The Thief of Thoth

9

NO SOONER had the supercilious monarch exited, and Hautley retured to his tower chamber for an intensive perusal of the Thothian dossier, than his phone flashed. It was the followup: his call to the Librareum was now ready to be put through: would Ser Hautley accept it? Ser Hautley would.

Quicksilver spoke to a prim woman of indeterminate but well-preserved age, modestly attired in a black spray gown with opal-dusted sternum and exquisitely coiffed hair of a delicate selection of thirteen contrasting shades of off-grey.

Passing himself off as the Very Reverent Abdul Nagoob von Kessel, a peripatetic Pseudobaptist evangelist checking the moral behavior of his recent converts, Quicksilver deftly inquired of the recent comings and goings of Pawel Spiro. Modestly shielding her opal-dusted sternum with a sheaf of overdue notices, in deference to a Man of the Cloth, the Librarian was able to give some very interesting information.

"The Learned has been in residence at the Librareum for some months now, Padre, engaged in research towards a monograph on, ahem, nuptial customs of the Y'harqakukluk III Owl People," she replied with a reverent flutter of her lashless lids.

"Bless you, sister," Hautley said benignly. "You are positive, then, that Brother Pawel has not gone off planet? The opportunities for moral transgression in so sophisticated a region of the galaxy as The Hub ... fleshpots, scarlet women, the loathsome juice of the grape, even (Allah, Buddha and Father Sigmund preserve us!)—spiritous beverages of fermented liquors—!"

The Librarian-General rolled up her eyes in an extremity of horror. "Oh, no, Father—I mean, yes, Father, I am quite certain. I see the Learned every day; I am convinced he has not left the planet for an instant.''

Hautley expressed his appreciation in a lengthy blessing on the Librarian-General's ka which, had it been effective, should have spared her some millenia in Purgatory, concluding with an extempore rendition of appropriate texts from The Nine Gospels which added measurably to his monthly phone bill. He rang off and sat back, stroking with an idle forefinger, the little canary-yellow dragon which clung cozily to his left shoulder.

So ... Pawel Spiro, it would seem, was a client of that rare variety called phonus-balonus. A fake. But a good one; very good; in fact, professional class ... odd ...

And what about Heveret Twelfth? Was His Dignity also spurious, or the genuine article? Without delay, Hautley set about checking the bona fides of the Canopan monarch.

Directly in front of the door was a rather slippery place where the parquet flooring was polished with a frictionless compound. Part of the door's archway was a sleek panel of glossy chrome set at the average hand-height. To avoid falling on his imperial snoot, the Proprietor of Canopus had to grab this polished panel. Hautley snapped a photogram and ran it through the enlarger: sure enough, prints of the right hand, and beauties they were, clear as crystal.

Then he called the Royal Archives at Phungalumdum on Canopus II, securing no less elevated a personage than the Third Assistant Under-Archivist: a shriveled and vituperous gnome with a silvery spike of beard and snapping purple eyes, who testily demanded his business.

Hautley Quicksilver, Man of Two Thousand Faces, donned the vapid, sweatily eager persona of a Collector.

"My name is Feuvel Coradayne, the collector—perhaps you've seen my collection on the video?—No?—Well, ha ha, I have a modest little collection of Objects which have been in the possession of Royalty ... a fascinating hobby, you understand, fascinating!" he burbled.

"Yes, yes, get on with it," the Archivist snapped. "Never heard of you or your collection in me life: what do you want?"

"Well—I've recently been offered a crystal goblet from which I am told His Dignity Heveret Twelfth is believed to have imbibed a princely beverage. Naturally, I wish to have the Royal association confirmed, before adding it to my little things, ha, ha."

"Naturally. Well?"

Hautley held up the enlargement; the fingerprints clearly visible.

"These are presumably the prints of His Dignity's dexter digits. Could check them for me? You must have His Dignity's fingerprints in your files. I'd like to be certain of their validity."

"Of all the nonsense! Oh, very well."

The gnome vanished to stage left, returning a few moments later with a silver-mounted set of fingerprints. He peered closely at them, then at the enlargement Hautley was holding before the scanner.

"Absolutely identical; no question about it. Is that all? I'd like to get back to my quat wunkery, if you don't mind!"

Hautley was profuse in his thanks, which partly mollified the irate mood of the withered Archivist, who promptly faded from the picture.

So.

Heveret Twelfth would seem to be legit, if Pawel Spiro was not. Interesting ... very.

But enough of this pottering around with phone calls and fingerprints. The game's afoot, and Hautley felt the old familiar itch to be about it. A swift check confirmed that his cruiser was in readiness for instant departure. Dugan Motley, the notorious Master-Burglar of Capitan must be located, and the only clue to his present whereabouts lay with his lifelong confederate, Shpern Hufferd, who dwelt at Thieves' Haven in the Gap. Hautley decided to enship without delay, before another confounded call came in to hold his investigations up further.

And then the phone flashed again.

It was another scintillating call. But this time there was a difference. It was on an official Imperial Galactic Government frequency, as his specially installed telltale informed him. It was, in fact, a police call.

Hautley sighed, but flicked the screen into life. After all, it could hardly be another client asking him to purloin the Crown of Stars from the Crypts of the Cavern Kings of Thoth!