Act 3 ~~~~
"Jim!"
Irenje pivoted slowly to face the man who had just cried out, the man at the far end of the veranda near her sister. Irenje smiled - no, smirked! - brought up her hand to her lips and blew that man a kiss, then stepped elegantly back through the window and vanished.
Artie was running. He landed on his knees by Jim's side, ignoring the many lacerations the shards of sharp glass slashed into his legs. He wrapped his fingers round his pal's wrist, feeling for his pulse. Dropping the wrist with a growl of frustration, he felt instead along Jim's neck for the carotid…
Yes! "It's there. He still has a pulse," he murmured to himself in relief.
"Mr Gordon?"
"No, stay back, Anushche; you'll cut your feet," he ordered instantly. Gently Artie slipped his arms under the inert body of his best friend, then came to his feet, lifting Jim, cradling him. "Come on, buddy, stay with me," he implored as he hopped down from the veranda and strode away into the gathering twilight, carrying Jim back to the Wanderer. Miss Anushche trotted along after him as fast as she could go, doing her best to keep up with the anguished Mr Gordon.
Artie skirted the station house, heading directly across the jumble of tracks that crisscrossed the railroad yards. "Anushche, I need you to give me a hand with something," he said as they drew near the rear platform of the private train.
"Yes, Mr Gordon. What is it?"
He stopped for a moment. "My left vest pocket," he said. "You'll find my key to the varnish car in it. Take it and get the door open for me."
She fished out the key. "Varnish car? What is that?"
"The rearmost car of the train right in front of us."
"Ah." She hurried to obey, shoving the door wide for him, then getting out of his way. Artie swept past her to settle Jim gently on the sofa that served as a divider between the parlor area and the dining area.
"And would you turn up the lights, please?" he requested, accepting the key back absently as he crossed to the speaking tube and blew into it. He placed it to his ear, listened, then brought it to his mouth again. "Orrin, it's an emergency. Mr West is badly injured and needs to be taken to a hospital at once. There is no hospital in this town, so best speed back to Atlanta, please." He moved the end of the tube back to his ear again and listened, then spoke into the tube once more. "Thank you, Orrin. I'll be doing what I can for him here in the meantime."
He put the tube away and came back to the sofa, then felt again for Jim's carotid. "Well, his pulse is still there," he said. Broodingly, mechanically, Artie took off his jacket and his gun belt, discarding them across a nearby chair.
"Mr Gordon? I have finished with the lights. What shall I do now?"
Artie glanced at her and smiled wanly. "Just… try to make him comfortable. I'll be in the baggage car, seeing if I can find anything in the lab that might be of help to him." He went to the right-hand door at the far end of the room and disappeared down the corridor beyond.
Anushche dropped her purse in the chair with Mr Gordon's things, then started to set down also… oh… but she no longer had the book. Somehow after it had gone out the window, she had lost track of it.
No matter. She went and stood over Mr West, the poor man. Make him comfortable, Mr Gordon had said. Hmm. Surely to lie on a sofa with a gun belt around one's waist could not be comfortable. She knelt beside the comatose man and puzzled for a bit over the buckle. She fumbled at it, then frowned. Stripping off those ungainly gloves, she tossed them aside and tried again.
Ah, there! Now to - ugh - to pull it from, from under him… "I hope I am not disturbing you, Mr West," she said softly. She succeeded at last in dragging the gun belt free and deposited it in the same pile with Mr Gordon's things.
What next?
Hmm. Mr Gordon had also taken off his jacket. So Anushche set about removing Mr West's as well. She started by undoing all the fasteners, then took a firm grip on his right cuff and gave a tug.
Nothing. "Oh, that will not do!" she told herself. "Perhaps this way…" And taking hold of the cuff once more, she tried this time also pushing his hand down into the sleeve…
In the baggage car, Artie stood staring at his bottles of chemicals, one hand perched on his hip, the other hand up at his face, tapping at his nose. What might help? he ruminated. What might possibly…
"Mr Gordon!"
What? Artie hit the door running, hurdled the space between the cars, then sprinted down the corridor past the staterooms and the galley. He shoved through the door back into the parlor and took in the scene before him: Anushche was on the floor, her eyes like saucers, one hand over her mouth, the other a-tremble as it pointed at the sofa.
The sofa. Artie could not see the figure on the sofa, not from this angle. Jim? His pulse had been so weak. Thready. Surely - oh, surely he hadn't…
Artie came round the end of the sofa, dreading to look. With his heart in his throat, his voice came out as a croak: "Jim?"
"Yeah, Artie?"
"Jim!"
He was alert, looking around, but still so very motionless yet.
The silver-tongued speaker was struck dumb with relief for a moment, tears rimming his eyes. Finding his voice again, he said, "Whew! For a bit there, Jim, I thought I'd lost you."
"For a bit there, Artie, I thought the same."
"Well, how are you? Can you get up?"
Jim shook his head. "Everything from the waist down is still numb."
"Ah." After a moment's thought, Artie added, "Well, if you improved this quickly spontaneously, it shouldn't be too long before…"
"Not spontaneously."
"Excuse me?"
"I didn't get better spontaneously."
"You didn't? Well then - what did happen?"
Jim's eyes cut toward Anushche.
Hmm? Artie looked at her as well. The poor kid was cringing on the floor, looking so very, very scared. "I don't understand," said Artie.
"Neither do I," Jim replied. "All I know is that when Irenje took my hand, her touch paralyzed me. She then told me that she was going to do to me what she had done to…" He glanced at the girl and surreptitiously made a gesture miming the polishing of glasses.
"Right," said Artie. "I, uh, saw her kiss you."
"And that was the last I knew until just now when, ah…" Jim paused, frowning. "Artie, it was the strangest thing. The two times Irenje touched me, it felt as if all the life was being sucked out of my body. But just now, it was the opposite: life pouring back in, surging in."
"And the source?" said Artie, already suspecting what Jim would answer.
Once again Jim cut his eyes at the girl.
Artie turned toward her. "Miss Anushche?"
She shook her head, her eyes still wild, her frame curled up as small as she could make herself. "I did not mean it! I, I forgot I had the gloves off. I did not mean to hurt him!"
Artie exchanged glances with James, then said to the girl soothingly, "But you didn't hurt him, Anushche. Quite the contrary; you made him better."
She was still shaking her head. "It… it was like when I touched Professor Smiler. His arms flailed, and his eyes! Oh, his eyes! I thought, I thought he was going to die! And when I let him go, he fell to the floor and started giggling."
Again Artie looked at Jim. "When was this, Anushche?" Jim asked her.
"In, in the lab. Shortly before the professor shot Irenje, and the two of you came crashing into the room."
"Well," said Artie, "you certainly didn't hurt Professor Smiler. He was plenty lively when I was wrestling him for the prong gun a few minutes later." He thought for a moment. "Anushche, I want to try something. I want you to come here and touch Mr West's hand."
Her eyes went, if possible, even wilder than before and she scooted away, backing herself part-way up under the desk. "Njede! No, no! I will hurt him! I do not wish to hurt Mr West!"
"You won't hurt me," said Jim encouragingly.
"You see?" said Artie. "Jim's not afraid of you. And I'm not afraid either." He took a step toward the cowering girl, then realized that from her perspective, he must look like he was looming over her, so he knelt down to make himself look less intimidating. Ouch! He'd forgotten about the cuts along his shins from the broken glass on the veranda. Ignoring that, he said, "Anushche. Droshche. There's no reason to be scared, droshinje. We know that you would never hurt anyone, a sweet little girl like you."
She only huddled where she was, shaking her head, whispering to herself in Pterovnian, "Njede, njede…"
"Droshche," he repeated, slipping a little closer. "Droshinje. Sweetheart. Little sweet girl." He ducked his head, looking up at her from under his eyebrows, smiling genially. "Anushche," he called. And when that did not capture her attention, he added, very quietly, "Katjenje."
Her head came up. "What? What did you say?"
"I called you 'katjenje.' "
"But… You know what that means?"
"Yes. Every Pterovnian girl is permitted to choose for herself a protector, a mentor. A djenko. And her djenko calls her his katjenje."
She nodded. "Dr Rodin was my djenko. But he is dead."
"Then you need a new one."
She had moved closer. "By tradition, he is an old friend of the family."
"True."
She thought it over for a bit. "Count Ljudko sent you," she said slowly. "And he is an old friend. And he trusted you - both of you - to take care of my sister and me…"
Now, unnoticed while she was reflecting, Artie inched closer. He stopped when she again looked up at him. "Do you really wish," she asked, "to become my djenko?"
"If you'll have me." Again he gave her that affable smile. "Droshinje," he said.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and a little sparkle came up in her eyes. "Droshtafko…" she responded.
Artie laughed and said, "Oh, cute. Very cute. But then I deserved that, didn't I?"
From the sofa, Jim observed dryly, "I suppose I should have invested in a Pterovnian-English dictionary…"
"Ah. Sorry about that, Jim." Helpfully Artie explained, "Droshche is 'sweetheart,' spoken to a girl; droshko the equivalent to a boy. Droshinje is 'sweet little girl'…"
"And droshtafko," said Anushche, "is 'sweet old man.' " She grinned at Artie now. Grinning back, he raised his eyebrows and spread his arms open. "Katjenje?"
"Djenko," she responded. And she slipped into his arms.
He held her close, whispering to her soft phrases in Pterovnian. She rested her cheek against his beautiful brocade vest, gradually relaxing, the tension draining out of her.
"There," said Artie. "Isn't that better?"
"Dasda. But, Mr Gordon…"
"Artemus," he corrected.
"…Artemus. Are you truly not afraid that I will hurt you?"
"Of course you won't hurt me!" He gave her one of his endearing lop-sided smiles. "And you haven't hurt me. You see? You're right here in my arms and nothing has happened."
"True… But I have not touched you."
"Then do so." He held a hand out to her, smiling winsomely, engagingly.
She stared at his hand and the horror came up in her eyes again. "No. No! When I touched Professor Smiler…"
"Oh, stop worrying," said Artie and took her hand.
He had thought he was prepared for what would happen next, but instantly found that Jim's description of the sensation as "life surging in" was wholly inadequate. In fact, the word "surge" didn't even begin to cover it. Raw unshackled power went racing up his arm, firing off every nerve in its path until it hit his brain like a cannonball. His eyes dilated; his breath caught in his throat.
The contact lasted less than a second before Anushche jerked her hand back. "You see? You see?" she cried and pushed him away.
"No, no, it's all right!" he responded, his other arm not letting her loose. "Really. It was… it was just stronger than I expected, that's all. It, um, actually feels pretty good now," he added. "Like my arm just got renewed." And he stared at the arm for a second.
"You're lying!" said Anushche, still trying to get away.
"Am I? If I were afraid of you, droshche, if I thought the touch of you would hurt me, would I do this?" And drawing her close, he kissed her avuncularly on the forehead.
He wasn't caught by surprise this time when the power rammed into him. It was like kissing a lightning bolt, or like standing under a waterfall and trying to drink from it with upturned face. He steeled himself and did not flinch, wrapped his arms round her and did not let her go. As before, he felt every nerve firing off and felt the impact, almost a physical jolt, when the power smashed into his brain. It was like the top of his head was about to come off, and yet, curiously enough, he found that it was not at all an unpleasant sensation.
His idea, of course, had been to give her a dramatic demonstration of how sure he was that touching her was not dangerous, and so he wanted to be careful not to draw back from her too quickly. The problem, he now found, was that the longer he kissed her, the more he wanted to go on kissing her. It was… it was… like the finest meal he'd ever eaten, or the best wine he'd ever drunk. Intoxicating. That was the word for it. Inebriating.
He needed to stop now. He was getting drunk.
Slowly he leaned back, ending the kiss and the contact. The sudden absence of that exhilarating power struck him with a shock like that of being plunged into an ice-water bath. He blinked, blinked heavily, then shook his head and muttered, "Wow…"
"Artemus?" That was Anushche's voice. He had to fight to focus on her, even though she was only inches away. She was looking intently into his face. "You are all right?"
He smiled at her, his eyes definitely glazed and out-of-focus. "Hi!" he said brightly.
"Artie?"
And that was Jim's voice. Artie swung about and peered at his buddy over there on the sofa. "Yeah, pal?"
"You are all right, aren't you?"
"Never better!" His grin lit up his whole face. He chuckled, then hiccuped.
"You sure about that, Artie?" said Jim.
"Oh yeah! Everything's per, per, uh, perfec'ly wunnerful! Hey, oh, hey!" he added, turning back to the girl. " 'Nushche droshinje, you have gotta go do that for Jim!"
"What, kiss him?" she said hesitantly.
"Uh… sure. Sure, if you wanna. I jus' meant touch 'im."
"Artie, you're slurring."
"Yeah? I, uh…" He yawned, blinked, then grinned inanely again. "You… y'know what? I, uh, think I, I oughta… Hold that thought," he finished. And slowly he keeled over to sprawl on the varnish car floor.
Anushche drew back, eyes hollow. "I killed him."
"No, you haven't," Jim responded.
"How can you be sure?" she asked.
A sound like the ripping of cloth filled the room. Jim waited for the noise to subside, then answered reassuringly, "Because dead men don't snore."
Artie woke slowly, luxuriatingly. He stretched richly, then settled his two hands behind his head. Ahhhh… He felt wonderful, like ten years had been reimbursed to him overnight. The familiar rhythm of the train as it traveled through the night had formed a pleasant background music to his slumber, but now, he noted, the journey was done; they had arrived - somewhere. The soft light peeking round the edges of the curtain at his stateroom's window told him it was morning.
He lay on his bed a bit longer, waiting for memory to awaken as well and inform him where they were and why. In the meantime, he just felt so fine.
"Finer than frog hair," he murmured to himself and chuckled.
Well… Time to get up.
He rose and realized that he had been sleeping in his clothes. Why was that? Let's see. Last night he had… he had…
It all hit him in a rush now. Jim! Artie bolted from his room and charged into the parlor where he had last seen his partner.
And there was Jim, on the sofa still, but sitting up and nursing a cup of coffee. He looked up. " 'Morning, Artie. Coffee's on," he said with a gesture toward the galley.
"How you feel, Jim? You ok?"
Jim gave a small smile and set the cup of coffee aside on the back of the sofa, then stood up to his feet - oh, but so very slowly! He took a cautious step forward, noticing how Artie darted out a hand to help him.
The next instant Jim landed a short series of sparring moves on his old friend that ended with Artie sprawled on the varnish car floor again.
"Oof! Oh, you're ok, all right," said Artie as Jim laughed and gave him a hand back up. "You just watch. You'll get your comeuppance, James my boy."
Jim grinned, plopped onto the sofa again, and went back to his coffee. "Well, think about it, Artie. Did you really need to ask me if I was ok? Who do you think made the coffee? And for that matter, who do you think hauled your snoring carcass off to tuck you in last night? Anushche?"
Artie laughed sheepishly. "Yeah, you're right. Oh, speaking of Anushche…" He glanced round the parlor, seeing no sign of her except for her purse lying on a chair.
Jim waved toward the corridor. "I gave her my room."
"Oh? You could have put her in mine, you know. I would have slept out here. For that matter, I already was, wasn't I?"
Jim chuckled. "True. But I'd staked out the sofa, so it was no problem." He took a sip of his coffee, then reported, "I spoke to Orrin once we arrived here in Atlanta and assured him that I was fine and the emergency was over, and told him to get some sleep until we know what our next move should be. And as for that," Jim gave a nod toward the desk, "I telegraphed Washington to advise them that we have Anushche, but Irenje seems to have thrown in her lot with the kidnappers. Waiting now to hear back what the President wants us to do."
"The Ambassador's not going to like that."
"I know, but we can't help that." He paused. "By the way, Artie, what happened to your pants?"
"My… my pants?" Artie looked down and saw all the myriad gashes that had shredded the front of his trousers just below the knees. "Oh right! I forgot about that. That happened when I picked you up off the veranda last night. All that broken glass, you know."
Jim frowned. "I didn't notice it till just now, or I would have put some iodine on the cuts for you when I put you to bed. You'd better go see to them. I'll get breakfast."
"Ha! You want our guest to be able to eat it? I'll get breakfast. However…" Artie felt up and down his shin, then rolled up the pants leg. "Uhh…"
Jim came on the alert at once. "How bad is it?"
"That's just it: look!"
For there was not a cut, not a laceration, not a mark on his skin whatsoever. A bit nonplussed, Artie let the pants leg fall and said to Jim, "Did Anushche do that?"
"She's pretty useful, isn't she?"
"Yeah. Um. Look, I'll go get changed and then make breakfast. Omelets ok?"
"Sure, Artie."
By the time he was dressed and ready to take on the day - or at least the galley - Artie was feeling chipper again. He fired up the range, then brought eggs and cheese out of the icebox. And at this point Jim came and lounged against the door frame. "Do you happen to remember, Artie," he said, "telling Anushche to 'go do that' for me? Then she asked if you meant she should kiss me, and you told her she could if she wanted."
Artie looked back from raiding the spice rack to see a small and teasing smile on his buddy's face. Warily, Artie replied, "Well… vaguely…"
Jim settled himself more comfortably against the door frame and folded his arms. "Well, as it turns out, the little lady's never been kissed before. At least she's never kissed anyone male who wasn't a member of her family, or her godfather, or her djenko."
Artie looked at Jim sidelong. "And you're telling me this why?"
"Thought you might be interested." Jim held the teasing look just a bit longer before adding, "And she was too shy to kiss me either. So she held my hand until I was fully healed."
"Ah," said Artie. "Hot date, huh?"
Jim grinned. "So. Explain this djenko business. Where did all that come from?"
Artie rinsed the shallots and mushrooms, then spread them on the chopping board. "Ah. That goes back to an event roughly three centuries ago. It seems the royal family of Pterovnia had dwindled until there remained only the king himself and his young granddaughter, the Princess Katjenje."
"So that's a name! I thought you said it was a word meaning 'almost-daughter.' "
"That's the connotation it's come to have."
"Let me guess: it's Pterovnian for Katherine?"
"Oh very good, James! We'll make a linguist of you yet." Artie tested the skillet, decided it was hot enough, and dropped in some butter.
"Now," he said, "it came about that the old king died, leaving the young princess - not quite the age of our Anushche - to ascend the throne. And almost immediately the poor kid was besieged with suitors. And I mean literally! Young men from the various noble houses of Pterovnia, as well as some from the royal and noble houses of the neighboring nations: all these poured into the capital and surrounded the palace, each man hoping the princess would choose him as her consort, which would, of course, make him king." He added the chopped vegetables to the hot pan and began sautéing them. "And so as Katjenje was hemmed in on every side, to her rescue came her godfather."
"Enter the djenko?"
"Ah-ah-ah, James, don't get ahead of the story! Her godfather," Artie went on, "whisked her away from the capital and took her to his own castle out in the countryside. And no sooner did he have her within the castle walls with the portcullis rung down, than he informed her that she would now choose one of his sons for her consort. And she must choose quickly too, as she would not be permitted even a bite of food until she had acquiesced."
"Oh, nice fellow," said Jim. "Strike him from the djenko list."
"Well, what could the poor girl do but give in? And so in the process of time an exquisite wedding gown was fashioned for her, and she was provided with a fine carriage to carry her back to the capital for the wedding, along with a cadre of a dozen cavaliers, purportedly to defend her, but really to keep her from disappearing on the trip."
Artie paused and shot a roguish glance Jim's way. "I suppose you can guess what happened next…"
"Now the djenko shows up."
"Mm-hmm. Midway along the journey another group of a dozen knights beset the first group, drawing them into a fierce fight. And when the scuffle was over and the second group withdrew, the first group found the princess had vanished, carriage and all."
Artie finished with the first omelet and removed it to a plate, quickly covering it. "The carriage bore her away to yet another castle, where the driver threw off his hood and wig and peeled away false whiskers to reveal himself to her as a man who had been an old and dear friend of her grandfather the late king."
"And his name was Djenko."
"Right." Artie was now busy at work on the second omelet. "The rest of the story, in brief, is that Djenko took Katjenje in and became her protector, advisor, mentor. Prime Minister in effect, although that title and office is not known in Pterovnia. Later, after she married and had children of her own, Katjenje initiated the custom of the royal daughters each choosing some trusted older friend of the family to act in her best interest. And eventually, as these things do, the custom was taken up by the noble families, and finally all families."
"I see. So what's the English version of Djenko?"
Artie covered the second omelet and commenced the third. "Funny thing that, James. As it happens, the name Djenko translates into English as.."
"James."
Oh! Both men turned as the galley door into the corridor swung open and Anushche walked in. Jim had obviously made her the loan of a nightshirt and dressing gown, both of which were too big on her. She came over and wrapped her arms around Artie's middle. "Good morning, Artemus," she said.
"Tansha mjana, droshinje," he responded, laying a kiss on the top of her head, making sure the contact was well insulated by her hair.
She moved to Jim next and gave him a hug as well. "Good morning, James."
"Anushche," he replied, "were you listening at the door long?"
"Long enough." Smiling at Artie, she said, "You tell the story well."
"Thank you, thank you," he answered, turning from the range to transfer the final omelet to the final plate. "And… voilà! Breakfast is ready. James, if you would lead the way?"
Each took a plate into the dining area, and while Jim held Anushche's chair for her, Artie fetched coffee cups and silverware to finish laying the table, then poured the coffee for their guest and himself, also refreshing Jim's. A relaxed meal ensued, with leisurely and inconsequential conversation.
At length Artie rose and cleared most of the table, then poured more coffee all around before returning to his seat and giving Jim a look that said he was ready. Jim nodded, then turned to the girl and explained to her about the telegram he had sent to Washington. "In the meantime," he said, "considering that we will almost certainly be sent back after Irenje, we need to know as much as possible about what was done to the pair of you. And so, Anushche, I need you to tell us about the chairs."
She shrank back, glancing from Jim to Artie. "No," she whispered. "Please! I do not wish to talk about the chairs!"
"Anushche, I'm sorry to ask you this, but it is necessary that we know..."
She turned away from Jim and cast pleading eyes at Artie. "Artemus, please!"
"Droshche, we wouldn't ask if it weren't crucial." He laid his hand over hers, flinched, but smiled determinedly. "Do what James asks of you, katjenje," he added. He patted her hand, then let go.
"Are… are you sure?"
"Anushche," said Jim, drawing her attention to himself again, "you know that Artemus and I are your friends. We want to help you. But to do that, we need to understand what was done to you and to your sister. Do you see?"
Slowly she nodded.
"Now, the machine had two chairs. You sat in one chair, and she in the other?"
Nod.
"And then what happened?"
"They… they strapped down our wrists and ankles, and put what looked like crowns with wires all over them onto our heads."
"All right. Go on."
She frowned. "There… there was some sort of switch that turned the machine on, and then lights and noise." She fell silent and shuddered, then whispered brokenly, "Please… It, it hurt. As if I would die, it hurt."
Artie's hand covered hers again, a napkin to prevent full contact. And Jim said, "Go on when you're ready."
She nodded, head down, eyes closed, willing herself past the worst of the memory. At last she said, "Finally the lights and noise stopped, and then Professor Smiler made us put on the gloves. At that point I was led away and locked up."
"Did he have you touch anything?"
"Not then. Later. A rabbit was brought to me, lying in a heap in the bottom of its cage. He said to touch it, and then it got up and hopped about."
"I see. Anushche, this is what I think happened. I think Professor Smiler's chairs somehow gave to your sister and you the ability to remove life or restore it with a touch. She kills; you heal. Right, Artie?"
"That's how I see it."
"But… but that is terrible! Why should he want to do such a thing?"
"From what Smiler and Matilda were saying," said Jim, "for revenge."
"Revenge? But on whom?"
"Apparently the men of some committee turned down Smiler for some honor. And, like all thwarted evil geniuses, he wanted to teach them a lesson."
"Where have I ever heard that before?" Artie muttered.
"But… why would Irenje go along with this? Killing people? She would never… She would…" Her voice trailed off as realization hit her. "No. Oh, no!" Anushche looked up at the two men, at Artemus and at James. "She… It was she…? The kiss-mark on dear Dr Rodin's cheek?"
Grimly, both men nodded.
Miss Anushche's hand came up and covered her own cheek. "But… she kissed me too! She wanted to…?" Horror filled her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Anushche," said Artie.
"But why? She's my sister! I would do anything for her!"
"I don't know why, droshche," he replied quietly.
"But…" The poor kid dropped her face into her hands and began to weep.
Artie pulled her close and held her, pressing again a kiss into her hair, patting her shoulder, murmuring to her in her native tongue while she used a napkin to staunch her tears. She raised her head at last, blinking back the last of the tears, said to Artie, "Kedurshte djo, djenko mujo." Then she turned to Jim and asked, "What do we do now?"
"We," and he pointed at Artie and himself, "wait for instructions from Washington. You, young lady…"
"…should think about getting dressed," Artie finished for him.
"Dressed! But," she shook her head, "I haven't any clean clothes."
"Oh ye of little faith!" said Artie, getting to his feet and gesturing toward the corridor. "Come and see, droshinje muje." Curious, she followed him along the corridor and across to the baggage car where he dramatically flung open the door for her. And she gasped.
It wasn't the pair of stalls to the left, occupied by the pair of horses. It wasn't the laboratory equipment to the right, nor the collection of plaster life-masks on the walls, nor the surrendering arms jutting up from the floor, nor the framed felt square boasting a couple of dozen examples of phony facial hair. No, what drew Anushche's attention and elicited the gasp was the impressive display of luggage and boxes, piles and piles of them, all monogrammed with the letter Z.
"Our things!" she squealed in delight. "How capital!" She clapped her hands, then threw her arms round Artie's neck and kissed his cheek.
"Ah!" He swayed, then chuckled. "Anushche, droshinje, it's better if you don't do that."
She leaned back, eyes wide. "But why not, djenko mujo? And why," she added, "why did you drape that napkin over my hand earlier? I thought you were not afraid of touching me."
"Afraid, no. But we have to be practical about things, droshinje. How would I be able to do my job if we had a repeat of last night? Touch you too long, and I wind up passed out drunk on the floor!"
"Ah," she said, and not without a certain amount of disappointment. But then the delight of having fresh clothing restored her happy demeanor. "But tell me, Artemus droshtafko, how did our things come to be here?"
"Simple. When James and I pulled into the station yesterday, just before we met with Dr Rodin, we spoke to the station master, and when he mentioned that he had your luggage in storage at the station, we asked him to load it all into our baggage car." He waved a hand at the profusion of cases. "Go find something to wear. That is, ah, but don't take very long about it, please."
She crinkled her nose at him, then went poking through the piles. "This one. This has some of my more practical clothing in it, but it's at the bottom of the stack. If you would…?"
Artie came over and moved things about for her. She dimpled a Thank you at him, then fumbled at the closure. "Oh!"
"Problem?"
"Dasda! It is locked! And… and…" She looked at him and threw a hand over her mouth, then whispered, "Oh! And Dr Rodin had the keys!"
"Allow me," said Artie. He crossed into the lab area, produced a finger-long bit of metal from one of the drawers, returned to the case and deftly popped the lock for her. "There you go, droshche. Enjoy."
She thanked him and began happily pulling out garments, holding them up against herself, making up her mind. While she was thus occupied, Artie went over to see about the horses.
The door opened and Jim came in. "Artie."
"Hmm?"
Jim was holding out a copy of the local newspaper. Artie took it and read the headline above the fold: Three Prominent Local Scientists Found Dead. Jim then pointed out a curious detail given in the second paragraph of the article.
Artie whistled softly. "Print of a kiss on each dead man's cheek, hmm? Looks like…" He glanced at Anushche and fell silent.
Jim nodded. "Someone's been busy overnight." He rolled up the newspaper and passed it to Artie. "I'm going to go see what else I can find out about these murders. You stay here and…"
"Stay? I thought we weren't doing the 'Artie waits on the siding' scenario anymore!"
"Usually, no. But someone needs to be here to take the message when the orders come in from Washington."
"Oh. Right."
"And besides, Artie. At least this time you'll have company."
"True." He glanced at Anushche and added, "And very pleasant company at that."
Jim gave him a thump on the shoulder, then saddled up his horse while Artie opened the side door for him and let down the ramp. Anushche watched all this with interest. Then, as Jim led the stallion down the ramp, she called out something in Pterovnian that he was sure included the word djenko.
"What was that?" he asked.
She grinned. "I was only saying, 'Good-bye, James.'"
Jim's eyes slid to Artie. He was rubbing at the back of his neck, smirking a bit. "Well, that is what she said. Except that verbatim it was, 'Atuchejnte djo, Djenko.' "
"I thought you were her djenko, Artie."
"Oh, I am, I am. But you're everyone's djenko. You see, you asked me earlier what the name Djenko becomes in English, and as I was about to answer, Anushche interrupted. Well… it means James." Artie grinned and waved. "Atuchejnte djo, Djenko!"
Jim gave him a long look, then mounted the horse and rode off.
As he rode back to the Wanderer, James West could only conclude that it had all been essentially a wasted trip. He had gone to see both the coroner and the chief of police. The coroner had only assured him that, as he had found no obvious causes of death for any of the men, it must certainly have been natural causes in all three cases. The lip-prints? Bah - coincidence! No doubt whoever found them had kissed them for reasons of sentiment.
As for the police chief, he had taken one look at West's Federal identification and launched into an impassioned tirade against Washington interfering in local matters, as well as against carpetbaggers and Yankees in general. And Jim, in recalling that interview now, magnanimously edited out the bulk of the chief's more colorful adjectives.
The chief, plainly, was of no mind to either accept help or offer it. The only bit of information West had gleaned at all was from the coroner, who had acknowledged that the deceased trio had comprised a committee which had recently awarded a $10,000 prize to a local inventor. That, and the fact that a certain Angus Smiler had a minor reputation in the Atlanta environs for being a crackpot.
Jim rode up to the train, tied the stallion to the railing of the rear platform and entered the varnish car. "Artie?" he called as he came in, "did we get that mess…?"
Mess was the word for it. Most of the chairs were overturned, books everywhere, the desk lamp smashed. And lying in a heap in the middle of the floor was…
"Artie!"
~~~ FREEZE FRAME ~~~
End of Act 3
The link to the drawing I made for the Freeze Frame at the end of Act 3 in on my profile page.