With deep respect for, and profoundest apologies to, Dashiell Hammett.

Thanks go to my brainstorming friends for their multitude of ideas, some of which found their way into this story (the feathers, the jello, the pool of blood on the Persian rug) - but not their dead Artie idea. Thanks also to Cal Gal for betaing, to Ragnelle for help on the saber fight, and to sub.C and Ragnelle for help on the German - any remaining nonsense is my own.

(Ah, and regarding the character who speaks German: when Artie is present in the scene, he will translate what that character says.)

The Night of the Florentine Phoenix

Teaser

A carriage pulled up at dockside and two men got out. With a nod of thanks, James West tossed the cabbie a coin while his partner, Artemus Gordon, took a good look around. "Aha!" he said. "Will you look at that, James my boy? There's La Paloma just tying up. Perfect timing!"

The pair headed for the ship. They barely got ten yards closer to it, however, before a man stepped into their path. "Kommen Sie mit mir," he ordered them gruffly, his voice a raspy wheeze. He was a big man, roughly the same size as Artie, or would have been but for a pronounced tendency to hunch over. His black slouch hat was drawn down over his head like a shadow, with what little of his face that could be seen from under it hidden behind a heavy red beard. He wore a massive overcoat, his right hand buried in his coat pocket. And there was something in that hand, something that made the fabric of his pocket jut out toward them menacingly.

Jim and Artie both stopped dead in their tracks and looked at the man. Their eyes then turned towards each other, then back to the man again.

"Excuse me?" said Artie, then translated the phrase into German.

"Kommen Sie mit mir," the man repeated. "Sofort!"

Artie shook his head in amazement and spoke to the man in German at length, ending with, "Wie heißt das Zauberwort, hmm?"

From the shadows under the hat, the man's eyes glittered for a moment. "Bitte," he said at last. "Kommen Sie mit mir - bitte."

"Well, that's much better," said Artie. "After you, James my boy."

The man turned and gestured imperiously for the two agents to accompany him. He cast frequent glances their way as they walked now not toward the ship but toward a carriage parked alongside the docks.

Jim leaned toward Artie and asked softly, "What was that all about?"

"He ordered us to come with him - now."

"And?"

"And…" Artie pulled at his nose to hide his grin. "Well, I asked him didn't his mother teach him any manners, and what was the magic word."

"So that's why he said, 'Please' in the end?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Of course. Because if he's going to shanghai us, he should at least be polite about it."

"Oh, certainly!"

"Seien Sie still!" growled the man, ordering them to be quiet. He jerked his head toward the carriage, barking out another order.

Artie cocked an eyebrow at him. Scowling, the man added, "Bitte."

"Dankeschön," said Artie. "James, it seems our new friend would like us to enter the carriage." And the two of them climbed inside.

It was dark in the carriage and close as well, the closeness stemming mainly from the size of the man already occupying it. He was easily as big as Count Manzeppi, as big also as a certain Chinese man the agents had once met who had turned out not to be Chinese after all. This man, the one taking up well over his fair share of the carriage interior, was a white man, very white. He was white of hair and dressed all in white, and his big soft pale hands were enhanced with a large opal ring on the one, a diamond ring on the other.

He smiled genially at his guests, then looked past them to say, "Danke, Koch," to their escort. The man in white continued on briefly in rapid German. The man under the hat nodded, shut the door, then turned his back and folded his arms, guarding.

The man in white smiled again. "Mr West, Mr Gordon, welcome, welcome. It is so good to make your acquaintance. I am Gaspar Kutman, your humble servant."

Artie jerked his head in the direction of the door. "And he's your cook?"

"Hmm? Oh no no! Koch is his name, not his profession. Merle Koch, my, ah… interpreter, so to speak."

"Interpreter?" Jim repeated skeptically.

"Is he?" added Artie. "Because we've only heard him speak German, and if he understands English, he gave an excellent impression that he didn't."

Kutman chuckled, the folds of his cheeks almost swallowing up his eyes. "Oh, but you see, he is my interpreter in the sense that I tell him I want a thing done, and he sees to it that it is done. As a prime example, I let it be known that I wished a meeting with you two gentlemen - and here you are!"

"Yeah, here we are," said Artie.

Jim fixed Kutman with a stare. "Why?"

"Why? But isn't it obvious? You two gentlemen are here in San Francisco to meet that ship." Kutman nodded toward La Paloma. "You are to, ah, receive a certain object which has been brought to these shores aboard La Paloma and escort that object to its destination in Washington DC. I wish merely to let it be known to you, and to anyone else to whom you may wish to pass on the intelligence, that I am prepared to pay the sum of ten thousand dollars to acquire that object."

He had leaned forward during this speech; he now sat back into the cushions of his seat. "Ten thousand dollars, gentlemen! A handsome fee for a few minutes work. You need only pick up the object aboard the ship and bring it directly here to me..." He reached into a jacket pocket to produce a fat envelope. "…and this shall be yours." He held out the envelope. When neither West nor Gordon took it, Kutman opened the unsealed flap himself and fanned out the bills inside. "Easy money, gentlemen," he said, tucking the money back into the envelope, then tossing it onto the seat between the agents.

"Oh, easy money!" said Artie sarcastically.

"Not exactly," said Jim. "Considering that the object in question doesn't belong to us. We can't sell to you something that isn't ours to sell."

"Oh but, gentlemen! Did I neglect to mention that if you were to, ah, persuade those from whom you are to receive the item to sell it to me, there would be a finder's fee awaiting you? Two thousand dollars, gentlemen. Each."

Jim met Kutman's gaze steadily. "The item isn't theirs to sell either."

"No," added Artie. "It's a national treasure belonging to the country of Bosnia." He gave a lop-sided smile and said, "Perhaps you should consider negotiating with their government."

The genial smile fell off Kutman's face and his eyes flashed. "I have attempted to…" He broke off, an angry snort blowing out through his nostrils. He glared at the two agents for a moment, then pulled out a business card and a pencil. He wrote on the card briskly, then handed it to West, saying, "This is where I shall be staying, gentlemen, should you change your minds."

West glanced at the card, committing to memory its address of Suite 412 at the opulent Frémont Hotel, then tucked the card into his pocket. "We won't be changing our minds, Mr Kutman. But if something should happen to the Phoenix, we will know where to find you."

Kutman's eyes smoldered at him. "Koch!" he bellowed.

The door instantly opened. "Jawohl, mein Herr?"

Kutman snapped out an order in German, waving a hand dismissively at the agents. Koch nodded and all but hauled West and Gordon bodily from the carriage, then took their place inside it. As it drove away, however, neither West nor Gordon noticed the sharp glance Koch cast their way.

Nor did Kutman.

"Auf Wiedersehen," Artie called out sweetly to the receding carriage. He brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve, then shot a jovial look at his partner. "Well, what do you think, James? Do you suppose Kutman there is the only one who'll be looking to, ah, acquire the little item we've been sent here to bring to Washington?"

Jim's eyes swept the docks. "Not likely, Artie. And I don't think we've seen the last of Kutman and his toy soldier either."

"I hear that," said Artie. As they headed for La Paloma anew, he added, "Well, James, as the Bard put it so well, 'Once more unto the breach, dear friend.' "

As they reached the gangplank, a small nattily-attired young man with curly hair and large, dark, worried eyes met them. "You are the Federal agents I was to expect?" he asked in a gentle, somewhat agitated voice.

In reply, West and Gordon presented their credentials. "Ah. Very good," said the young man. "And I am Bartholomew Memphis, the representative of the Smithsonian Institution." He too presented identification, then said, "Won't you follow me, gentlemen?" and led them aboard.

Though the walk forward was not long in distance, the three men found it took them quite a while, for they kept having to stop or sidestep to allow officers and sailors to pass by them to get on with their work.

As the three made their slow progress through the ship, Mr Memphis, in the lead, said, "As you may imagine, gentlemen, we of the Smithsonian are very excited about this acquisition, temporary though it might be. What a coup, to be able to display the Florentine Phoenix, even if it will only be for a few short weeks!"

"I'm sure, Mr Memphis," said Jim.

"We have everything ready," Artie chimed in, "to take you and the Phoenix all the way across the country to Washington. Our train, the Wanderer, will be heading east first thing in the morning."

"And in the meantime, we'll be taking the Phoenix to the office of Col Richmond, the head of the Secret Service, for it to be stored in his safe overnight."

"Ah, good, good." Memphis paused for a moment, then said, "It is utterly amazing, the Phoenix. You have no idea. The craftsmanship! The delicacy! The beauty!" He sighed rapturously. "And the thought that that little jeweled bird passed through such hands of greatness! The Margrave of Brandenburg of the House of Hohenzollern, of course, for he was the original owner, but also the Emperor Napoleon and his sister, and even…" A quivering smile played over the man's lips. "…even, if rumor can be believed, the hands of Leonardo da Vinci himself!"

Jim nodded. "It's known as the Florentine Phoenix because it's alleged that da Vinci designed and built it while he was still living and working in Florence."

"Yes," added Artie. "It was commissioned by the Margrave of Brandenburg, but they say that almost upon delivery, the Phoenix was stolen from him. No real record exists of its provenance for some three centuries afterwards, except that it's believed to have changed hands frequently, and that generally by way of theft."

Memphis nodded. "Yes. Yes. I am glad to hear that you men to whom this treasure is to be entrusted know its history so well."

Jim gave a small smile. "We did our homework, Mr Memphis."

Artie, warming to his subject, added, "But then the Phoenix came to light again in the hands of Napoleon, no doubt acquired in his course of conquering the courts of Europe. Presumably taking its name to heart, Napoleon presented it to his sister Elise upon naming her Grand Duchess of Tuscany, and thus the Phoenix returned to Florence."

"But after the fall of Napoleon," put in Jim, "the Phoenix vanished from view once more."

"Yes," said Artie. "Imagine our surprise, Mr Memphis, to learn that such a priceless treasure had shown up again in the possession of none other than our old friend Count Draja of Bosnia!"

"Old friend?" asked Memphis. "You knew Count Draja?"

Artie nodded at his partner. "It was thanks to our efforts - well, mostly Jim's - that Count Draja was returned to his homeland to stand trial, after which his possessions were forfeited to the new regime in Bosnia."

"At which point the Phoenix was found to be among those possessions," said Jim. "We knew the count had come here to the United States to collect a treasure he had hidden here, but we had no notion the Florentine Phoenix was part of that treasure."

"Ah, it was not," said Memphis. "The Phoenix was discovered secreted away in Sarajevo as a matter of fact, gentlemen." He smiled happily. "And with the Phoenix found safe and sound, it has now embarked on this world tour of museums! Beginning at Sarajevo, the Phoenix has charmed patrons of the arts all across the Balkans and throughout Italy, then on to Constanti…" He paused and blushed slightly. "I mean, Istanbul. For those of us who live in the past in museums, the more ancient name of that city comes more readily to the lips, I'm afraid. And there are some of us even for whom the name Byzantium supersedes both newer names."

"Yes, Mr Memphis," said Artie.

"And after Washington, on to London, Paris, St Petersburg…" Memphis now stopped at a door and laid a hand on the knob. "Gentlemen, we have arrived. Allow me to present the representative of the government of Bosnia who is also accompanying the Florentine Phoenix as a cultural ambassadrix, if you will…" He pushed open the door to reveal an elegant salon opulently appointed. Across the room a graceful woman inspected her reflection in a gold-framed mirror as she made a few adjustments to her upswept honey-blonde hair. Satisfied, she turned with a rustle of her silken skirts and smiled as she glided toward the door.

"Mr West, Mr Gordon," Memphis announced with a bow as the beautiful woman stopped abruptly and stared, "may I present to you the Countess Zorana of…"

His introduction was drowned out by the woman and the agents all simultaneously exclaiming, "You!"