'Bloody wonderful!' Lewrie distractedly grunted.
The tiny bell hung over the office door gave off a gay tinkle, and in breezed Toby Jugg, with Mr. Pollock's weedy head clerk in tow.
'One would s'pose this may be 'gilding the lily,' in a manner of speaking, ahem, ' Pollock began, 'but, about our consignment of air-rifles, Mister Dollarhyde… how many have actually been sold, and to whom, might you be able to recall?'
'Locking the barn after the horses have… shit!' some present almost heard Capt. Alan Lewrie disgustedly whisper.
'I b'lieve only a dozen, so far, Mister Pollock, sir,' the clerk fussily replied, referring to his own ledger book after being told by Jugg, most likely, why he was being summoned cross the river in such a hurry, and at that hour. 'One to Mister Willoughby here…'
Sold, mine arse, it was s posed t'be a gift! Lewrie thought.
'… four taken on by Mister Whiting for his trading post up at Natchez, one to a m'sieur Columbe… said the local rodents eat up his garden something sinful, and… the other six to a party of city men.'
'And, might you have their names available, Mister Dollarhyde?' Pollock impatiently prompted.
'Most odd, that, Mister Pollock,' Dollarhyde simpered. 'I did a brief demonstration, and they placed down payment on four, yet not an hour later, returned with the money for six, and paid in full.'
'Names? Ahem?' Pollock harumphed.
'A Monsieur Monaster… Don Rubio Monaster, actually. He was most insistent on that point, really,' Dollarhyde recited, looking up from his book for a second, 'one to a Monsieur Rancour, J… and the rest to a Monsieur de… Gool… de Gweel… Damn all Frog names.'
'De Guillen, hah!' Pollock barked, uncharacteristically slamming a palm on the top of his desk.
'Rancour,' Colette mused aloud, 'Gideon, is he not a cousin to the de Guilleris? Oui, I am thinking he is. And Don Rubio, oh la!' She chuckled, looking as if she would fan herself. 'His papa was the Spaniard, but his ma-man was the Bergrand, and they raise him, for his poor papa die when he is little… killed by the Indians. He is the tres handsome gentilhomme, mos' dashing? Aussi, he is-'ow you say?-the… crack shoot? All girls adore him, but he only has eyes…'
'Damn!' Pollock spluttered, slamming a fist on the desk this time. Damnn, damn, damn!'
'Gideon, cher … What 'as distress-ed?' Colette asked.
'I must ask you to leave things to us, Colette,' Pollock gruffly told her.
'You've taken enough risks tonight, and there's an end to it. Scipio will see you safely home. I fear we will be discussing our, ah… business matters far into the night. They'd only bore you, ahem. I'll be along, soon as I'm able, so why don't you…'
'You have done us a great service tonight, Madame Pollock, for which we all… and I'm sure I speak for Gideon as well…' Lewrie found wit to say, 'are extremely grateful. As I'm certain he'll tell you, once he joins you at home. Merci, madame. Merci beaucoup! You were very brave and clever.'
If you won't at least give her grudging thanks, then I will, he sourly thought; And why she stays with a clot like you 'tis a wonder! Thoughtless, churlish… and ugly, to boot!
'Wot'd I miss?' Toby Jugg whispered to his compatriots who had been present the whole time. Once clued in, he could not help musing aloud. 'Now I think upon it, sor, 'mongst them a'titterin' sprogs on 'at pirate schooner, one of 'em coulda been a girl, i' fact!'
And ye didn 't recall 'til bloody now, ye thick-headed Irish bog trotter? Lewrie silently accused, his anger building, now that he was over his shock, to a sulky, but well- deserved pet; Never thought to even bother mentioning it 'til… damn his blood!
'Gideon, I do not comprendre,' Colette gasped, fingers flying to her lips, and paling most fetchingly. 'You speak of pirates? But I… I thought you merely wish to discover… ah! So that is why the two capitaines call on the de Guilleris the other day? '
' What captains? ' Pollock cried.
'The washerwoman chez les D'Ablemonts we speak to, cher? She say two famous heroes, both Capitaine Jerome Lanxade and the Acadian, Capitaine Boudreaux Balfa, are visitors to the de Guilleri appartement… She say she see them the… several time. Mos' recent, a few day ago, she say! Oh, Gideon, you are in danger, mon coeur?'
'Go home, Colette,' Pollock insisted, almost shooing her to the door. Relenting, he finally said, 'I am in no danger, my dear, have no fear. There's, ah… underhanded commercial finagling afoot, and those old rogues are involved with some noted families to pull a sly one over on we despised out-sider traders. A coup de commerce? But with your quick wits and sharp eyes, my dear, Mister Willoughby and I are in a fair way to Scotching it before it costs us tuppence, ha ha!'
'You swear?' Colette warily asked, still upset and dubious.
'Cross my heart,' Pollock cooed to her, sketching on his chest. Blushing again, even redder than before, he vowed, 'Je t'adore, cherie. '
And, blushing herself but immensely pleased by his rare public declaration of love, she pecked him on the cheek, smiled, and departed.
She isn't aware of your, ah… ' Lewrie somberly asked once the door was firmly shut, chiding himself for being infected with Pollock's characteristic mannerism.
'I sometimes wonder, Lewrie,' Pollock replied, shaking his head. 'Well, then! Ahem! Took the ferry to the south bank, did they? Most odd, indeed.' Pollock clapped his hands together as if suddenly convinced of something, then crossed to a tall desk to produce a map, which he spread on the larger, lower desk's surface. 'Were they fleeing back to their parents' Saint Gabriel plantings, they would've coached round this way,' he pondered, waving a vague hand over the northwestern end of the map. ' Could've hired a shalope to sail them up the Mississippi to one of their plantation landings, but they didn't. Why?'
Mr. Pollock frowned at the map, drawing a candle stand closer so he could see the better, and traced an idle finger along the southern bank opposite New Orleans.
'Fleeing down the Mississippi?' Lewrie idly speculated.
'For that, a hired shalope would've served, Captain Lewrie,' Mr. Pollock gravely countered. 'Had they taken a boat, going with the current, they could already be ten miles downriver by now. Getting away in perfect comfort and laughing up their sleeves,' he growled with growing frustration.
'Then why'd they dress so rough, Mister Pollock?' Liam Desmond, who had been present for most of their musings, had the temerity to interject; most-like catching Toby Jugg's attitude, Lewrie feared. 'Yer missuz said they wore whatcha-call-ems… rusticals, wan'it, sor?'
'Mauvaises,' Pollock supplied off-handedly, 'Means tattered, or threadbare. A la rustique, they say of the Acadians, who live… To pass without notice 'mongst the Acadian settlers, by God! Balfa! He lives down south.'
Mr. Pollock's finger traced a hypothetical route down along one pencilled-in, iffy track, from the ferry landing on the south bank to a true, plotted bayou, tracing further to where the bayou intersected a river, and…
'They're bound down the Ouatchas River,' Pollock exclaimed. 'I'd stake my life on it!' Pollock declared, now all
