Chapter Fourteen

And I say by God, it isn’t fair!”

“Mr. McPherson!” Pilkington frowned disapprovingly and wagged his finger. “I won’t have you or anyone else around me taking the Lord’s name in vain!”

The Great Detective and his boss were sitting in Pilkington’s Union Square office with the windows raised to let in the fine spring weather; a fitful breeze had set the curtains to undulating gently and pigeons could be heard cooing in the eaves.

Across the Square, the building which had once been the headquarters of Tiffany’s was now (Tiffany’s having bowed to force majeure) the New York headquarters of the Department of Public Safety, on the roof of which a giant billboard had been erected displaying the motto “Per Aspera ad Securitas” in golden letters twenty feet tall. Towering above the motto, and picked out day and night with colossal carbon-arc searchlights, was a stark, black-and-white representation of the All-Seeing Eye—a staring eye surrounded by rays of light and enclosed by a triangle.

McPherson, whose broad pink face shone with perspiration from a combination of his dark, heavy suit, three large whiskeys and a good solid head of injured feelings, tried to look contrite without much success.

“But you as much as promised me, sir! You said as soon as Bill Henkel was gone I was the obvious choice to take over the Chicago office, and Bill turned up his toes two weeks ago!”

Pilkington laced his fingers across his ample stomach and beamed reassuringly at McPherson, his twinkling eyes, his rosy cheeks and his fluffy white hair and whiskers combining to make him the perfect archetype of Dear Old Granddad.

“There, now, my boy,” he murmured comfortingly, “you know perfectly well I’ll see you right in the end. But just at the moment everybody in the firm is going to have to make some short-term sacrifices and accept a few temporary inconveniences in order for us to meet the challenges ahead of us.”

McPherson ground his teeth. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It would help a lot if I had any idea what you’re talking about. The last I heard from you, you were telling me how vital it was for me to keep a steady hand on the helm down there in Pottsville. Then all of a sudden I get urgent orders to report to Union Square. I was sure it was going to be about Chicago, but instead you’re telling me about sacrifices and challenges and I’m damned …” he bared his teeth and scrunched up his face as he fought to control his tongue, then grated out: “… switched if know what’s going on.”

Pilkington looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then nodded: “Very well, Agent McPherson, I think it’s time for me to take you into my confidence.”

He gestured out the window towards the DPS building. “Why do you think Tiffany’s has moved and the DPS has suddenly filled every office in that building with researchers and Secret Service operatives? It’s the threat of war, McPherson. War with Little Russia, and according to Secretary Stanton it’s a threat we may not be able to avert. From now on you and I and every other man and woman in the Agency will be devoting ourselves day and night to warding off this nightmare, but if we fail we’ll be at war before the summer’s over.”

McPherson turned pale and sat back in his chair. “War? Why? … How …”

Pilkington held up a hand to stop him. “There will be changes you can’t possibly imagine and about which you don’t yet need to know. But New York is going to be a hive of activity, the fons et origo of a new and vastly more powerful United States, and as always when it comes to security, Secretary Stanton’s will be the directing hand.” He paused ruminatively, his face clouding a bit as he stared up at the ceiling. After a moment he shook the mood off and continued briskly:

“I must admit that just like you I spent some time dreaming of a great preferment while Secretary Stanton searched for a man to run his Secret Service; after all, hadn’t I worked hand in glove with him throughout the War? But as he told me himself when his final choice fell upon Willie: youth must be served and age must stand by to lend support with its greater wisdom.” He bent forward in his chair, fixing his guileless blue eyes on McPherson:

“And needless to say, Secretary Stanton will be relying on the Pilkington International Detective Agency for confidential services no one else can be entrusted with, so if you fulfill your assignments to the utmost of your ability, there will be no limit to your future. Do you take my meaning, Agent McPherson?”

For a moment McPherson looked a little dazed, his mind racing through the possibilities the Old Man had opened up. Then he smiled slowly and nodded his agreement:

“You can count on me, Mr. P., you know that. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Good. And please note that this assignment is strictly confidential, no one else is to know.” His eyes bored into the Great Detective’s until he seemed satisfied that his message had gotten through. Then he continued, with heavy emphasis on every word: “Your primary task until I tell you otherwise will be stick to Lukas like glue and make sure I am informed at all times of his movements and, if possible, his plans. Secretary Tesla has come up with a clever adaptation of his voicewire machine that will let us listen day and night to what transpires inside Lukas’ house. The device is much smaller than a voice-wire box, but it will require clever work on your part to conceal it and put it in action. It’s up to you to figure out how to get Lukas and his servants out of the way for the hour or so it will take you to accomplish that.”

“I don’t get it, Mr. P. I know Lukas is some kind of anarchist and the brains behind the dynamite plot in Pottsville, but for us to invest this much effort in keeping an eye on him?”

Pilkington got up abruptly and walked to the bank of windows, staring towards the DPS building. He peered towards it for a few moments as if he were hoping to see right through it, then he shook his head exasperatedly and turned back towards McPherson.

“Believe it or not, Lukas is working for Secretary Stanton.”

“What?”

Looking thoroughly disgruntled, Pilkington returned to his desk and dropped into his chair to a protesting creak of springs.

“It’s a policy I’ve never totally approved of, nor do I believe that I’ve been told all that I should know about it. But Secretary Stanton has told me enough to let me say with assurance that Lukas’ talents will make him inestimably valuable to the future of our republic. At the same time, however, I can’t help saying that he is one of the most false and duplicitous individuals I have ever met, a crook to the very marrow of his bones, and I mean to know as far as is humanly possible just what he’s up to at all times. Can you carry out this assignment for me in total secrecy?”

McPherson sat up straighter: “You can count on me, Mr. P. Through thick and thin.”

Pilkington relaxed enough to produce his grandfatherly smile: “I am delighted to hear it, my boy. Now, before I let you go, do you have any other questions?”

“Just one, sir. I’d like to ask why you’ve brought McCool back to HQ? If you want to talk about false and duplicitous, that sneaky little blatherskite is the …”

But Pilkington was shaking his head firmly. “Believe me, McPherson, I regard him with the utmost possible wariness. But Secretary Stanton has entrusted me with a task that can only be pulled off by an experienced undercover who’s completely at ease in the Russian language and I’ve got a handle on McCool that makes me willing to take a chance on him …”

He spread his arms in a gesture of resignation and McPherson nodded unhappily and stood up. “Just let me say, sir, that anytime you decide you want to see young Liam brought to heel I’m just the man for you. In fact, I would pay for the privilege!”

Pilkington smiled slowly, thinking that over. “I’ll remember, Agent McPherson. And now if you’ll …”

He was interrupted by the sound of a commotion in the outer office—the clatter of furniture punctuated by the shrill voice of Pilkington’s secretary:

“You can’t go in there until I check with Mr. Pilkington! Are you crazy? Do you want me to call a guard?”

Pilkington reached under his desk and pressed a button; instantly a section of bookcase behind his desk slid open to reveal a stairway. Pilkington gestured towards it:

“That will take you out in the direction of 16^th Street. From now on I want you to report to me twice a day by voice-wire; if I’m not here leave a message with my secretary.”

McPherson looked doubtfully towards the outer office and the continuing commotion: “Are you sure you don’t want me to …”

“I can take care of myself, Agent McPherson.” He smiled slightly as he took a Frontier Colt out of a holster under his desk and laid it on the desktop. “Now get out there and get busy.”

“Yes, sir.”

McPherson hastened into the secret passage and Pilkington pressed the button to close it, but before it fully closed the door to the outer office burst open and Liam strode in, his face flushed with anger. Half-turning for a moment to register the movement of the bookcase, he turned back and strode forward again as the secretary stepped into the open doorway behind him, her hands fluttering as if she were trying desperately to take wing:

“I’m so sorry Mr. Pilkington, he simply wouldn’t be …”

“It’s all right, Annie, I’ll see Mr. McCool.”

She pursed her lips disapprovingly and backed out, shutting the door after her. The minute the lock clicked, Liam leapt forward and leaned across the desk so that his face was no more than six inches away from Pilkington’s as he bit out the words:

“You slimy, double-dealing old son of a bitch, where … is … my … grandmother?”

Pilkington pulled back in his chair but his voice was calm as he answered: “Now, now, Mr. McCool, we have many things to talk about, and your attitude isn’t going to help us at all.”

Liam’s voice went up a notch: “We only have one thing to discuss, and that’s your promise to free my grandmother from surveillance the moment my job in Pottsville was done. She’d best be free and unharmed right now or I will make you the sorriest old man in these United States!”

In spite of himself, Pilkington’s eyes dropped towards the six-shooter on the desk in front of him, but with the speed of a striking snake Liam snatched it up and jammed it into his belt.

“Oh, no you don’t.” he grated. “I want your answer now.”

Pilkington’s answer was to reach under the desk and press another button, ringing a bell that could be heard clanging loudly somewhere behind the bookcases, which abruptly swung wide on the other side of Pilkington’s desk as two burly agents carrying drawn pistols rushed into the room towards Liam.

“Hold it right there …!” was all that one of them succeeded in saying before Liam spun around on one foot, kicking the pistol out of his hand as the movement carried his foot through an arc that ended with his heel slamming against the other agent’s chin hard enough to knock him cold.

As the second agent crumpled to the ground, the first—badly frightened—took up a bareknuckle boxing stance and sent a badly aimed punch at Liam, who knocked it aside with an exasperated frown.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, reaching out and jamming a knuckle into the side of the man’s neck. The first agent’s eyes rolled up into his head so that only the whites showed and he folded to the ground with a thud.

Without missing a beat, Liam whipped the six-shooter out of his belt, leaned back across the astounded old man’s desk and jammed the muzzle into his forehead hard enough to thunk!audibly against his skull and rock him back in his chair.

“Now,” said Liam. “Talk! Let’s start with you sending your bullyboys after me down in Five Points.”

Pilkington looked genuinely taken aback. “I didn’t send anybody after you, why should I? I expected you to come here under your own steam.”

Liam cocked the hammer with an ominous click-clack! For the first time, Pilkington’s eyes flickered with a hint of fear. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he said.

Liam didn’t bother answering. After a moment Pilkington let out a ragged breath.

“All right, Mr. McCool. You have the upper hand. But I have your grandmother, so you’d best sit down and listen to what I have to say.”

For a moment, Liam seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of blowing off the old man’s head just for the hell of it, and Pilkington’s face turned a dirty pinkish-gray. Then Liam grunted, let the hammer back down and took the muzzle away from Pilkington’s forehead. He stood in front of the desk with his arms folded, the pistol still firmly gripped in his fist.

“Speak,” he said.

Pilkington took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face a little tremulously.

“Your grandmother is quite safe,” he said with a touch of acid. “For the moment.”

“What the Devil do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” Pilkington continued with a touch of asperity, “that Agent McPherson’s reports from Pottsville had already made it clear to me that you are what nautical men call a ‘loose cannon’ and that I must exercise the most finical care in dealing with you. When I heard from Agent McPherson that you had gone so far as to threaten his life during your final meeting with him, I thought I had better take some precautions.”

Liam shook his head incredulously. “I may be a thief, but my word is as good as gold. What is your word worth, you scabrous old dog-puke?”

Pilkington’s expression hardened: “I haven’t time for such fripperies. The security of the United States of America is in my hands and the hands of a few other knowledgeable and dedicated men, and promises have no meaning whatever as long as we are facing the threat of an internecine war with Little Russia. As to your grandmother, suffice it to say she is in a safe place and in the most perfect health—though I am told she is no more amenable to the dictates of prudence and common decency than is her grandson.”

“When do you mean to set her free?” Liam’s voice was menacing, and Pilkington’s eyes narrowed warily.

“I have a mission for you that is of absolutely crucial importance. Believe me when I say I wouldn’t dream of sending you forth on it without some guarantee of your good behavior, and your grandmother’s remaining in our care for the time being should do very nicely for that purpose. If you fulfill your assigned duties as well as you did at Little Round Top you may have your private life back again when it’s all over.”

Liam was having a hard time resisting the urge to kill Pilkington and have done with it. He spoke in an unsteady, harsh tone that made Pilkington look longingly towards the buttons under his desk:

“Tell me about this mission of yours and don’t waste words. And stay away from your alarm switches.”

Pilkington licked his lips and dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. “We need a seasoned undercover who speaks Russian to go to Little Petersburg and find out what happened to one of our agents in the Little Russian Ministry of War, it’s as simple as that.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. What are you leaving out?”

“His name was Lt. Col. Vasilii Chuikov—he had prepared a report on Little Russia’s war plans and he was supposed to use the excuse of a fishing trip on Lake Superior—what they call Lake Petersburg now—to escape and take the report to our HQ in Chicago. We’ve heard rumors of improvements in the Little Russian Aerial Navy that could be disastrous for us if they’re true …” he hesitated and his eyes shifted away towards one side. “In any event, we’ve had no word from Chuikov and we must have the information.”

“Spit it out, Pilkington,” Liam said furiously, “what don’t you want to tell me about?”

Pilkington glared at Liam. “Very well. But you reveal this to another soul at the peril of your grandmother’s life. We’ve also heard rumors of the discovery of vast pitchblende deposits in the southwestern territories of Little Russia, in the mountains where the Apache Indian people live. Chuikov was supposed to find out if the rumors were true and confirm the location. I doubt you know it, but pitchblende is the ore from which …”

But Liam was already making connections: “… calorium is extracted. I’m willing to bet you’ve got your hands on someone who knows the secret of refining calorium and that this whole dirty scheme is about seizing Little Russia’s pitchblende and using it to beat out the British industrialists.”

Pilkington’s lips quirked as if he had just bitten into a very sour lemon. He stared at Liam for several long, sullen moments. Finally, he shrugged.

“I insist that you sit down while I give you your instructions, I’m tired of straining my neck. And listen to me very carefully. Just remember …” he leaned forward and gave Liam a nasty smile … “if you don’t get hold of this information and bring it back to me in this office no later than July 3^rd, you will never see your dear old grandmother again.”