Earlier, we had cause to relate to you the painful domestic scene chez Tush, wherein the discovery of a decidedly feminine pair of silk stockings that were equally decidedly not the size of Xanithippe Tush led to a serious strain in diplomatic relations. Happily, as there is a general shortage of crockery and table-lamps in the vicinity, matters are confined to the slamming of doors and the occasional withering glance.

Mrs. Tush, however, has been looking forward to the evening’s festivities in a manner that might, to a more contemplative mind, recall young piglets waiting for Father Christmas. Unlikely in this case, however, as Mrs. Tush has on her mind the rather more pedestrian objective of seeing how genuine European royalty lives.

Harold Tush, for his part, has an even more pedestrian, one would say primitive, objective in mind: he would like to get through the evening with sanity and furson intact. He is not particularly sanguine about his odds.

There is one bright spot that occurs to him as he is being dressed: Jake, who has been assigned this duty, is silent. At this moment in time, silence is worth jewels.

Of course, the reason for the silence is Jake’s contemplation of the odds of cadging a dinner or two on board the yacht.

There is a brief interruption, caused by the ringing of the doorbell to the suite. Jake ambles out, to return thuddingly a minute or so later.

“What was that, Jake?”

“Dunno. Some guy brings a lil’ package fer Mizzus Tush.”

“A package?”

“Yeah. A lil’ one, all wrapped up in brown paper.”

A blow of paw to forehead. “Good heavens, Jake, I forgot to order a corsage for Mrs. Tush. D’ye suppose Sergei has thought of something?”

“I dunno, sir. But he’s real smart. He’ll figger somethin’.”

In point of fact, at this moment, Sergei Ivanovich was considering the most likely means by which he could commit suicide with the least possible inconvenience to all and sundry. Doing maid’s work for Xanithippe Tush will do that to a fur. Ten different outfits have been tried, with assorted acidic comments on their suitability. Accompanied, it should be noted, by throwing the outfits to the floor to get wrinkled, a deep offence to the sensibilities of Sergei Ivanovich.

At that moment, Fate intervenes in the form of the large meaty and tawny paw of Jake, which thrusts the aforementioned small, brown-wrapped parcel into the room. The diversion gratefully accepted by the roebuck, it is passed onto the sow while some attempt at order in the clothing department is being restored.

“Sergei!”

A brief, silent prayer to a Higher Being that until scant minutes ago Sergei Ivanovich had denied the existence of is offered.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Get that blue and silver dress out again. Harold, for once in his life, has done something right, and I want to show it off.”

The dress is retrieved, and in the process of delivering it, the Great Organizer is thunderstruck.

This is not necessarily caused by the fact that Mrs. Tush is in her lingerie. Having seen this before, any shock value on the part of Sergei Ivanovich has long since dissipated. It is, however, what is being worn north of an alarming abundance of décolletage that instigates the ear-swiveling alarm.

It is a rather attractive sapphire necklace, one of recent interest to many.

A brisk snapping of the fingers alerts the roebuck to the fact that his employer is impatient.

“Come on, stupid, don’t just stand there with your muzzle hanging open!”

A blatant libel, as Sergei Ivanovich has not adopted Jake’s general habit. Nevertheless, the dress is handed over, followed by a gentle cough.

“Madame, the necklace…perhaps it’s a bit showy?”

A loud, derisive snort. “Not a bit. I never thought Harold knew what I liked, but I guess I’m wrong. It’s the tops. I’d wear it anywhere.”

“It would not go well with stripes, Madame.”

“I’m not wearing stripes, you idiot.”

“No, Madame, but I fear that if you wear that necklace tonight, it is entirely possible that you will.”

“You’re talking rubbish.” The dress having been slipped on, and more or less fitting, the porcine self is admired by self.

A gentle cough. “Ah. Well, I shall instruct Jake on the means by which to bring both Mr. Tush and Madame home…”

“Nonsense. You’re coming along, too.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What, are you deaf? I said you’re coming.”

“It is not general practice, Madame, to bring uninvited servants to a party…”

“As if you’d know.”

In point of fact, Sergei Ivanovich had a reservoir of knowledge on the subject that it would be inconvenient to share at the moment. With a bow, the orders are accepted.

As the party assembles in the foyer of the suite, sweet marital harmony has apparently been restored, as is evidenced by the affectionate kiss that Mr. Tush receives from his spouse, likely the first one he has received in years. Surprise gives way to alarm when, through the foliage of a wrap, Mrs. Tush’s newest acquisition is spotted.

A few minutes later, as the lady of the household is strutting across the lobby of the hotel, a hurried conference, in the guise of discussing water-taxi arrangements, is being held.

The res of the matter:

(1) all parties truthfully deny knowledge of the necklace’s acquisition;
(2) all parties recognize the necklace as being the subject of an earlier ranygazoo in this very same hotel lobby scant hours before;
(3) all parties recognize that said ranygazoo is going to be nothing like what might occur if Her Serene Highness catches a glimpse of the necklace; and
(4) therefore, it would behoove certain parties to have a ready means of escape.

Sergei Ivanovich immediately suggested that he effect the means of escape, for which certain sums of money to pay off water-taxi drivers was necessary, and immediately advanced. The dispatch of a discreet but informative note to the Constabulary was also deemed advisable, and one with a noticeable time reference is handed, with memory-enhancing tip, to a messenger-fur.

*****

That afternoon on board the Polar Sun was one of a great deal of activity, which might look confusing and chaotic to the untrained eye. The trained eye, however, would perceive the truth of the matter. It was confusing and chaotic.

The general mental state of Princess Moushaska was not an aid to this situation. To be fair, being stripped down to one’s underwear in front of a large audience, and then getting covered from eyebrows to shin in whipped cream and strawberry sauce is going to have a drastic impact on all but some of the more jaded denizens of Weimar Berlin or fin-de-siecle Paris.

For a number of hours, orders were being howled from a bathtub where Her Serene Highness was attempting to regain some measure of her dignity and composure. Matters were not made better by the appearance of Inspector Stagg upon the scene.

There is a somewhat brief and awkward interview, though the Inspector carries it on in Russian to ease matters. Further easing matters is that there does not appear to be any dispute as to the identity of the jewel thieves. The current whereabouts of the necklace, however, is not known to the Constabulary, though “enquiries are continuing.” There are some rather crisp words on police efficiency that are directly, unfairly, at the Inspector, who considers himself lucky to be let go after only a ten minute harangue.

Detective-Sergeant Brush, who had conducted an interview with one of the chefs, hurriedly swallows the evidence of that meeting, and escorts his superior back to the police launch.

Long experience by now has taught the Sergeant a few things.

“Patrol t’keep an eye on t’ings, sir?”

A long, drawn-out sigh. “Yes, Sergeant, that would be wise. In fact, no: make that two patrol boats.”

“You ain’t an optimist t’night, are youse?”

“Enough bizarre things have happened, Sergeant, that I think even the barest precautions are necessary.”

Speaking of bare, the Princess’ maids are looking at her clothes-closet with some trepidation. There are noticeable gaps starting to appear on the racks, and the cedar-lined drawers that contain delicates from Paris are a lot less full than usual.

The generals of old used to shoot the bearers of bad tidings. The maids would consider that lot to be blessed.

However, in the grand manner, things sort themselves out. Whatever the conditions on the Polar Sun, there is a distinct element of professional pride, and it shows. Awnings are raised, band-members bring out their instruments, plates with monogrammed cyphers are laid out, and five minutes before the appointed hour, Her Serene Highness is seated in a comfortable chair on the main deck.

The only bow to recent events is the fact that her glass contains nearly neat vodka instead of gin and tonic.