*****
Inspector Stagg, of the Spontoon Island Constabulary’s Detective Bureau, is a buck capable of deciphering codes used by international gangsters, and then using the information gleaned to smash them. He can resolve obscure clews found on the bodies of the murdered, and untangle a crooked businessfur’s balance sheet.

The less glamorous portion of his job can involve dealing with misbehaving wealthy furs, who make an exhibition of themselves.

Mr. von der Wald, with a graciousness and a prudence that both does him credit, and indicates he’s returning to form, has declined to press charges against the Princess, and has retreated to his suite at Shepherd’s to clean himself up.

The groundskeeper, who has had his implements returned to him, wants nothing to do with “(sanity-bereft canines Euros),” and has stomped off to his shed to have a glass of the local Sour Cocoanut Popskull.

Miss Trotter, with wide and slightly liquid eyes, has professed to being upset by the sight of her fiancé being humiliated, and recalls nothing of interest. She is dismissed with a weary wave of a cervine paw, and also retreats to Shepherd’s. Supposedly to visit said fiancé. Supposedly.

Her Serene Highness treats Inspector Stagg to a long and vicious harangue in Russian, a truly choice language for abuse, which is only brought to a sudden and unexpected halt when the Inspector, polylinguist that he is, gently offers in the same language to stipulate to the facts regarding his ancestry if only the Princess would get on with her case.

At that point, discussions move to the question of how to keep the matters out of the newspapers, which involves, among other things, a choice fine and a caution. A discreet telephone call to the publisher of the tabloid that favours putting femmefurs on the cover, newsworthy or not, results in a promise to bury the matter on an inside page without a photograph. A polite enquiry by the whitetail as to the Princess’ plans for the afternoon is met with an indistinct snarl.

Truth be told, the plans involve, in the near future, a retreat to the yacht and a changing out of reeking and ruined clothes, which requires the driver of the gig to be upwind of his mistress. The zephyr provides a small bonus in that it has the advantage of drowning out an unsympathetic chuckle.

*****

For Jake, things are definitely in a state of contentment. His motive in rendering assistance to Phoebe Trotter was based on first principles; however, the appearance of two largish cheeseburgers with trimmings, courtesy of Miss Trotter, has apprised him both of the wisdom of his action, and his general support for any venture benefiting Miss Trotter.

Or, as he says: “Dat Miz Trotter, she’s a stand-up dame.”

The Great Organizer has indicated his retroactive approval of the morning’s events, and expresses regret that owing to the necessity of doing certain repairs to Mrs. Tush’s wardrobe (being in the nature of alleged shrinkage), he was not a party to the morning’s actions.

“And Citizen von der Wald? How fares he?”

Silence, accompanied by a shrug, induces a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Sergei, anyfur approaching her like that is simply begging for it.”

“Quite so. With the benefit of hindsight, it should have been handled in the fashion I am told is prevalent in Chicago. No tactics barred, carry out your own dead and wounded. There is, if you will permit me to skirt around the borders of the sensitive, the possibility that he was attempting to impress you, in the manner of the knights of old. There being no dragons about.”

“I wouldn’t say dat, boss.”

“Libel, Citizen Jake, libel.”

From the horse, a rueful nod and sigh. “I don’t think that will be repeated. He’s going to be a lot more cautious in the future. A lot.”

Jake, who is briskly wiping his muzzle on his shirt-sleeve, is also looking with interest at the filly. He turns to his superior, who holds up a finger.

“Citizen Jake, I hear your thought. It is, if I may use your vernacular, quote, somethin’s eatin’ dat dame, endquote. And in that, you are altogether correct. Citizen Trotter possesses a soul that is indeed the subject of an appetizer.”

A brief turn to the horse. “By no means are you obligated to confide in the fursons of Citizen Jake and your obedient servant, but perhaps you wish to unburden yourself?”

A blonde horsetail twitches in embarrassment. The Great Organizer nods.

“A sensitive area. The question is withdrawn.”

“I’m sorry, Sergei.”

“It is of no matter. The question of dealing with Moushaska remains in full force and effect. However, should you change your mind, I assure you that confidences will be kept.”

“I’ll come to talk to you, yes.” A head-tilt. “If I can ask, what are you planning for this afternoon?”

“Ah! Well, Citizen Jake and I will be in attendance at a musical séance this afternoon. A cultural afternoon, notwithstanding the presence of our mistress, who seems to have views on music that are mercifully unique. She asked of me could one dance to a Liszt composition.” Here, a deeply felt shudder from the roebuck. “Please forgive the tale-bearing, Citizeness, but I feel the public good in distributing warnings outweighs the breach of mistress-servant confidences.”

“I’ve been warned, Sergei.” A long sigh. “I really should go and check up on Henry, you know. He probably needs me.”

In point of fact, Mr. von der Wald has managed, without the assistance of an organizer. He is once again his silver self, at least on the outside. However, the pained look in his eye indicates that a certain ration of joie de vivre is now missing. As well as appetite, a guess that is reinforced by the untouched lunch in front of him.

The arrival of Miss Trotter does improve the level of morale, and even restores a bit of appetite. Desultory talk of wedding preparations and the arrival in a few days of Mr. and Mrs. Trotter are discussed. The wolf, in a few hours, is feeling rather close to his old self.

As for the filly, rather less so. A certain level of self-reproach can be seen in the way she walks through the lobby of the hotel on her way out.

*****

No such introspection on the part of Her Serene Highness, who has penned a message to the yacht’s chief engineer to the effect that if she sticks her paw in the bath water and doesn’t flinch, trouble will come.

As when it doesn’t, is the silent and unwritten retort.

A very hot bath, a generous ration of Parisian fur cleanser, and two rather stiff martinis later, the wolfess is able to face the early edition of the afternoon Spontoon Mirror. As there is no “stop press,” Moushaska will operate, provisionally, under the assumption that Inspector Stagg has managed to keep his word.

The theatre listings don’t show much promise – an entry for The Happy Guys in particular incites a long, ripping snort of derision. Of more promise is a performance of the radio station LYRC Symphony Orchestra.

A yell through the locked doors, and afternoon walking-out clothes and a hat and gloves are ordered.

*****

The journey to the Odeon Theatre is subject to a slight detour, as Mrs. Tush sees one of the newest and most unusual features of Casino Island, just off the Lido Promenade.

Rather than the hot-dogs and cheese fries one might associate with a similar location in Coney Island or Atlantic City, there rises a very smart, Art Moderne two-story building, glimmering in glass and stainless steel on the outside, and white tile and more stainless steel on the inside. The Swiss chamois who runs the shop has quite successfully promoted a look of antiseptic cleanliness to his atelier, which is something one should expect in a shop selling chocolate.

Herr Lindt-Trapp is particularly proud of the advertising power of the roof. No, there is not a garish advertising sign. Far from it: there stands a gleaming glass tank, in which whorls hundreds of gallons of liquid milk chocolate being mixed and stirred. An appetizing and enjoyable sight which does not fail to attract lovers of chocolate, such as Mrs. Tush.

Mrs. Tush is engaged in a vigorous negotiation with the counter-clerk (which involves the mass consumption of free samples), and is on the verge of securing a five-pound box of Assortement Superbe. The mels, namely Mr. Tush, Jake, and the Great Organizer, have been banished to the sidewalk. The roebuck is the only fur who seems to take the exile in stride; he is engaged in an interested examination of the tank far above him.

*****

The LYRC Symphony Orchestra is a very young institution. This has its positives, as the organization has a fresh outlook on matters, is not bound by decades of tradition, and welcomes fresh young talent.

On the negative side, there is something to be said for experience.

This afternoon’s broadcast of the Symphony is to be conducted by the director of the Symphony, and the Music Department of Mirror Broadcasting, Don Carlos de Ciervos himself. The position of conductor is currently vacant, as the last holder of the job suffered an unfortunate nervous breakdown. Castillian deer are made of sterner stuff, and it is his waving paws and twitching mustache that the musicians will be following.

The Sponsor’s Booth in back of the theatre is, mercifully, empty. The Symphony broadcasts are, in the usage of radio, carried on a “sustaining” basis. Translation: radio station LYRC has yet to find a sucker. On the bright side, this does take some of the pressure from the shoulders of Carlos de Ciervos.

The Odeon is partially full; stiff competition from the beach, the bars, and some of the more popular bands has made its presence felt. Still, there are classical music lovers in the Islands. There are also those who have been brought to the performance on a less than voluntary basis.

Harold Tush, for example, is already making mental calculations in the dress circle box. A performance of 90 minutes, times 60 seconds, equals 5,400 seconds of having to sit still and pretend to pay attention to the stage. Not that Mr. Tush is a Philistine; rather, he had the uncomfortable sense that he was being watched very closely.

He is also rather aware that he is seated to the left of Mrs. Tush, who is a southpaw (when said paw is not filled with Lindt-Trapp chocolate). The chairs in the box are spaced such that she has a great deal of trotter-room to make her opinions felt.

And, of course, his infernal collar is too tight. Perhaps he would ask Sergei Ivanovich to do something about it, later.

The latter, as well as Jake, are permitted to sit in the back two seats of the dress circle box. In the case of the catamount, this is the result of a friendly word from the theatre organist. In the case of the roebuck, this was owing to a certain sense of self-possession that convinced the ticket-taker that he belonged. To be sure, the ticket-taker is quite bored, and plans to sneak out during the performance to catch some of the beach games taking place surfside.

Jake is sitting up straight, his paws in his lap, which reminds him painfully of the three years of his life he spent in the fifth grade. The Great Organizer is perusing the programme with a critical air, and is hoping (he knows in vain) for a re-enactment of the premiere of The Rites of Spring. They don’t have, he muses, good old-fashioned artistic riots like they used to.

At precisely 30 seconds to the hour, the theatre lights wink on and off, which starts a fresh outbreak of coughing and programme rustling. A rather portly hamster casually waddles up to the microphone at stage left, and taps it, producing a sharp, resonant burst of feedback and a sharp, resonant word in Spanish from the conductor.

A red light blinks, and the hamster speaks, in a high-pitched voice at odds with his physique.

“From its home in the fabulous Odeon Theatre on Casino Island, Station L-Y-R-C, the “Goodwill Station,” brings you the LYRC Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Carlos de Ciervos. This programme is brought to you on a sustaining basis by this station, to bring you the best in classical music.”

Frantic paw-work by the engineer manages to prevent the microphones from picking up a comment from the gallery: “You’ve got a hope, fatty!”

“The first selection to be broadcast today will be the Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, in C-sharp minor. The featured soloist will be Alatheia Hunter at the piano.”

Miss Hunter appears to be the only member of the orchestra who has dressed completely correctly for the performance, down to the very glamorous necklace she wears. Initial indications from the first few measures are that she is also the only member of the orchestra who appears to be paying full attention to Senor de Ciervos, even without a page of sheet music in front of her.

Sunk in gloom, Harold Tush slumps in his chair, determined to take his medicine. So determined, in fact, that he can visualize the bottle of medicine. He does not recall a bottle of medicine being in his paw, and a discreet eye at his paw reveals a tiny bottle of Scotch whisky, evidently smuggled in by the roebuck behind. It is tucked in a pocket for sustenance, beating a suspicious look from Xanthippe Tush by a half-second.

Heroic struggles are occurring on stage as the conductor is attempting to get the strings to play in harmony, which has the rough effect of a child building a sand-castle in the surf. A few subtle gestures with the left fist and both eyebrows are having at least a modest effect.

In the lobby, the ticket window is open, though the fur behind the window is busily engaged in reading a garish picture magazine with a photograph of Svetlana Sobol’yeva gracing the cover, in what appears to be a dress of very fine silk. He is thus very preoccupied, and does not hear the first two coughs, the second one far more impatient.

Peering over the top of his magazine brings two icy blue eyes to bear. These icy blue eyes belong to Her Serene Highness Princess Moushaska. She has changed into her third outfit for the day, one appropriate for the theatre (see above). She is also fashionably late, a state of affairs that she forcefully blamed on her maids and the skipper of her yacht’s gig.

“General admission, ninepence.”

Unusually, these icy blue eyes seem to be burning.

“General admission? You wish to sell me the general admission ticket?”

“Well, it’s a pretty wide choice, lady. Good lines of sight. Say, if you pay a shilling, you get to stay for the short subjects, newsreel and serial. It’s Rocket Rat, part…”

There is a forceful indication that the Princess does not appear to be a fan of Rocket Rat, which in our opinion is her loss. Be that as it may. There is a desire to see the manager.

“He ain’t here, lady. He never shows up for these concerts. Say they aggravate his tinnitus. Can’t say I blame him.”

A low, ominous growl starts to be heard, though the ticket seller is fairly sanguine about it, since there is, after all, a thick grille of brass bars protecting him.

“I want a balcony seat.”

“Sorry, lady…”

“Princess.”

“Hey, that’s a nice first name. I know a girl on the Main Island named Princess. She’s one heck of a hula dancer.” A squint. “She’s a cat, though, so I doubt she’s related…”

“I WANT a balcony seat.”

“Sold out, Princess.”

“What?”

“Sold out.”

“How can you sell out?”

“Well, usually when we sell all the tickets. Hence. Sell. Out. ‘course, there’s only four seats…”

With a frustrated noise somewhere between a sneeze and a snarl, Moushaska turns away from the ticket office, and storms up the stairs clearly marked “Balcony Level.” Stairs, we should note, vacated by the ticket-taker, who is currently engaged in watching a group of young vixens engaged in a spirited game of beach tennis at the nearby sands.

The first effort to gain entrance to a balcony seat is met by a cascade of cardboard popcorn buckets, carelessly stacked against the inside of the box door. Her Serene Highness has discovered the location of the spare popcorn machine alluded to in conversation between the ticket-seller and the Great Organizer.

After a brief and successful effort at extrication, the other balcony box is tried. The door is locked, though it submits to the action of fist against woodwork.

Mrs. Tush is briefly stirred from the music, which she thinks divine, and is stirred to whisper. “Jake. See who it is at the door.”

The catamount, who had been getting a little stiff in the neck from sitting straight up, is glad of the change of pace, and tiptoes to the door, unlocking it. He sees a wolfess in a rather elegant pearl-grey silk afternoon walking-out dress and heels. He jumps to the obvious conclusion.

“Gimmie t’ree boxes of Jujubes an’ a big bucket o’ popcorn.” Since this effort is met with a wide-eyed look of fury, the word “please” is hastily appended. Some elements of Emily Post have made it into Jake’s training.

“Get out of the way, idiot cat.”

“If yer outta Jujubes, do ya got Good ‘n Plenty?”

Mercifully, Mrs. Tush is brought around from her trance, and her pained enquiry as to the nature of the visit produces a now-familiar engraved card. Jake takes the card, and with great care, slowly analyzes it.

“Well, who is it, Jake?”

“Some dame named Mushmouth, Miz Tush.”

It is well that the box, even with the shaft of light from the hallway, is poorly lit, as this affords the Great Organizer an opportunity to demonstrate that, like all good strategists, a line of retreat is vital. He manages to slide, quietly and gracefully, to the darkened back of the box to the side of the door. It is thus that Her Serene Highness, snatching her card back from Jake’s paw, does not see the roebuck.

Mrs. Tush reads the card, and her reaction is far different from Jake’s. With a suppressed squeal of pleasure, she quietly whispers a few words of greeting to the wolfess, and offers her the choice of front seat in the box. The fact that one of them is occupied by Mrs. Tush herself, and the other by Mr. Tush, is of no moment. The latter is quietly but firmly ejected from his seat, and banished to the back pair.

“One moment, if you please, Madame. There is one thing I must do.”

It is thus that, approximately seven seconds later, the figure of a largish catamount is seen going tail-over-head down the stairs, to be met with a crash at the bottom that nicely coincides with the end of a movement on stage.

A rather dazed and befuddled catamount is helped to his footpads by the roebuck, who had slipped out of the door scant seconds before. Rubbing the back of his neck with one paw, a meaty tawny thumb is pointed back toward the box.

“Dat dame tossed me out on me nut.”

“So I observed, Citizen Jake. Look on the bright side: you have a sore neck and ringing ears, with no further need of listening to something that would make Franz Liszt’s remains rotate in his grave. Count yourself ahead of the game, and, alas, ahead of our employer.”

These words may have been spoken too soon. Sergei Ivanovich could not have known that Mr. Tush, who did not have the strategical insight of the roebuck, had decided that sitting in back of his mate would avoid her direct gaze. He did not, however, factor in her sharp hearing.

Those small bottles of Scotch whisky do make a noise when opened.

So, for that matter, do the doors of theatre boxes.

We would add further that so, for that matter, do large middle-aged boars, when they go tail-over-head down the stairs, to be met with a crash at the bottom that does not particularly coincide with the beginning of a movement on the stage.

A large pair of feline paws soon sets up Mr. Tush, a little unsteadily, on his trotters.

“She tossed youse out on yer nut, hanh?” This said with honest and heartfelt sympathy.

“This would bear, I suspect, the hallmarks of two sets of paws. Am I correct on this point, Citizen Tush?”

“I…I don’t know. It happened so fast…”

“Hmmm. May I suggest some medicinal whisky? Perhaps this will speed the recovery from such a shock.”

The boar’s eyes open wide, and metaphorically, one can see on each of them the magic word: whisky! Even if the hour is early, multiple shocks to the system override any other social concerns.