Act Four, Part One

A carriage drew up at the warehouse, disgorging four passengers. The last one out was a large man in white. The man who helped him to descend then reached in to grab a carpetbag, and followed that up by supporting the big man as the others growled at them to hurry.

Just as they reached the door, they heard another carriage arrive. From it alighted a small man and a regal woman, along with three big bruisers. As the quintet headed for the door as well, Artie spotted that one of the bruisers was carrying a case. A very familiar case. Ah, then either Memphis or Zorana had made a direct play to snatch the Phoenix, thought Artie. And as that case was here, a certain agent in blue would surely be in the vicinity as well.

And yes, Artie spotted a quick flash of powder-blue as someone slipped off the boot of the carriage to disappear around the nearest corner of the warehouse. Had anyone else noticed Jim? He hoped not. But as Artie turned back toward the door, he found Herr Koch was watching him intently, his brows drawn down. The German pointed back toward the second carriage by means of a slight movement of his chin and hissed, "Der Phönix?"

Ah, so it wasn't Jim's presence that had caught Koch's attention, but the arrival of the treasure! No doubt about it, the German was quick on the uptake. Artie gave a nearly imperceptible nod and whispered back, "Ja," since that was the whole point of using the case, to make everyone believe the real Phoenix was in it. Happy to have furthered the ruse, Artie leaned heavily on Koch's arm as the bodyguard supported him toward the now-open door.

"You!" A swish of skirts accompanied by the sound of a woman's shoes rapidly clicking closer led Artie to turn back. He saw the fury written across Countess Zorana's face, saw the way her eyes flashed directly at him and the way her hand was raised on high and drawing back - and he dodged. Just in time, too. Her slap whizzed by less than an inch from his nose. The dodge, he knew, was far more dexterous than a man of his purported bulk and state of health should have been able to pull off, but the thought of how her slap might well have knocked off the fake jowls he'd glued to his face had been ample reason for him to move fast.

And then he let himself fall down onto his keister, just to come across as being every bit as awkward as his fat suit made him look.

"Herr Kutman!" Koch exclaimed. He bent to help him up, then brushed the dust from his white suit.

A screech drew their attention. One of the bruisers had caught the countess about the waist and was holding her in mid-air as she protested mightily. "You!" she accused again, pointing at Kutman. "This is all your fault! If you hadn't stolen the Phoenix…!"

"I? I stole the Phoenix?' Artie intoned, affronted. "My dear madame! How dare you accuse me of stealing the Phoenix when its case was clearly in the possession of you and your confederate!"

"Ah…!" The countess gaped at Kutman for a moment, then turned her furious glare upon Memphis. "Bartholomew, you told me…!" she fumed.

The little man gave a nervous, "Heh," and scurried away toward the open door, giving a little polite nod to the bruisers at either side as he rushed past them to go in.

The toughs who had collected Kutman and Koch scowled at them, urging them inside as well, while the man who still held the seething Zorana up off her feet growled at her, "Well, lady? You gonna cooperate?"

She glowered for a long moment before giving a swift silent nod of her head. "Good choice, lady," said the man as he set her down. She yanked herself out of his grasp almost before her feet touched the ground, then swept away from him, her head held high. As she entered the building, her glittering eyes fell on Memphis, at whom she hissed, "I'll deal with you later!"

Memphis grinned nervously and sidled away. He couldn't put very much space between himself and his angry confederate, though, for the toughs and the bruisers were herding all four captives from the entrance straight toward an inner door, at which one of the toughs knocked loudly.

…

Professor Montague clutched his valise to his breast and goggled at the young woman. "You cannot be serious!" he exclaimed.

"Well, of course I'm serious, Professor," she replied, her voice as soft as ever and perfectly reasonable, as if to say that aiming a cocked gun at a man was an absolutely normal part of her day. "You're carrying the Florentine Phoenix," she said. "I'm sure of it. That was to be your part in this scheme. But I've seen through the subterfuge. While everyone was supposed to be running around in a panic searching for the bird - James West included - you were to simply take a train and head East - to Denver first, I'm sure, and then on to Washington. And you can still do that - minus the Phoenix, of course." Dimpling again, she held out the hand that wasn't pointing the gun at him. "Provided you live, that is. The Phoenix, Professor."

"But… but I…" he sputtered.

She gave a sigh. "Oh now, don't be tiresome. I used to be a professional assassin. No one expected a pretty young thing like me to suddenly turn and kill him. But I eventually gave that up and turned to theft. So much tidier, you see. However," and her eyes turned cold, "don't imagine that the fact that shooting you will leave a large pool of blood on that expensive Persian rug on which you happen to be standing - don't imagine, Professor, that knowing that will stay my hand."

Montague blinked and took an involuntary step backward.

She smiled, flashing her dimples again. "Oh, how considerate of you to spare my rug!" Her finger began to tighten on the trigger.

A knock sounded at the door.

She paused. "Hmm. It seems our other visitors have arrived. Very well, Professor, I shan't kill you. Yet, that is." She pulled out a key and dropped in on the table. "Thatcher, get the door." And as one of her gunmen moved to obey, the woman pointed the barrel of her gun at a bare patch of floor while she carefully uncocked the hammer. "There." Smiling, ever smiling, she slipped the gun out of sight under the table again and turned to greet her new guests.

…

The door was opened by a man whose pugnacious attitude easily made him the twin of any of the five bruisers and toughs escorting the four captives. The impromptu doorman stepped back to let the newcomers enter.

The countess, naturally, was the first in through the door, accompanied by the bruiser bearing the case. Memphis scooted in right behind them, his mournful eyes locked on the case which he could see but not touch. Next came Koch, carefully supporting the pallid Kutman. The remainder of their escorts crowded in as well, after which the doorman locked up again.

Artie was playing his role of a man deathly ill right to the hilt, his steps faltering as Koch helped him along. From under half-lidded eyes, Artie took in the layout of the large room into which they'd been brought, noting the armed minions scattered behind the stacks of boxes and barrels, noting also the incongruous parlor area in the middle of the room. At the sight of Prof Montague standing there with his valise clutched to his chest, Artie had to stifle a groan. But it was when he turned his attention to the pretty young woman seated regally in her chair behind the table that Artie nearly choked. Her! Her! He recognized her at once: the brunette hair, the heart-shaped face, the wide dark eyes under thick eyelashes. "Of course!" he murmured to himself sotto voce, "why did I never think of the name Joy?"

"Was ist das?" asked Koch.

"Nothing," said Artie, then repeated his answer in German.

The young woman now came to her feet with the grace of a trained dancer. "Do come in, all of you," she said, "and be seated. Professor, you may take a chair as well. Oh, and Rayburn, please bring that case here and set it on the table. Thatcher, I'd like that man's carpetbag as well." She pointed at Koch. "And you, Professor. Your valise belongs on the table here also."

Koch was loathe to give up his carpetbag, arguing in German until Artie murmured something placating to him. And if Koch was slow to relinquish his bag, the professor was even more so.

The young woman watched in silence for a few moments, then sighed. "Professor," she said, a hint of sharpness slipping into her gentle voice. "Remember what we were speaking of just before the rest of the guests arrived."

Blanching, Montague shot a chagrined glance at Kutman, then gave up the valise.

"Well!" said their hostess, taking her seat again behind the three varied pieces of luggage on the table before her. "And now, my honored guests, won't you all sit down?"

Scowling, the countess perched herself in a chair. And once all the ladies were seated, the men sat down as well.

"There!" said the hostess. "And now I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all together here. And for that matter, while the countess knows me quite well, as does Gaspar…"

She was on a first-name basis with Kutman? thought Artie, endeavoring to betray not a whit of surprise on his face.

"…the rest of you do not. You, I suppose, are Mr Memphis?" She glanced at the little man, who nodded. "And this," she added, turning, "must be Herr Koch. Guten Tag, mein Herr."

Koch nodded and responded in kind.

She smiled at them all. "…whereas I am an international jewel thief and erstwhile assassin. My name…" She paused dramatically. "…is Ecstasy La Joie."

"Ecstasy! Of course, that's it!" exclaimed the professor. "Oh, I knew it was synonymous with 'happy'! I'm not completely batty."

"My dear Professor, of course you aren't," Miss La Joie assured him. Turning her pretty smile upon the room in general, she said, "But now down to business. I've called you all here to inform you that I now have the Phoenix." She leaned back in her chair and proclaimed, "Let the bidding begin."

…

Jim had watched surreptitiously as Artie and the rest were taken inside the warehouse. He then headed around back, looking for another way in. He shortly came across the two carriages. One of the drivers was talking to his horse as he went over the animal and harness to make sure all was in order. "After all, who knows, Charlie?" he told the horse jovially. "Job like this, we might just hafta get outta here in a big hurry, so I want ya ta be ready ta vamoose." He finished checking everything, gave the horse an affectionate pat, then turned.

To find the barrel of a gun in his face. The driver gaped, eyes wide, at the man in powder-blue at the business end of the revolver. "Wha…?"

"You're not going anywhere," said West. "You were just involved in a kidnapping, and so you're under arrest. Now where's the other driver?"

The click of a hammer being cocked gave him the answer as the cold iron mouth of a muzzle pressed up against his head right by his ear. "Lookin' fer me, were ya, me bucko?" came a voice from much too close behind him. "Seems like instead of arrestin' me good friend Stansbury there, ya'll be handin' yer gun over to 'im, nice an' easy-like. Hmm?"