Act One, Part Two

"Fake! But, but it can't be! It just can't!"

"Now, now, Lana my dear, don't take on so," said her father, patting her hand. "I'm sure there's some, well, some mistake."

"No mistake, Professor. I'm sorry. It's a very clever fake, but a fake nonetheless. If you would look here…" Artie started to delineate the problems with the Apple, but a heavy sigh at his shoulder cut him off.

"Oh, let me look!" said Hippolyta. She was already wearing a pair of her own gloves, larger even than the gloves Artie had just tossed down, for her hands were exceedingly broad. She took up the Apple and peered closely at it through the thick lenses of her spectacles. "Hmph!" she said at last. "Well, I can't say I'm a bit surprised that the third has gone the way of the other two." She glanced at her father. "Only those of us in this room know that this Apple is not the real one…" she began.

"Those of us in this room," put in Atalanta, "as well as whoever stole it!"

Hippolyta shot her an irritated glance. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," she continued, "since none but we six know this Apple is fake, my counsel is to go ahead and lock this in the display case as if it were the genuine item. It's embarrassing enough that the other two were stolen; it might do irreparable harm to Father's reputation if word should get out that this one too is… not what it seems." She looked around at them all, then ordered, "Open the case for me, whichever case the real one was to be displayed in."

Artie glanced at Jim, then did as Hippolyta desired. She settled the golden orb onto the little stand within the case, then closed the door and watched as Artie locked it.

"There. And I certainly hope your security measures here in Denver are superior to those which were in effect at the time the final Apple was taken!" With that parting shot, Hippolyta swept from the room and left her father and sister to see to the unpacking of the remainder of the treasures.

…

It was a long day. In the evening came the banquet that officially kicked off the scientific conference. James West assigned Artemus to guard duty over the three Bracewells who would all be in attendance at the sumptuous dinner — for the professor was to give the keynote address at the end of the meal — while Jim set about investigating what could possibly have happened to the Apple.

It made no sense. Jim had met the Bracewells at the pier when they arrived from their transatlantic journey. He had personally supervised the transfer of their luggage from the ocean liner to the Wanderer; he had also brought in an expert jeweler who had authenticated every item of the Lydian treasure, particularly the sole remaining Apple. If it had been stolen, plainly that had happened on his watch, and Jim was not happy about this.

If it had been stolen! But clearly it had been stolen. Artie had looked it over and declared the Apple from the professor's valise to be a fake. So at some point between the time the jeweler had checked it in New York and the time Artie had checked it here in Denver, someone had opened the valise and made a substitution. But how?

And who?

Jim went through the professor's suite room by room, inch by inch, searching for anything that might shed light on this unhappy turn of events. Then, after making sure that Dermot Parrish had several men guarding the treasure room, Jim put on his hat and gun belt and left the hotel, hailing a cab for the railroad yards. Once there he made another search even more careful than the first, examining every inch of the Wanderer: varnish car and baggage car, even the engine and its tender full of fuel.

He found nothing, nothing that could explain how the Apple could have vanished and the fake been substituted.

At length he returned to the hotel, arriving just in time to see the attendees of the conference exiting the banqueting hall in high spirits. And in the case of Prof Bracewell, as it turned out, exceedingly high spirits, for here came Artie, supporting the little professor who was regaling all within earshot with a song that was somewhat less than appropriate for mixed company.

Jim looked around, saw the man's daughters following him, and slapped a hand over Achilles Bracewell's mouth. "What happened to him?" he hissed to Artie as he tossed one of the professor's arms over his shoulders to aid his partner with this burden.

Artie shook his head. "You tell me. Everything was going along just fine until time came for the keynote address. Suddenly the professor turned green around the gills and stumbled from the head table. I hurried after him and found him in the men's room, shall we say, divesting himself of the banquet."

"Drunk?"

"As a lord, yes. There was no way he could give the speech in that condition. Shortly Miss Hippolyta appeared and… well, I've never known a woman to be so determined to shove her way into that room! I explained the problem to her, and from what I understand, she then went back into the banquet hall, announced that her father was under the weather, and proceeded to give the speech herself."

"I wonder how well that went over," said Jim.

"Yeah, well, I wonder how he's still feeling no pain after all the black coffee I've been pumping into him ever since he lost his dinner!" The little entourage arrived at the Bracewells' suite and Jim used the special key to let them all in. Then he and Artie hauled the sot inside and dropped him off on the nearest sofa.

Instantly Atalanta flung herself down on her knees on the throw rug before the sofa. "Oh, Father, Father! What's wrong?" she cried, wringing her lovely hands.

"What's wrong? Don't be an idiot, Lana!" Hippolyta growled at her sister. "Obviously Father imbibed much too freely of the wine at dinner and managed to pickle himself. But then you know how nervous he gets before he has to make a speech!" She swept past them all and on into her own bedroom, where she emphatically slammed the door.

"I…" Atalanta looked up helplessly at the two government agents, then back at her Father, who was now snoring peacefully on the couch. "Oh, wh-why must she always a-a-act like that? And e-especially now, with p-p-poor Father… Oh!" The pretty sister fumbled a lacy pink handkerchief from the cuff of her sleeve, then dropped her face into the cloth and began to weep.

Jim and Artie exchanged glances, and Artie rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine! I'll see to Papa then. I've been doing it all evening." He went in search of a basin of water and some towels.

Jim lifted Atalanta to her feet, took hold of her upper arm, and steered her across the room to her own bedroom, which was separate from her sister's. Back at their journey's beginning when the reservations at the hotel were being made, Miss Hippolyta had insisted on a three-bedroom suite, and Jim now saw why.

Poor Atalanta though. Jim wouldn't want to have to share a room with Hippolyta either. He eased Atalanta into her room and with the advice of, "Just try to get some rest," he started to close the door and leave her to her own devices. Before he could exit, however, the lovely lass suddenly fell into his arms and began to sob.

"Oh, Mr West! Whatever am I to do? Why must she tr-treat me so shabbily? Why must she be so m-m-mean?"

Amazing — even dissolved in tears and stuttering badly, she managed to look utterly captivating. Jim cradled her in his arms and waited for her to cry herself out.

"If only…" Atalanta lamented brokenly. "Oh, if only M-mother were here! She… she could handle Polly, even when none of the rest of us could. But, but Mother is… is go-o-one!" The last word came out in a three-note wail.

"How did your mother handle Hippolyta?" Jim asked practically. "Perhaps you could do something similar."

"Oh d-dear, no, that would never work!" Atalanta shook her head firmly. "You see, to Polly, Mother was her greatest ally, always c-completely on her side, just the two of them against all the rest of the world. Polly could never see m-me that way, not when she apparently counts me as one of her ch-chiefest enemies. At least," she added, pain shining from her fathomless blue eyes, "Polly's never mistreated Father the way she does me. That's part of the reason I st-stay, you see, so that she has me upon whom to vent her annoyance. I could never b-bear it if she were to turn against Father! She has such a… such a vicious temper, you know!"

She slipped from his arms, dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, then gave him a watery smile. "I… I believe I'll be all right, now, thank you, Jim." She dimpled prettily at him.

"It was my pleasure," Jim assured her.

She blushed. "That's so sweet of you! But really, I'll be fine now. You, ah… Perhaps you should go help Mr Gordon with Father." Again her dimples flashed at him.

Jim stepped from her room and closed the door softly behind him, then crossed back to the sofa. "How's Prof Bracewell?" he asked.

"Dead to the world," Artie replied. "And the lovely Atalanta?"

"Better, I think. She had a good cry at least."

"Mm. No love lost between those two sisters, is there?" Artie remarked. He finished checking over the professor, then ducked into the man's bedroom and brought out a pillow and blanket. "He might as well just sleep here, don't you think, Jim?"

"Yeah, he should be all right." The two got the pillow under the schnockered man's head, then spread the blanket over him.

"There!" said Artie. "And so to bed, hmm?"

"I still have the professor's key," said Jim. He pulled it from his vest pocket, then lifted his voice and called out, "Good night, ladies! Will one of you lock up?"

A moment later both bedroom doors opened and the Bracewell girls looked out. "I can do it," Atalanta offered.

"No, I've got it," countered Hippolyta, adding with a snarl, "You just go on and get your beauty sleep, pretty princess."

Atalanta's mouth dropped open. "I… Wh-what have I done now?" she moaned.

"You're existing!"Hippolyta barked back. With a wail Atalanta knocked her door shut even as her younger sister stalked over to the agents and snatched the key from Mr West's hand. Scowling, she eyed the two men and grumbled, "I suppose little Miss Snivels there has been whining to you about what an absolute harpy I am! Oh, but I wish she'd just go away! Father and I would be perfectly happy out in the field working on digs together just as he and Mother did. If only she would, oh, go find herself some silly boy to run off and marry, and leave us alone!" She shooed the two men out the door and a moment later they heard the sound of the key turning over in the lock.

"Well… Pleasant dreams," Artie called to her through the door.

"Ha!" she rejoined.

Silently Artie turned to Jim and lifted an eyebrow. "Nice!" Jim responded, and the two moved off down the hall to their own smaller suite.