He covered the microphone with his hand. “He says it’s Waldo Maldemer.” Then he returned his attention to the telephone. “Odd that you should ask that question, Wado,” he said. “It came up before, just a couple of minutes ago. A fellow named Fudd called . . .” Pause. “Yes, you’re right. Crudd was his name. Well, Mr. Crudd asked the same question. Why don’t you ask him what he found out?” Pause. “Well, if Edgar Crudd won’t tell you, Waldo,” Trapper said, “I don’t think I should, either. Nice talking to you, Waldo.” He dropped the phone into the cradle.
And again the phone rang immediately.
“My turn,” Hawkeye said. He picked the phone up and announced, “Office of the chief nurse, chief gall bladder snatcher speaking.”
“Wise guy!” Esther Flanagan snorted, momentarily diverting her attention from filling her martini glass.
“Hey, Horsey,” Hawkeye went on, “how’s every little thing?” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “It’s Colonel Jean-Pierre de la Chevaux. Let’s have a little quiet in here so I can hear the colonel.”
Trapper, very quietly, extended his martini glass to Nurse Flanagan, who very quietly filled it.
“Why?” Hawkeye inquired. “Is he missing?” Pause. “You don’t say? He ran away?” Pause. It was a very long pause, for Colonel de la Chevaux not only related in infinite detail what had happened on the stage of the Paris Opera during the Third Act of Wagner’s opera Siegfried but was forced to interrupt the narrative frequently as both he and Dr. Pierce chuckled, giggled, guffawed, and howled in appropriate places. But finally, as they say, the whole tale was told.
“Well, Horsey, that explains a good deal,” Hawkeye said. “On your word of honor as Grand Whosis, or whatever it is, of the Bayou Perdu Council, Knights of Columbus,* that you will hold what I tell you in absolute confidence, I’ll tell you what I know.”
(* Colonel de la Chevaux has for many years served as Supreme Grand Knight Commander of the Peace (sort of Sergeant-at-Arms Plenipotentiary) of the Bayou Perdu Council, Louisiana Consistory, Knights of Columbus. The Bayon Perdu Council is one of the more unusual councils of the K of C, mainly because it holds ten percent of the stock of Chevaux Petroleum Corporation, International. The income from this stock has made possible not only the 52.6-million Council Building in Bayou Perdu, Louisiana, where bar and food service is provided free of charge, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week to the knights, but the maintenance of annexes of the club house in sixteen locations, from Alaska’s north shore to the Kingdom of Hussid and the Sheikhdom of Abzug, wherever their employment with Chevaux Petroleum International has taken Bayou Perdu Council knights. After lengthy negotiations in 1974, presided over by His Eminence John Patrick Mulcahy, titular archbishop of Swengchan, China, chaplain of the council (and formerly chaplain of the 4077th MASH, U.S. Army), agreement was reached with the Framingham Foundation of Cambridge, Massachusetts, giving knights and fellows reciprocal guest privileges. The history of the Bayou Perdu Council was touched upon in M*A*S*H GOES TO NEW ORLEANS (Pocket Books, New York, 1975) for those with an interest in the operation of men’s social clubs, and the Washington Post (April 11-14, 1975) ran a series of articles charging that the secretary of state not only had accepted an honorary membership in what was described as “a male chauvinist sexist” organization but was known to have participated in full Bayou Perdu Council, K of C, uniform in “drunken revels” in Caracas, Venezuela, and on a drilling platform in the North Sea. The secretary immediately denied any participation in drunken revels but refused comment about his membership, honorary or otherwise.)
“Where is he?” Colonel de la Chevaux asked.
“Horsey,” Hawkeye said, his tone confidential, “I wouldn’t want this to get out, but I can tell you, I’m sure. Boris is spending thirty days in the country.”
“In the country?” Horsey asked. “Boris gets unnerved when he gets near a Christmas tree. What’s he doing in the country?”
“He’s in the company of an officer of the law,” Hawkeye said, softly. “A very large officer of the law, and when he’s not cooking, he’s chopping wood.”
There was a moment’s silence and then a chuckle.
“He’s doing thirty days on the country roads, is he?”
“You didn’t hear that from me,” Hawkeye said, quite truthfully.
“Drunk and disorderly?” Horsey inquired. He had had, before and after the discovery under his swamp of “the largest pool of natural gas on the North American continent,” enough experience with the law to be fully conversant with the nuances of police-court law enforcement.
“I can swear to you, Horsey, that he wasn’t disorderly here.”
“I notice you didn’t say nothing about drunk.”
“And I won’t,” Hawkeye replied. “But I have it, Horsey, on the very best authority that he was removed from the Framingham Foundation on a stretcher, carried by four of Tranquil Glades’ finest.”
Horsey chuckled appreciatively.
“Thirty days on the road’ll do him a lot of good,” Horsey said. “Fresh air, simple food, a little exercise.”
“I was thinking precisely the same thing,” Hawkeye replied.
“And I can see why he wouldn’t want something like that to get out,” Horsey said. “I appreciate your telling me this, Hawkeye.”
“I didn’t tell you anything,” Hawkeye said. “Now, can you keep Hassan out of it? I mean, Horsey, the one thing Boris doesn’t need is an Arab buddy, right now. The law enforcement officer might misunderstand.”
“Gotcha,” Horsey said. “I’ll think of something to tell Hassan.”
“And then you’ll have Hassan talk to Esmerelda Hoffenburg and the baroness?”
“No problem,” Horsey said. “Boris can do his thirty days without being bothered.”
“It’s been good to talk to you, Horsey,” Hawkeye said. “But I’ve got to get off the line. There’s another call.”
“I’ll see you in a month,” Horsey said. “We’ll throw a little ‘Welcome Out, Boris’ party for him.” The line went dead.
It was to ring once more, but not before Hawkeye had time to relate to Dr. McIntyre and Chief Nurse Flanagan the newest story from the world of grand opera. They were properly appreciative and still chuckling merrily when the phone rang again.
Nurse Flanagan took the call and handed the phone to Trapper John. “It’s the fat little kraut,” she said, rather skillfully mimicking his manner of speech. “If he’s nod tied up or nutting, maybe I could haf a liddle word wit duh doctor?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary.” Trapper John said, briskly, to the telephone. “How are things in international diplomacy?”
“Nod so good, to tell you duh truth,” the secretary said. “Be a good boy, Trapper, tell me: You god any idea where is Boris?”
“Boris who?”
“Boris Who Else? How many Borises you know, already?”
“Oh, you mean that Boris!”
“I mean dat Boris. Where is he? I vant you tell your secretary of state. Uncle Sammy needs to know.”
“Might I presume to inquire of you, Mr. Secretary, the reason for your inquiry?”
“You can knock off with duh fancy talk, Trapper, I’m the diplomat already.”
“Very well,” Trapper John replied. “So why do you want to know, Tubby?”
“Vud you believe the French ambassador was just here?”
“I didn’t know they were talking to us,” Trapper replied.
“Between you and me, I don’t know vhy dey are. You vouldn’t believe it, if I vas to tell you, vhich I ain’t going to, vhat Boris did to their opera.”
“Which opera was that?”
“Nod an opera,” the secretary said. “Vat I mean to say vas what Boris did to dere opera house. You know, dat funny-looking building wit’ all the dirty statues, around the corner from Harry’s New York Bar?”
“I believe I know the place,” Trapper John said.
“Vat a mess! Duh ambassado
r has pictures. He showed me. Oy vay! Anyway,” the secretary said, “he vas pardoned. The vay I hear it . . . which is from the CIA, so you gotta take it wit’ a grain of salt . . . the president’s vife moved out and vouldn’t move back in until he vas pardoned. Anyvay, dere is a pardon. Duh only little problem is, dere ain’t no Boris.”
“You don’t say?”
“So the French ambassador, vould you believe it, accused me.”
“Accused you of what?”
“Of hiding Boris.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Dat’s vat I asked him!”
“And what did he say?”
“He said I vas . . . and me a happily married man . . . trying to make trouble between the president and his vife! Can you believe dat?”
“I believe it,” Trapper John said.
“Now duh bottom line,” the secretary said. “Can you help me, Trapper?”
“You mean, do I know, and can I tell you, where he is?’
“Dat’s right,” the secretary said.
“I can tell you this, Tubby,” Trapper said, “Waldo Maldemer was just on the phone.’
“Waldo Maldemer? Duh vun vit duh low-slung cheeks? Dat Waldo Maldemer?”
“America’s most beloved television journalist,” Trapper said. “That one.”
“Oy vay! And he knows aboud dis?”
“I guess he does,” Trapper said. “He led me to believe that he was hot on Boris’ tail.”
“He didn’t happen to mention vere he thought he vas?”
“No,” Trapper said. “He just called to check in.”
“So I’ll call him,” the secretary said. “I’ll make dat sacrifice.”
“That’s very noble of you, Mr. Secretary.”
“You vouldn’t believe, believe me, vat I haf to do in dis job,” the secretary said. “Vun more ting, Trapper. If you should happen to bump into Boris somewhere, you’ll gif me a call?”
“That I will, Mr. Secretary,” Trapper said. He dropped the phone back in its cradle.
“That does it,” Hawkeye said. “With the exception of Hot Lips, we’ve detoured everybody away from here.”
“What are you going to do about Hot Lips,” John Francis Xavier McIntyre asked, “now that we have been betrayed by this Irish Mata Hari?”
“If worse comes to worse,” Hawkeye said, “if it gets to it, I’ll bite the bullet and tell her the truth.”
“But in the meantime, it’s nothing but peace and tranquillity in the deep woods for the big ape, right?” Trapper replied.
“And I’m sure that Hot Lips will be very understanding,” Nurse Flanagan said. “So, in a manner of speaking, the crisis is over, right?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Trapper John said. “A little less vermouth this time, Flanagan.”
Chapter Twelve
At ten minutes past midnight that same night, the radio telephone went off in the deep woods station of the Maine state police.
“Headquarters calling Station Zebra,” the radio said. The speaker was located about six inches from the cot on which Boris Alexandrovich Korsky-Rimsakov was sleeping the sound sleep of someone who had just cut a half-cord of wood and then quenched his thirst with a half-gallon of what he thought of as the vins de pay. A gallon of the potable had been delivered by Pierre DeBois as a small token of his gratitude to Trooper Harris for his services vis-à-vis the arrival of the latest little DeBois. Boris and Steve had meticulously, buddies to the core, split it between them.
Boris, nevertheless, was instantly awake. He grabbed the microphone.
“Go ahead, Headquarters,” he said, speaking softly so as not to disturb Steve Harris, who was snoring peacefully on the floor before the fireplace.
“That you, Steve?”
“Steve’s not here right now,” Boris said. “Can I take a message?’
“Who’re you?”
“I’m his cousin George, from Vilewater,” Boris lied quickly.
“Well, here’s the problem, George,” the state police headquarters dispatcher said. “We just got a call from Car Nine-Oh-Seven. He was cruising Interstate Ninety-five up near the potato chip factory. He reports he saw a maritime distress flare being fired over Lost Crystal Lake.”
“Over where?”
“The stream they dammed up to make a water supply for the senator’s potato chip factory. They call it Lost Crystal Lake.”
“So what?” Boris asked reasonably.
“Well, those things are color coded,” the dispatcher said. “And the flare . . . actually, Car Nine-Oh-Seven says they’re shooting one every three minutes ... is the one that means, ‘Rammed an Iceberg, in Immediate Danger of Sinking.’ ”
“That’s terrible!” Boris replied, compassionately.
“Well,” the dispatcher said, “what it probably is is a bunch of kids just horsing around. But they’re liable to set a fire with the flares. Can you find Steve and tell him to go have a look?”
“At this time of night? The poor man needs his sleep!”
“He’s a Maine state trooper! We never sleep!”
“I got news for you,” Boris replied, as Steve let off with a truly magnificent snore. “But I’ll tell him. Zebra out.”
Boris fixed himself a little eye-opener and then with infinite tenderness woke his friend Steven Harris. Harris, truth to tell, while not exactly a complete stranger to the grape, had had more brewed, fermented, and distilled potables in the last five days than he’d had before in his entire life. That life included the years he had been a Green Beret, and the Green Berets are, whatever their other distinguished accomplishments, best known for their ability to conjure up adequate rations of booze no matter where the exigencies of the service lead them. Harris had tried to drink with Boris, which was beyond his capacity. He was, in fact, still slightly sauced when Boris dragged him erect and woke him. Boris was, as incredible as this might sound, several degrees to the left of absolute sobriety himself.
“I think I’ll take a little nap,” Steven Harris replied when he finally got Boris’ face in focus.
“Duty calls!” Boris said. “Somebody rammed an iceberg in Lost Crystal Lake and is in immediate danger of sinking.”
“My God!” Harris said, shaking his head to clear it.
“It came over the radio,” Boris announced. “They want you to go over there.”
“Certainly,” Harris said.
“And I will, of course, go with you,” Boris said.
“You’re a good guy, Boris,” Harris said. In no more than three minutes, the dauntless duo was dressed and ready to face the woods. Arm-in-arm, singing “The Caissons Are Rolling Along,” they set out through the deep woods for the maritime disaster on Lost Crystal Lake.
There was, of course, no iceberg on Lost Crystal Lake and no maritime disaster. What had happened was that Wesley St. James had wakened suddenly from his sleep, called, so to speak, by a summons from nature.
As he returned from his mission, terribly relieved to be back in the comforting circle of pup tents and no longer alone out there with God only knew what wild animals, he had shone the beam of his flashlight into the various pup tents, telling himself he was playing a real-life role just like James Arness had played for so many years on “Gunsmoke”; the strong silent figure checking to see that all was right.
Sleep well, my friends, Wesley St. James is watching over you!
The trouble was that everything wasn’t what you could call hunky-dory. The pup tent housing Miss LaVerne Schultz held nothing but Miss Schultz’s sleeping bag. Wesley St. James got down on his hands and knees and investigated more fully. There was no doubt about it; she was gone.
Still on his hands and knees, Wesley crawled to the next tent, that assigned to Don Rhotten. It had a stake driven into the ground before it, with a small gold star on it.
“Don!” Wesley Called. “Don, wake up!”
When there was no response, Wesley tugged gently on Don Rhotten’s leg. The result of this
was a bloodcurdling scream. Don Rhotten exited the tent on the other end from Wesley and scurried, with remarkable speed, up a convenient tree.
“Come down from there, dummy,” Wesley hissed. “It’s only me!”
“Gee, you got a weird sense of humor, Little Bunny,” Don said. “Scaring a guy like that!” He climbed down off the tree. “What the hell do you want, this time of night?”
“LaVerne’s not in her tent,” Wesley said.
“Shame on you,” Don Rhotten said. “Sneaking into her tent!”
“I didn’t sneak into it, Don, I shone the flashlight in, and she was gone.”
“Well, you know,” Don said, “maybe she had to, you know. Girls have to, too, you know.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Wesley said. “You’re probably right.”
“Of course, I’m right,” Don said. “I’m Don Rhotten, you know.”
“Well, how about waiting up with me until she comes back?’
“I got a better idea than that,” Don said. “Let’s wake up the other one and send her looking for LaVerne.”
That was a splendid idea, but when Wesley and Don got on their knees to waken Miss Frump, she also was gone.
“My God! They’ve been carried away by bears!” Wesley said.
“Don’t lose control of yourself, Little Bunny,” Don Rhotten replied. “You know that girls always go together.”
“You really think that’s what happened?”
“If you’re really scared, Wesley,” Don Rhotten said, “wake up Pierre LeGrande. He’s the guide. Let him worry about it.”
“Good thinking, Don,” Wesley said. He crawled over to Pierre LeGrande’s pup tent.
“Hey, Frenchie,” he called. There was no reply. He called again, and when again there was no response, he felt around inside the tent.
“He’s gone, Big Bunny!” he cried.
“You really think he’s gone?’
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