Lovelace and Button (International Investigators) Inc. (20 page)

“Of course,” she snivels.

“Well, then, all you have to do is drink the shrinking liquid to make yourself smaller and smaller until you can fit through the keyhole, and then you follow the White Rabbit to the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.”

“That's stupid,” she cries again. “There
is
no keyhole.”

“Oh, yes, there is,” says Daphne. “There's always a keyhole. It's just that you can't see it at the moment.”

But Trina is unmoved and continues weeping, “I'm never going to see my kids again.”

“Sure, you are,” tries Daphne, though her tone lacks conviction and Trina buries her face in her pillow, crying the universal cry of the unjustly imprisoned. “But we didn't do anything wrong.”

“
We
didn't,” muses Daphne as she stares through the lens of the surveillance camera, seeking the faces behind it. “But someone obviously has.”

“Trina,” says Daphne quietly as she gently strokes the woman's hair, “don't eat or drink anything, all right?”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure,” she replies, taking a close look at the meal, “but I smell something fishy.”

“No problem. I don't feel like eating anyway.”

“Good. So promise me.”

“I promise,” says Trina, her eyes drying a tad at the seriousness of Daphne's tone. “But what are you going to do?”

“I think it's time one of us got out,” murmurs Daphne, and Trina screws up her face in confusion. “Leave it to me,” whispers Daphne, then she heads for the bathroom, adding loudly, “I think it's time I had a long, hot soak.”

“What the hell is the old bat on about now?” asks Bumface as he listens in.

“God knows,” says Spotty Dick, having tuned the two women out while pondering his partner's sudden softening.

The road signs clearly indicate that Seattle is ahead of them, taking some of the pressure off Daisy and Bliss, if only temporarily, as they sample the comforts of nobility in the back of the governor's car.

“I zhink it is nice to have a limousine wiz a chauffeur,” says Daisy as they snuggle together in the privacy of their tinted compartment while they watch passing motorists and pedestrians peering in for a glimpse.

“Maybe when I'm a famous author we'll have a chauffeur all the time.”

“
Daavid,
” she cautions, “you promised my mother you would not write zhe book.”

“Maybe if I hired a chauffeur for her as well —
peut-être?
” mollifies Bliss.

“
Oui —
perhaps,” agrees Daisy, and Bliss demonstrates the advantages of the arrangement by kissing her warmly before picking up the phone to call Phillips in Vancouver.

“You were absolutely right about the kidney contraption, Dave,” says the Canadian officer, “and it must have been brought over in a fish truck. There's a ton of salmon scales stuck in the tires.”

“So it couldn't have been pedalled there.”

“Correct. It's about twenty miles from the nearest salmon river.”

“It's a long shot, Mike, but check with Canadian customs and see if they have any records of a large
white van with Washington plates crossing the border in the early hours.”

If Daphne has figured out an escape strategy by the time she returns from the steamy bathroom, her face gives nothing away as Bumface slides in to collect the lunch tray.

“You haven't eaten anything,” he complains, spotting the untouched food.

“I'm not hungry,” keens Trina as she sniffs back the tears.

“But you gotta eat, or you'll get sick.”

“Breakfast was more than enough for me,” chimes in Daphne heartily.

“All right,” says Bumface, turning to Trina and cracking into a crooked smile. “Here's a deal: if you stop crying and eat your lunch, maybe you can go home tonight.”

“Wonderful,” shrieks Daphne delightedly, and she rushes across the room to hug Trina tightly, saying, “Come on. Chin up, Cinderella. We're going to the ball.”

“Why did you tell them that?” demands Spotty Dick once the door has closed.

“I dunno,” shrugs Bumface. “Cheer ‘em up, I suppose.”

“And what happens tomorrow morning when they wake up and they're still here?”

“
If
they wake up.”

“What d'ya mean?”

“Look. They can't stay here and they can't go home. So work it out for yourself — okay?”

But Daphne has already worked it out. She's known the answer for more than sixty years — from the day of the escape officer's lecture.

“Never, h'ever, believe ‘em h'if they says that they is going to let you go ‘ome,” the bubbly little man said, and then he had put a frown on his face and slowly shaken his head from side to side. “Believe me, the only ‘ome that they ‘ave in mind for you is with the ‘eavenly father h'up above. If you get my drift.”

“There just has to be a way out,” muses Daphne, scrutinizing the sparsely furnished bedroom, the handleless door and the surveillance camera.

“But he said he was going to let us go,” Trina reminds her.

“I just hope that's what he meant,” says Daphne, hiding her pessimism behind a smile, then adding gently, “but it never hurts to have a backup plan, Trina.”

One plan that
has
worked is that of Washington's governor, and as three o'clock rolls around Bliss steps on stage at the conference to be welcomed by the American delegate of Interpol.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announces the Los Angeles officer, “it's my privilege to present from Scotland Yard — and I hope he'll excuse me for saying this — one of the world's most celebrated detectives since Sherlock Holmes: Chief Inspector David Bliss.”

Bliss takes to the podium, and as the applause dies in Seattle, Daphne Lovelace is headed back to the bathroom with the germ of an idea.

“But you just had a bath,” says Trina confusedly.

“I know,” replies Daphne. “And I feel so much better. Maybe you should do the same.”

“I don't —” starts Trina glumly, but Daphne cuts her
off, grabs a hand and hauls her out of bed. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” she scolds as she pulls the younger woman to her feet. “Come along. It'll do you good.”

But Trina's bath is short-lived, and a few minutes later, as they emerge together from the bathroom, she slips into bed and buries herself under Daphne's enormous hat. Daphne, on the other hand, muses, “I think it's time for a good clear-out,” and begins a major housekeeping effort, muttering, “We can't leave the place in this state. What would the next people think?”

Fifteen minutes later she is still bustling around, sweeping, mopping and dusting, when Dawson enters the surveillance room and gives Bumface a quizzical look.

“What the hell is going on now?” he wants to know as the screen momentarily falls under the dark shadow of Daphne's mattress.

“She's trying to turn the mattress,” laughs Bumface as Daphne lurches clumsily around the room with the springy beast, before it momentarily wavers in the air, apparently out of control, and collapses back onto her bed in the same state as it began. Then he shakes his head incredulously. “She reckons mattresses have to be turned every two days to get rid of bedbugs and evil spirits.”

“Hah,” snorts Dawson derisively, though when the picture clears he frowns at the untouched food on the table.

“They'll get hungry eventually,” shrugs Bumface as he checks the clock.

It's four-thirty by the time Bliss wraps up with a warning to the conference: “If Western governments continue shoring up their flagging economies by subsidizing, and encouraging, rampant consumerism, then they risk being
swamped by an unstoppable tide of the very refugees that their policies have created.”

“You were wonderful,” says Daisy as Bliss comes off stage and finds a crush of reporters waiting for him.

“Really?” he says. “To be honest, I don't remember a lot of what I said. I'd left my notes in the cabin.”

“Hard-hitting words, Chief Inspector,” says a reporter with a microphone in Bliss's face. “So you're actually suggesting that police crackdowns on trafficking merely provide greater incentives and increased incomes for the criminals and organizations that provide the service.”

“Well, it's a strategy that's worked extremely effectively with alcohol, prostitution, gambling and drugs over the years,” agrees Bliss. “Where would the Mafia and the Colombian drug cartels be without the demand for illegal products and services?”

“So you're advocating that we just open the borders?” asks another incredulously.

“I'm suggesting that you might take a different view if you lived in a tin hut and tried to survive on a dollar a day, while the guy in the country next door spends ten times that amount feeding his pet poodle. But what I'm really advocating is —”

“There's a phone call for you, sir,” butts in Lieutenant Jewison as he tries to lead Bliss into a side office.

“I just wanted to mention the missing women…” starts Bliss, but Jewison keeps up the pressure.

“He said it was urgent, sir.”

“I bet it's Edwards,” murmurs Bliss, guessing that it won't be long before the chief superintendent disembowels him for playing politics. But it's Mike Phillips with news of several vehicles fitting Bliss's description of the van he'd followed to the monastery. “And this is interesting, Dave,” carries on Phillips. “One of them belongs to a fish
dealer. Apparently he goes back and forth a lot. I've asked Washington police for a make on the licence plate.”

“Fifty bucks says he delivers salmon to a certain monastery place.”

“That's a stretch, Dave.”

“We'll see.”

“So what are your plans now?”

Bliss's plans are not for the ears of Lieutenant Jewison, or anyone else in the American administration, so he answers only that he and Daisy will collect their belongings from the cabin and then head back to Vancouver once they've picked up Trina's car from Bellingham.

“That reminds me,” he says to Daisy as Jewison escorts them back to the limousine. “I'd better give Rick a call.”

By early evening, when Bliss gets through to him from the limousine's phone, Rick Button is sinking rapidly. With no sleep since Tuesday morning, and no food since Tuesday night, Trina's husband is fighting to stay afloat on coffee and a fast-deflating bubble of hope.

“I've been on the Internet,” he tells Bliss. “Do you know that the odds of finding someone alive are less than ten percent after the first twenty-four hours? Did you know that?”

“No,” admits Bliss, “although I do know that Daphne has beaten those odds before.” But Bliss catches the flatness of defeat in Rick Button's tone, and knows that the other man has made up his mind when he responds, “It'll soon be getting dark again, Dave.”

By the time that the sun finally hits the western horizon, Captain Prudenski is back on duty in Bellingham, and
he has a compassionate hand for Bliss when Jewison delivers the English officer to collect Trina's car. “I'm sure they'll show up sooner or later,” says Prudenski, though Bliss knows that “later” only means one thing.

“Let's hope so.”

“So. What are your intentions now?” asks Lieutenant Jewison, pointedly checking the office clock.

“I think we'll find somewhere in the city for a spot of dinner before heading back,” says Bliss, fearful that someone has already planned an escort all the way to the Canadian border.

“No problem, sir,” says Jewison with a farewell salute. “My mission is accomplished anyway.”

But dinner is the last thing on Bliss's mind, and no sooner have they left the city centre than he U-turns and takes a fast spin down a deserted lane, with Daisy riding shotgun.

“Zhey are not following,” says Daisy after a few minutes, and Bliss quickly heads for a now-familiar road out of town.

“It's about twenty miles,” Bliss is telling Daisy, as Bumface finally gives up hope of the two women eating lunch and returns with Spotty Dick to collect the tray.

“Oh, look: here's the White Rabbit at last,” mutters Daphne as Spotty Dick enters, then she turns with a scowl for Bumface, saying, “Which means you must be the Queen of Hearts,” before laughing, “Off with his head. Off with his head.”

“You haven't eaten your lunch,” says Bumface with a little less bonhomie than he'd shown earlier.

“I was hoping for jam tarts,” continues Daphne, keeping up her banter, but Bumface is ignoring her as he gives Trina's bed a curious look.

“What's up with her?” he demands, advancing on the bed with growing inquisitiveness. Then he snatches the giant hat off the bed and finds only a pillow and a rolled bundle of bedding underneath the sheet.

“Where's Mrs. Button?”

“You must mean Little Bo Peep,” says Daphne gaily. “She slipped out earlier to look for her sheep.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Oh, I'm sure they'll be back in a few minutes, dragging their tails…” Daphne continues prattling as she makes a play of looking out of the door, and Bumface roughly pushes her aside to stick his head into the bathroom.

“Mrs. Button…”

“I told you —” starts Daphne, but Bumface rounds on her, grabs her by the throat and stretches her onto her toes.

“Where is she?”

“Gone for a walk.”

“John!” Bumface bellows at the camera. “Lock everything down.” Then he returns to Daphne and ratchets up the pressure as Spotty Dick skulks in the background.

“I said, Where is she?”

“You're choking me.”

“I know. Now, where is she?”

“What's up, Steve?” yells Dawson, crashing into the room.

“The Button woman's gone.”

“How the —?”