Solomon's Stone

Chapter VII.

When Prosper Nash's consciousness got its head above water, he was first surprised at being alive at all, and next curious as to what plane he was on.

When he pried sticky eyelids apart he saw that he was in the same old cell. And his neck was one vast ache.

"De Nêche?" said a voice over the hum in his ears.

"Here," answered another voice, not his. He tried to lift his head to see over the edge of his upper berth, but could not move his neck. He finally raised a hand and pushed his head a few inches to where he could see, just as a key clicked in the cell door lock.

A man was standing inside the door with his back to Nash, and in the light from the small barred window it was to be seen that he wore Nash's black velvet suit and floppy boots.

For one wild second Nash wondered if the other really were he, or if his psyche had changed bodies— But the hairy wrists that protruded from the sleeves were not his; they were those of the pirate. At that instant the door squeaked open and the pirate stepped out.

Nash tried to call out, but could not even whisper. Desperately he tumbled over the edge of the bunk; hit the floor painfully, and staggered to the door which had just closed.

He banged the bars. The keeper looked at him calmly, then away. He capered and pounded and forced a faint wheezy squeak out of his tortured larynx. He was aware by this time that he wore the pirate's clothes. The pirate gave him a brief uninterested glance, and Nash was startled to see that, in his garments, the pirate really looked quite a lot like him.

"Hey, George!" called the receding warden."See what's wrong with Roaring Stede."

As the other guard's steps approached, Nash performed a frantic gesture of which he would not have thought himself capable: bit his wrist until blood oozed, and wrote with his finger on the floor: "I AM NECHE."

The other guard frowned at this, then at Nash, then vanished. Nash heard words, then the pirate's bellow: "Don't you think I know whether I'm me?"

"Better check up on it." presently Nash found himself lined up beside the corsair.

The first guard shook his head."They do look kind of alike, but that one"—pointing to Nash—"is Stede Morgan Retke. I'd know him anywhere."

Nash went through more antics, pointing to his swollen throat. He managed to whisper: "Water!"

The guards were annoyed by this time, and fetched water in a manner that boded no good for the man who was proved a liar. After a swallow Nash could manage a faint croak: "Get Miss Berry!"

In ten minutes Eleanor Thompson Berry appeared. She immediately pointed out Stede Morgan Retke as the true de Nêche.

The pirate began to move off with a slight smug smile.

"Hat!" croaked Nash.

He had to repeat it. After another delay his wide-brimmed hat was brought. He clapped it on.

"Oh!" cried Eleanor Thompson Berry."He's the one! I could have sworn... stop that man!"

Doors clanged and keepers pounced on the fleeing pirate, who, after knocking a couple cold for the hell of it, surrendered tamely. As he passed Nash on his way back to the cell, he grinned: "Next time, Frenchy, I'll twist your obscenity head clear off to make sure you're dead!"

"Such language in front of a lady visitor!" shouted an outraged guard."Get along, scum, or we'll... we'll—"

"Hang me? I thought you were going to do that anyway!" Roaring Stede made a vulgar noise with his mouth and retired into his cell.

"I'm so sorry, Chevalier!" cried Miss Berry."I don't know how I could have made such a stupid mistake!"

"It's nothing, ma'm'selle."

"I owe you a lot—they greeted me like a long-lost sister. Look, Chevalier, why don't you join us? We need every able-bodied man we can get to put down the Aryans."

"Well—my draft board turned me down on account of—" Nash was about to say "my eyes" when he remembered what plane he inhabited.

"Yes?" said Eleanor Thompson Berry.

"Nothing, ma'm'selle. I was just thinking that I have an important job of my own to tend to first."

"But, Chevalier, nothing is more important than—"

"Excuse me, Miss Berry," interrupted a guard, "but he's got to change into his own clothes. If you don't mind—"

Judge O'Hara had a gray beard parted in the middle and brushed out sideways, and a pince-nez attached to his lapel by a black ribbon. These glasses were apparently carried for Justinian Marshal O'Hara to make gestures with, for he was never known to look through them.

As Nash and his escorts entered the courtroom, Judge O'Hara and a prisoner in exaggerated cowboy costume were eying one another with hostile determination. Nash recognized the lanky form of Arizona Bill Averoff.

The sergeant-at-arms whispered to one of Nash's guards: "The old man got impatient waiting for this guy, and took up this other hearing first."

The judge said: "I've gone over these figures three times, Averoff, and I can see nothing wrong with them. The duty is still twelve dollars and sixty-four cents. The Bar-Z can pay up, or I'll have to hold you for grand jury."

The cowboy replied: "If you think we're gonna pay live duty on dead critters, you... excuse me, your honor, but I have been over our figures thirty times."

"We're not asking for live duty on dead steers. I told you—"

"I know you did. But what's wrong with the way our man figured it?"

"I don't know; I'm not an accountant. You said yourself you couldn't see what was wrong with the Port Authority's calculations, and that's official, so I have to accept it. Now will you—"

"I'll go to jail foist, your honor."

"Very well, then. I'm sorry, Averoff... what's that? What do you want? You're in contempt—"

"Please," wheezed Nash, who had been snapping the fingers of his upraised hand."If it's an accounting matter, maybe I can help you."

"Who are you?"

"Chevalier de Nêche."

"The duelist? You expect me to believe that a man of your reputation can do bookkeeping? And where were you when your case came up half an hour ago?"

"There was an attempted escape, your honor," explained one of Nash's guards.

"Oh, you tried to escape, did you? Just for that—"

"No, no, your honor," expostulated the guard, and gave a brief account.

Nash added: "I really can account, judge. There aren't many who can in this world, are there?"

"Of course not," snapped the judge."Everybody knows that."

"I thought so. Not many people on the other plane imagine themselves as—but I really can."

"Not many people on—what?"

"Nothing, your honor; slip of the tongue. Give me a try."

Grumbling, the judge did. Nash took a look at the huge sheets of confused scribbles that passed for tariff calculations."Whew! May I have some clean paper?"

"The thing is," said Judge O'Hara, "that the Bar-Z Ranch of Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania, loaded twenty-nine steers on the lighter at Communipaw, and three of them died on the way over to New York. Now, Averoff, who is the New York agent for Bar-Z, wants to—"

"I'm jest claiming the credit we're allowed on account of them steers was for the army," interrupted Arizona Bill.

"But you're claiming it on the dead steers—"

"I am not, your honor—"

"Yes, you are!"

"Don't you call me no liar!"

"Don't you shout at me!"

"I ain't shouting!"

"YOU'RE IN CONTEMPT!"

"O. K., AND YOU'RE A RING-TAILED—"

"Just a minute," croaked Nash."You're both wrong. Look here. The Port Authority was trying to collect duty on the dead steers as if they were alive, but not allowing credit on them. While the Bar-Z—" He went through the figures quickly. Judge and prisoner subsided.

"Dog my cats!" said Arizona Bill finally."I don't see how he makes it all so clear."

Judge O'Hara added: "Every time I look at those figures, I feel like a fly in a spider web. I trust we can agree now, Mr. Averoff?"

"Sure, judge. Say, Mr. de Nêche, ain't you the one who pitched in to help my pal Jim Cameron a coupla nights ago? When he got in a fight with Arries? This here catawampus is O. K., judge." Averoff paid his tariff to the court clerk and sauntered out.

The clerk now handed a folder up to the judge, who called the name of de Nêche, and perused the documents in the folder while Nash was taking his seat in front. The judge then listened to the evidence of one of the redcoated police who had made the raid, but with a benign expression that told Nash he had nothing much to fear. As the officer finished, a soldier tiptoed into the courtroom and whispered to the judge, whose expression became foxy.

"Jean-Prospère de Nêche," said O'Hara, "the Private has just sent me word that he needs your services for the defense of our municipality. How say you?"

"Well, your honor, I did have a pretty important job of my own—"

"This is more important, and we need every man. Here I am, hearing all kinds of cases fourteen hours a day because of a shortage of jurists. You shouldn't complain."

"But I'm not a citizen—"

The judge waved an impatient hand."That's taken care of automatically by your oath of allegiance. And you are not a citizen of your former country, either, its king having revoked your citizenship. Now, will you agree to take service under the Private, or shall I order you interned as a stateless alien?"

Nash shrugged and agreed; if they interned him he could not hunt the Shamir any better than if he were a soldier.

The Private was a lean, dark man in a very plain uniform. Nash observed that the musical-comedy colonel who ushered him into the office saluted the sardonic figure behind the desk, and followed the example.

"General de Nêche," said the Private, "I am given to understand that you have had civilian experience as a courier, and are at present seeking employment in that line of work. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Uh... yes, sir. Excuse me, but are you the commander in chief?"

"Naturally, since I'm the only Private in the municipal forces."

"Excuse me again, but just how do the ranks run?"

"Why, generals, being the most numerous, are the lowest. Next come the lieutenant generals and major generals, who are noncommissioned officers. The lowest commissioned rank is that of brigadier general—what are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, sir—I get it now."

"Ump. As I was saying, we are desperately in need of couriers, so many having been killed lately. On the other hand, I learn that you have accounting ability. We have no competent accountants whatever, the last good one in New York having gone south to work for the Oligarchy of Charleston, and our payrolls are in a mess."

"I don't think I'd make a good courier, sir," said Nash."I had a lapse of memory, and I don't know the city any more—"

While he was still finishing his explanation, a soldier rushed in and held a muttered consultation with the Private. Nash caught fragments: "The Lenins... some time this... surround them quickly... Sergeant Berl's brigade—"

When the messenger had left, the Private said: "This is most serious; I was going to assign you to accounting, but a matter has come up that calls for the carrying of a message immediately." He began to write, talking at the same time: "You will take this to Sergeant Berl at once. His brigade headquarters is at Harvard Street and Uranus Avenue—"

"But—Private!" exclaimed Nash."I told you I don't know my way around New York any more— I'll get lost sure!" He suspected Eleanor Berry of having had a hand in this.

"We'll take a chance on that. Don't wait to change into a uniform. There'll be a horse outside. for you. Silence! That's an order!"

Nash unhappily left the commander with the message tucked into one of his gauntlets. On the City Hall steps he almost bumped into a tweedy person with a monocle.

"I say, Chevalier!" cried Reginald Vance Kramer."I've been looking all over for you! Here's my report."

Nash distractedly took the paper and shoved it into his other gauntlet."I'll read it later," he said, starting for the horse that was being held for him.

"Better look it over now, old thing," said the detective.

Nash hesitated, then ripped the envelope open. One glance was enough to make him pore through the whole thing:

I have ascertained that Miss Alicia. Dido Woodson was abducted between 3:15 and 3:20 a. m., the morning of Sunday, November 2nd, by a band of three soulless retainers supporting the sultan Arslan Bey.

Miss Woodson is at present—11:35 p. m., Monday, November 3rd—in the harem of the said Arslan Bey, in his palace at 124 Liberty Street, New York. As far as could be learned. Miss Woodson was and is a most unwilling guest of the sultan. She expressed particular consternation and aversion on being informed that she had been assigned the number 307, and expressed the desire that some stalwart friend would rescue her.

Further reports will follow in due course.

Reginald Vance Kramer.

Nash asked: "What's the significance of that number 307?"

"My word, don't you know? Arslan has accommodations for three hundred sixty-five wives, and he tries to keep his harem at just that number, replacing losses by escape, murder, and other hazards of the harem business as they occur. Miss Woodson is now wife number 307, and today is November 3rd. Figure it out for yourself."

"You mean that today—"

"Exactly, old bottle top."

"But can't you do something? Rescue her?"

Kramer laughed shortly."Not me. Didn't I tell you that wasn't my line? I get you the information ; what you do with it is your own concern."

Just as Nash was sure he was going to explode with anxiety and frustration, a pseudo-Western drawl asked: "What's the matter, partner? Look as if rustlers had lifted your prize stock." It was Arizona Bill Averoff, teetering forward on his Western heels and rolling a cigarette.

Nash explained his troubles. Averoff lighted up and said: "Reckon I can deliver the message to that there sergeant, while you go rescue your gal."

"Do you know the way?"

"Sure, fella, like the palm of your hand."

"That's more than I do. But—" Nash hesitated. True, the cowboy probably would have a better chance of finding Sergeant Berl; true, he had been more or less forced into the army of a government with which he sympathized but to which he owed only the most doubtful allegiance. Still, there were his oath and his orders, Averoff explained: "I owe you a good toin anyway."

"He's right, old man," put in Kramer. Nash gave in, and Averoff departed at a gallop, whooping.

"Hey!" cried Nash to Kramer."Don't go yet! Got any ideas how I could get Alicia out?"

"Hm-m-m—have you any friends?"

"There are the cavaliers of the Dumas Club—"

"Ha—hadn't you heard? O'Hara ordered the club padlocked for ten days because of the duel. So your long-haired pals will be scattered all over town looking up temporary accommodations."

"How about the municipal police? If they can arrest folks for dueling, I should think an abduction—"

"Arslan's an independent sovereign, old thing, so it would be an extradition job. And the city's hoping to wangle a loan from him, so—" Kramer ended with a shrug.

"What then?"

"I don't know—try it single-handed, I suppose. Use some pretext to get in, as that City Hall sent you to negotiate that loan. Risky, of course, but what are you chaps good for if not taking risks? And now I'm off, unless you want more reports; must get back to my book. I'm starting on the ancestry of the zither. Cheerio!"