped neck.

“Her estranged husband,” O’Leary amended hurriedly. “As a matter of fact, we’re practically strangers.”

“I had never heard that milady had been married,” Rodolpho said in a dangerous tone. He reached to pour himself a stiff jolt of brandy, tossed it back in a gulp. “Much less divorced.”

“She’s a charming girl,” Lafayette hurried on. “Full of fun, lighthearted—”

“You may skip over the intimate revelations,” Rodolpho snapped. He chewed his lip. “Perhaps this explains Captain Ritzpaugh’s report that you attempted to speak to her in the street and were repulsed with a riding crop.”

“He’s a”—Lafayette started—”a very perceptive fellow,” he finished.

“One wonders what offense you committed to earn such detestation from so high-bred a lady.”

“Well, I think It all started with crackers in bed,” O’Leary began, then noted the black frown spreading over the ducal features. “Crackers is her cat,” he improvised hastily. “She insisted on sleeping with her. And since I’m allergic to cats—well, you can see it wasn’t much of a marriage.”

“You mean—you never—you didn’t—”

“Right.” Lafayette used his lace cuff to wipe the dew from his brow and poured out a revivifying draft for himself.

“That’s well for you, Lancelot,” Rodolpho said in steely tones. “Otherwise I’d be forced to order your instant execution.”

“Lafayette. And let’s not start that again,” O’Leary said, shuddering with the strong spirits. “You had me dusted off and brought up here for a reason. Let’s get on with it.”

The duke started to drum his fingers on the table, halted them abruptly. “I have conceived an infatuation for the lady,” he said brusquely. “Accordingly, I invited her to spend a weekend with me at my winter palace. Instead of accepting the honor with alacrity, she pleaded a previous appointment with an aged relative.”

“And?”

“Perhaps I’m overly sensitive, but I imagined just the faintest hint of coolness in her manner.” The duke poured himself another peg.

“Maybe you’re not her type,” Lafayette suggested, following suit.

“Not her type? What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re old enough to be her father,” O’Leary pointed out.

“That’s unimportant!”

“Maybe not to her. Also, if you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t have what I’d call exactly a jolly manner about you. Daph—I mean the Lady Andragorre’s a fun-loving kid—”

“A jolly manner? How can I be jolly, burdened as I am with affairs of state, indigestion, insomnia, and an unfavorable balance of payments?” The duke grabbed the bottle and poured, belatedly filled Lafayette’s glass as he held it out.

“That’s just it, your Grace. All work and no play makes Rodolpho a dull fellow.”

“All work and no—by gad, sir, well put!” They clicked glasses and swallowed. The duke licked his lips thoughtfully. “I see it now. What an idiot I’ve been! Why didn’t I just go to her openly, suggest a gay afternoon of mummy-viewing at the local museum, or possibly a wild, abandoned evening of canasta? But no: all I ever offered her was state dinners and tickets to the visitors’ box at the weekly meetings of the Fiduciary Council.”

“That’s the idea, Rodolpho.” Lafayette poured this time. “You might even go all out and propose a walk in the park, or a swim at the beach, or even a picnic on the lawn. There’s nothing like a few ants in the potato salad to break down the barriers. Skål.”