CHAPTER 31 - SMOKE, CHAINS, AND HEAT

At about noon Bradford Cananticle Monforte IV, Royal, Dauphan of Second Life, Associate Professor, and famed historian, and Head of the Anti-Monarchist Party sat upright in bed smoking his calabash meerschaum pipe. The Chair stood next to Muffin’s bed and directed a flaming tapir to the edge of the pipe. Muffin puffed, then paused, and puffed again. The Chair dropped the tapir on the floor and it sauntered to its soft bed in front of a roaring fireplace. Then Muffin blew a series of small smoke rings.

“Fine, Sindy’s going to be just fine,” said The Chair. “I think she will be able to assume her duties tomorrow. We can’t let the free press run wild. Not at a time like this.”

Muffin smiled. He had taken a liking to the Queen of the Night and was anxious that she recover and visit him again. “Ta burns and thats scar?” queried Muffin.

“Well the burns have quiet remarkably subsided, and all within an hour or so. Dr. Adams is very happy with her remarkably swift recovery but he is at a complete loss as to what happened and the nature of her affliction. The scar has healed as well, but it has left a mark,” said The Chair. A good foundation should conceal it he thought.

Muffin drew another puff on his hand carved pipe and looked out the window toward the capital. The falling snow was taking a break, but the bitter wind was exercising its full power and moaning under the exertion. The large windows in Muffins bed chamber occasionally rattled under the impact of a sudden gust.

Muffin looks sad and worried, thought The Chair. Muffin’s usually cheerful air of nonchalance and disinterest in things temporal, or topical, or for that matter essential was missing.

“Is shouldf stopped it,” said Muffin softly as he tapped his pipe on a platinum and black pearl encrusted pipe knocker. He lay the pipe aside, and seemed to carefully examine the pipe stand with its array of pipes and smoking accessories. Muffin turned and looked toward The Chair, their eyes did not meet. A bit louder Muffin repeated himself, “Is shouldf stopped it, befores it went so fars.”

“I too should have stopped it, but I simply did not know the power of it all,” said The Chair.

“Nos ones does,” said Muffin. “Whos would haves guessed thats there would be Ta Confluence and Release. I haves never seens its myself. Buts Pappa and Mums had seens it. Awfulls, aufulls theys said. Tragic.” Said Muffin with great sadness.

“Yes, I simply forgot about the Curse, and now Sindy will carry the mark of the curse for the rest of her life,” said The Chair. The snow, rested and refreshed by the brisk wind, resumed falling across the capital. “I wonder where she got the broche with the symbol?” wondered The Chair.

“Auntie Clotilda “ta Confuseds” wasf Queen of Thuringia ans Trans-Offal. Shes sold it ins 125 BSL whens ta market crashef and shes needed to buys a spring wardrobes,” said Muffin. “Ta broche escapeff into ta great unwashed, and wasf lost.”

“And the jewels?” asked The Chair.

“Is don’t knowf, but I’s sure The Order will act at ta new Moons,” said Muffin.

The chair looked out the window again. The new moon was three days away, on a Monday. They must be prepared by midnight Monday. “We should pack our bags soon Muffin. Sodom Mountain is a long trip into the hinterlands.” The Chair wished they could seek help from the Governor or perhaps from Chris, but secrecy was needed lest more avatars die unnecessarily in the chaos to come. They must maintain the secret that only the Chair, Muffin, and The Order understood.

Muffin did not reply, he was thinking of The Curse of the family jewels and the crown. Poor Sindy, the protective spirit of the curse had attacked her because she was not “the Chosen One.” She was not a Ben. She had almost died a horrible death. But then Adel had intervened with her senseless stunt and stopped the progression of calamity and impending disaster by stealing the Monforte Crown and its cursed jewels.

A heavy pounding could be heard on the small door in the Aerodrome. Daggy thought to herself, “Great, just great, visitors at a time like this.” Daggy walked to the door and pulled back the bar and pulled the door open. A blast of frigid icy air hit her hard in the face and knocked her once proud white sailors cap onto the floor. Daggy looked into the gloom of the night. She saw several ‘civilian’ guards standing in the dark. “Come in, Come in,” she said.

The civilian guards did not move. They were not allowed in the high security area. “Sign here,” the shorter guard said, handing Daggy a clip board with a pen attached by a string. Daggy signed without even looking at the form. She spent much of every day signing forms like this one. Daggy was about to close the door, when a dark and wet form was shoved through the door and onto the floor. The man was shackled hand and foot and his clothes were barely recognizable – a tattered and torn reserve officer’s uniform without insignia of rank or division. A small key attached to a cheap chain flew in after the prisoner. Daggy slammed shut the door.

Ed looked up and into the blinding pickle arc lights of the enormous hangar. He recognized Daggy immediately, but Daggy did not recognize him. Ed felt shame and a deep hurt at his treatment by his Navy brethren.

Tek wandered over and looked down. “Get me a warm blanket. Now!” yelled Tek to a nearby apron tender.

Daggy knelt down and assisted the man to his feet. He was dirty and disheveled and badly bruised. As Tek unlocked the handcuffs and shackles, Daggy reached and wiped away the mud and ice from the prisoners face. Daggy now recognized their charge. Ed Hallard had arrived and now the mission team was complete.

“Ed Hallard, Capt…,” Ed started to say. He paused, “Ed Hallard, reporting for duty mam.”

Daggy grabbed Ed’s shivering and wet form and gave him a tight loving hug.

“Mallory, Mallory Sauternau,” said a tall impressive woman wrapped in an olive trench coat to the armed matron at the security station in the Museo.

“Yes Ms. Satuternau, please follow me,” the matron said and they approached the elevator. Mallory looked about the place. The reception hall was full of Capital City cops. They were everywhere. You could smell the stink of fear, booze and corruption on them.

Mallory spotted the Chief surrounded by a group of flunkies, his entourage she thought. The Chief was picking his nose and Mallory’s former boss Chief of Detectives Flossy Ilocast was pawing through her purse desperately looking for a tissue. The Chief was about to give a press conference. Mallory was glad when the elevator door opened. She was afraid of what she might have shouted to the gathering press.

They reached the office floor of the museo and proceeded to the Director’s office. The door opened and there stood Chris Llanfair head of the Reserve Bank. Chris motioned Mallory into the surprisingly cramped office. Mallory recognized Chris from his picture which frequently appeared in The Times. She occasionally read The Times while lining the kitty potty for her scrawny tabby cat Fru-Fru.

Chris quickly explained the situation. The Jewels were state property and of enormous value to Second Life. They must be returned as quickly as possible and placed in the Reserve Bank and Counting House. The future of Second Life may well depend upon Mallory’s success, Chris had said. The theft was a professional job and expertly executed. The thieves had probably used stun grenades and perhaps smoke bombs to confuse and blind any potential witnesses. Chris then carefully said, “Governor Linden has no confidence in the Capital City Police, he does however have great confidence in Mallory Sauternau. He knows about the Goodword case, and regrets the loss of your partner.”

“How much?” said Mallory.

“How much?” replied Chris. “How much do you need?”

Mallory thought for a moment. Why was the reserve bank involved? Why Mallory? And the mention of the Governor? This was some important heist she thought.

“250 a day plus expenses,” Mallory said.

“Fine,” said Chris. “There will be a significant bonus if you get the jewels back by the close of the market on Monday.”

Why Monday wondered Mallory. Probably some financial or insurance thing she thought.

“Are you packing?” asked Chris reaching for a brown paper wrapped package.

“No,” said Mallory. “I don’t carry since Goodword.”

“Here,” Chris said. “Your gonna need this.”

Mallory laughed and shook her head. “No, I don’t need heat to catch these thieves.”

Chris said, “I know you do. These are not ordinary thieves. Four are dead already and I assure you they will kill you, and everyone around you, when they learn about your assignment. These are not children we are dealing with. They are professional killers.”

Four dead already wondered Mallory. There had been no mention of four dead on the radio. Only the stolen jewels.

Mallory took the package. The package was heavy.