Troubles in the Brasses

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “I’ll squash them flat.” Sir Emlyn was really warming up to his new job. “That will thwart the varmints good and proper. By the way, son, not to be indelicate but what are we going to do about what my old nanny used to call the vahses?”

  “We let everybody cope with his or her own,” said Madoc firmly. “I hadn’t given it much thought, Tad; what would you suggest? Have people holler ‘gardy loo’ and chuck it out the upstairs window in the Edinburgh tradition? Or dig a decent-sized hole to empty them into and throw earth on top?”

  “The latter course seems the less objectionable. Very well, son, though I may not be much of a hand at digging. It wouldn’t do for me to sprain a shoulder on the way to the festival, assuming we ever get there.”

  “Oh, we will. Our plane must have been reported overdue by now. I expect there’s a search on already.”

  “But how will the searchers know where to look? We didn’t go the route we were intended to, you know.”

  Madoc didn’t have to be reminded. “If we had, we’d have been found already, though possibly not in the best of shape. This way, it will simply take a bit longer.”

  “Of course, son. We must count our blessings. Here, I can do that. Why don’t you nip on upstairs and get yourself shaved? We have to maintain the dignity of my position, you know.”

  Sir Emlyn permitted himself a sly chuckle as he tied a tea towel around his waist for an apron and began to scrape the plates. Madoc smiled back, took the tea kettle in lieu of a pitcher, and went upstairs.

  His mother was not in the parental bedroom. She must be down the hall comforting the afflicted. It was as well she was not in the kitchen having a fainting fit at the sight of her distinguished husband in his present occupation. Actually, Sir Emlyn was showing his usual expert leadership, Madoc realized. Once it got about that the maestro himself was pitching in with the dog work, there might be less of the cut finger routine and more shoulders to the wheel.

  And a damned good thing, too. Madoc had no inclination to remain the lone skivvy for whatever the duration of their stay might be. He was lathering his chin with his father’s shaving cream when Lady Rhys came back.

  “Madoc, whatever are you doing here?”

  “Shaving, Mother. We have Tad’s position to think of, you know.”

  “But what about the washing-up? And where is your father?”

  “Washing dishes. How’s your patient?”

  “Much better, thank goodness. Her throat’s not so sore. She has it wrapped up in a scarf and says the warmth is doing some good. Lucy’s taking it wonderfully well, I have to say. Some women would be totally shattered. Madoc, what did you say your father was doing?”

  “The washing-up, Mother. As soon as he finishes that, we’re going to dig a latrine out back to dump the slops into.”

  “Madoc, dear, I realize it’s incumbent upon all of us to keep our spirits up during this difficult time, but I must tell you that I find your attempts at humor a trifle coarse for my personal taste. Is your father planning to call a rehearsal?”

  “He didn’t say. He was busy squashing tins so the varmints won’t get them. Listen, Mother, do you hear that?”

  Actually, there was a great deal to hear since most of the party were still in their bedrooms: splashing and swearing as they tried to take baths in the tin basins; lamenting the lack of electricity for their razors, scalp massagers, garment steamers, curling irons, and mechanical toothbrushes; running through their scales; or, as in Ainsworth Kight’s case, spraying their throats. From far over the hubbub, however, came the unmistakable drone of an airplane engine.

  And from the interior of the hotel came a mass pounding of feet as the castaways abandoned whatever they were doing and raced pell-mell down the stairs, and out into the road. Still plying his father’s razor, Madoc watched from the front window as they waved their arms, musical instruments, throat sprayers, and in one case a ruffled crimson pettiskirt. That was Delicia Fawn, standing there in an off-the-shoulder Carmen-style blouse and practically nothing else. If she didn’t fetch that plane down, nothing would.

  “Look at that idiot woman! She’ll catch a cold and be hoarse as a frog for the festival,” fumed Lady Rhys. “Here, Madoc, for goodness’ sake take this blanket down to her before she freezes her protuberances.”

  Madoc scraped off what he hoped was the final inch of whiskers, splashed in the basin to dissolve any clinging smears of lather, rubbed his face dry on the first towel he could lay hands on, and ran downstairs to join the welcoming committee.

  He was just in time to witness the landing, which was a remarkably bad one. The plane bucked and bounced and seesawed like a kid’s teeter-totter, and almost smacked into the grounded Grumman before it finally joggled to a safe stop.

  “My God, who’s that? The Wright brothers?”

  That was Ed Naxton, and his question was a valid one. Not many of those present had ever laid eyes on an open-cockpit triplane, or any kind of triplane, for that matter. That anybody could be flying such an antiquated crate among the treacherous downdrafts of this mountainous area was a matter for wonderment. None of the watchers was at all surprised when the pilot climbed out over the left lower wing wearing jodhpurs with big patches on the seat and knees, a peeling sheepskin jacket, a Lucky Lindy helmet with the chinstraps dangling, cracked and blurred goggles, and a once-white scarf wound four or five times around his neck and still having plenty of frayed ends left to trail in the approved manner. This magnificent man in his flying machine did in fact appear to be male, and he was alone.

  Madoc’s first thought was that this must be one of the turns they put on for the tourists at the ghost town. The pilot was gazing over the assemblage: Delicia, now cocooned in Lady Rhys’s blanket, accepting a squirt of throat spray from Ainsworth Kight; Jason Jasper and Cedric Rintoul with their respective trumpet and trombone to their lips, tooting a snatch of “Come, Josephine, in My Flying Machine”; Madame Bellini and Jacques-Marie Houdon dignified and impassive; Joe Ragovsky and all the rest bouncing with excitement, except for David Gabriel, who remained totally blank.

  The newcomer took off his helmet, presumably so that he could scratch his head. Then he put it back on, shoved his goggles up on top, leaned over to check out the tussocky ground, and finally sat on the wing with his legs dangling. His apparent intention was to let himself down, but it was easy to see why he was hesitating. The drop was maybe five feet, no jump at all for a young man; but this chap was seventy if he was a day. Ed and Steve had already caught on to his dilemma and were on their way to lend him a hand, so Madoc stayed with the waiters.

  As the triplane’s pilot approached, hobbling between Ed and Steve, Madoc judged seventy to have been a conservative estimate. This gaffer couldn’t be one of the Wright brothers, but he might conceivably have patronized their bicycle shop in his youth. He could even have bought the parts for his flying machine there, from what Madoc could see of it.

  At least he wasn’t bashful. He walked straight up to the group in front of the Miners’ Rest, tilted back his head, and roared, “You the bunch that got kilt in the plane crash?”

  Sir Emlyn was with them now. He’d forgotten to take the dish towel from around his waist and Madoc hadn’t seen fit to remind him. Lady Rhys, last to appear (except of course for Lucy Shadd, who hadn’t come at all), whisked the thing out of sight and gave her son one of those exasperated looks he’d been hoping he’d seen the last of. The towel wouldn’t have made any difference; Sir Emlyn was Sir Emlyn no matter what. He stepped forward and addressed the inquirer.

  “How do you do, sir? I am Emlyn Rhys, and these are members of the Wagstaffe Symphony Orchestra. We are on our way to the Fraser River Music Festival; our plane had to make a forced landing here last night. Are we fortunate enough to discover that you have come looking for us?”

  “You sure as shootin’ are, pardner. Ace Bulligan’s my name an’ flyin’s my game. Any casualties?”

  “None whatever, thanks to the skill of Mr. MacVit
tie here. However, we are without power to continue our journey and also with no means of communication, so we’re most grateful to you for coming to our rescue. How did you know where to find us?”

  “Smart flyin’ or dumb luck, dependin’ on how you look at it. Ol’ Moxie Mabel had a little juice in ’er so I thought I might’s well go up an’ take a look around, but she won’t climb too good so all’s I could do was comb the flatlands, of which there ain’t none to speak of around here, ’cept Lodestone Flat, which is where you’re standin’ now in case you didn’t know. I smelt your smoke an’ knowed the Miners’ Rest was bunged up tight shut for the winter so when I seen your plane settin’ down in front of ’er, I figured I must o’ found the missin’ murderers.”

  “Murderers? I fail to understand you, sir. As I said before, we are musicians.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice, mister. I ain’t deaf. Not that deaf, anyhow. You’re the buggers who done in some other poor son of a bitch that played the coronet.”

  “Do you mean cornet? What cornet? The cornet is primarily a band instrument. We don’t use them all that much in orchestral music.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me, mister. Maybe it was a kazoo or a bugle. Like them things them two buzzards over there is carryin’. You ain’t kiddin’ me none for all your hifalutin’ talk. You didn’t even shoot ’im down like a white man. You bunged ’im full o’ some kind o’ fancy rat pizen an’ left ’im to drown in his own puke while you made your darin’ escape in that there flyin’ saloon over there. I heard it on the six o’clock news this mornin’.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Bulligan.” Madoc thought he might as well horn in here, since his father was looking decidedly out of his element. “This cornet player you’re talking about, was he in fact a French horn player, and was his name Wilheim Ochs?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Dead as a strung-up rustler in front o’ three million people.”

  “Three million?”

  “Well, three thousand. Three hundred. Three somethin’. What difference does it make? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? You look like kind of a sneaky little cuss to me. You the one that slipped ’im the pizen?”

  No, but I’m the cuss who’s going to pinch you for flying an unregistered plane, Madoc thought of replying. It was inconceivable that such an agglomeration of baling wire and wishful thinking could have passed any sort of inspection within the past thirty years. However, Ace Bulligan was at the moment their only hope of a linkup with the outside world, and all they could do was humor him along.

  “Wilhelm Ochs was a member of the orchestra which Sir Emlyn Rhys here is conducting,” he explained in as unsneaky a manner as he could manage. “He became ill during last night’s performance, collapsed backstage after the concert was over, and died just before the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. He’d been having serious problems with his stomach for quite some time and it was assumed at the time we left that he’d died of natural causes. Otherwise, we shouldn’t have been allowed to leave. If you have definite information that Mr. Ochs was poisoned, we naturally want to know the details. Can you remember exactly what was said on the radio?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “Oh, sorry. My name is Madoc Rhys. Sir Emlyn is my father and Lady Rhys over there in the tweed coat and skirt is my mother.”

  “Lady Rhys, huh? Howdy, ma’am.” Ace Bulligan raised his goggles and then his helmet by way of courtesy. “Used to be a Lady Lil worked at the Miners’ Rest. She wore black silk stockings an’ pink satin bloomers. Seen much o’ the Queen lately?”

  “Not since shortly after Christmas,” Lady Rhys answered quite matter-of-factly. “Her Majesty was in excellent health and spirits at that time, I may say.”

  “Well, next time you run into ’Er Majesty, tell ’er Ace Bulligan says hello. What’s a titled lady like you doin’ with a bunch o’ sidewinders like these here, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “They are not sidewinders, Mr. Bulligan, and I can assure you that Her Majesty would take an extremely dim view of your calling them rude names.”

  Lady Rhys had flipped open her lorgnette to give him a reproving glare, but she thought better of it just in time and switched to an ingratiating smile. “Now, would you please answer my son’s question? We are all deeply grieved over the death of Mr. Ochs and I personally find it most disturbing to learn that he may have been the victim of foul play.”

  “No maybe about it, ma’am. Accordin’ to what I heard on the news, somebody fed ’im castor oil.”

  “Castor oil wouldn’t have killed him! It would have”—Lady Rhys paused momentarily—“produced somewhat different symptoms from those he evinced last night.”

  “Well, it wasn’t just castor oil. It was something like castor oil. With rice in it. Seems to me it was the rice that done ’im in.”

  “Ricin,” said Madoc. “Of course. Ricin is what kills children who chew on the beans from the castor oil plant. They have a delayed reaction, sometimes several hours, sometimes a day or more. Ochs wasn’t a health food freak, by any chance?”

  “Hell, no,” said Joe Ragovsky. “He was a food freak, period. Bill liked his grub. What does this ricin taste like?”

  “I have no idea and am not too eager to find out,” said Madoc, “but I can’t imagine it’s too awful if kids eat the beans. You have to chew them to get the poisoning effect, otherwise they just slip through the digestive system intact. If you were to run a few through a food mill and mix the resulting mash with something spicy, I suppose you could get your intended victim to ingest a dose that would do the job. The kicker would be, you see, that he wouldn’t know he’d had any. He wouldn’t relate his symptoms to what he’d eaten because so much time had passed. By the time he began to feel sick, he’d already be in serious trouble, as Ochs plainly was for quite some time before he managed to get offstage.”

  “I ought to have noticed,” mourned Sir Emlyn.

  “I doubt whether your noticing would have made any difference, Tad. Ochs was clearly determined to tough it out. And he did, poor chap. Mr. Bulligan, you don’t by any chance have a two-way radio in your plane?”

  “You kiddin’? I ain’t even sure I got an engine.”

  “Then how about a battery that we might borrow in the hope it would operate the hotel’s radio?”

  “Huh. Mister, the only radio I own’s one o’ them weeny pocket transistor kind an’ the batteries is about the size o’ my little finger. An’ it’s in my shack about fifty miles from here an’ I don’t even know if I got juice enough in my tank to get home, never mind bring the dang thing back here.”

  “We could siphon some fuel out of our emergency tank for you,” Steve MacVittie offered. “Though I’m afraid it might not—” His gaze drifted over to the tattered wreck parked too near the Grumman, and his voice faltered into stillness.

  “Might not? You can bet your last two bits it might not, brother. You know what’d happen if I went an’ poured one little slug o’ them high-voltage atom squeezin’s you burn into my ol’ Moxie Mabel? She’d go straight into orbit an’ come down about a teaspoonful o’ rust an’ sawdust, that’s what.”

  “Then what do you run her on? Just regular gasoline, like a lawn tractor?”

  “I do when I can get it. Mostly I run ’er on homemade alcohol. I got a little what you might call a—”

  “Still?” Madoc suggested.

  “I was going to say processin’ plant. Anyways, that’s what she’s used to an’ she don’t seem to mind it none.”

  “There’s liquor on the plane,” said Ed Naxton. “I doubt if it’s as powerful as the stuff you make, but we could try.”

  A smile of wonderful radiance overspread the old flyer’s grizzled features. “Never can tell, pardner. You just trot ’er out, an’ we’ll give ’er a go.”

  Chapter 9

  THEY’D MADE A TERRIBLE mistake. Madoc had realized that as soon as the old aviator reacted to that magic word, liquor. It was too late now; Ace Bul
ligan was testing.

  “I got to find out whether this hooch is compatible with the stuff I been usin’, ain’t I? And there’s only one way to do that.”

  The two-liter bottle was large, but Bulligan’s thirst must be larger still. He was glugging down genuine Russian vodka straight from the bottle’s mouth, barely stopping to swallow. It was downright scary to watch.

  “Mr. Bulligan.” Madoc thought he’d better try to find out all he could while the old soak was still conscious. “Have you a map in the plane?”

  “Map?” Bulligan took the neck of the bottle out of his mouth long enough to catch his breath and consider the question. “What the hell would I want a map for? Us old-timers fly by the seat of our pants. Can’t you tell by lookin’ at mine? Here, have a slug on me.”

  Madoc shook his head. “Not just now, thanks. I’d like to know where we are.”

  “I told you where you are. You’re here, damn it.”

  “Yes, but I’d like to make the location a bit more precise. Where are we in relation, say, to Calgary or Edmonton?”

  “You ain’t no place near either one of ’em. Try me on Bickerdike.”

  “All right then, what about Bickerdike?”

  “You ain’t no place near there, neither. I just like the name.”

  “Then what town are we near? In other words, Mr. Bulligan, where might one reasonably hope to find a telephone or a two-way radio by means of which we can call for somebody to come and get us out of here?”

  “What the hell do you want to leave for? You just got here. Let ’em know where you are and they’ll slap you in jail. This ain’t a bad place to hide out, an’ I don’t mind havin’ a little company for a change. Gets kind of quiet up here alone in the wintertime. I hibernate, mostly.”

  “But you must need to get in supplies now and then,” Madoc persisted. “Where do you buy your food?”