"Name, please?"

"Alexandrina Annastasia Tatiana Olga Svetlana Moushaska of the House of Hoch-See-Pfalz."

The Clerk of the Spontoon Islands Court of Petty Sessions is given a ferocious glare, as if daring him to spell even one word incorrectly. The badly shaken and intimidated fur meekly asks for some assistance from a colleague, a small, white-furred fox, who by coincidence had once been in allegiance to the Princess' father.

The vulpine reflexively snaps his heels together, and barks out the correct spelling, throwing in a regulation bow in the direction of Her Serene Highness.

Fortunately for her dignity, a package arrived from the Polar Sun before the hearing, and with the assistance of a shower-bath and some brushes, the Princess is somewhat restored to her natural state of dignity.

The clerk watches this performance with a mixture of puzzlement and amusement. Being originally from Limehouse, he is slighty less impressed with noble wolfesses than his colleague the fox is.

A swiveled (and sarcastic) eye is then directed to the Bench, where Magistrate Pathe is watching the proceedings with keen interest, as befits a rooster. At least, muses the clerk, that crazy old dog Poynter isn't still on the bench. He would have been putty in the paws of a beautiful princess. As it was, the betting was running fairly heavily that the Princess was going to get off fairly lightly.

Sucker's bet. She did. The most onerous part of her punishment was being responsible for cleaning up what remained of her motor-car. The reminder of this causes a brief look of cold, Baltic fury to cross her muzzle, before she in turn bows to the Bench and indicates that this will be done.

She exits the court-room, but not before beckoning over her fellow country-fur, and engaging in an intense, whispered conversation with him. There is much bowing and heel-clicking in one half of the conversation, which for further privacy is carried on in Finnish. With no subtitles, of course.

The next two cases are also disposed of moderately quickly. In the case of Furs of Spontoon Island v. Jacob Greenmount, the charge of petty theft of one (1) picnic basket is not pursued by Her Serene Highness, who has already left the courtroom. In default of this, the Magistrate gives the brawny feline a stern lecture, which is taken with bowed head and flattened ears. Not that this is the first time for such a proceeding. Still, Jake feels that he has gotten off lightly.

This is followed by the matter of Furs of Spontoon Island v. "Richard Roe." A formulation that causes some amusement with the defendant, who manages to successfully conceal it behind a small paw, out of sight of his much taller brother cervine, Detective-Inspector Stagg, who is eyeing the captive carefully.

Again, owing to an oversight on the part of Moushaska, there are no charges pending from that quarter, and the production of a duly issued card shows that he, the roebuck, was one of the furs in lawful possession of the picnic ground.

The Public Prosecutor clears his throat. "There is, Your Honour, the matter of the defendant's documentation."

"What about it?"

"There isn't any. The defendant refuses to give his name."

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would taste as sweet."

A languid tapping of the gavel cuts off this recitation of the classics. Inspector Stagg wearily consults a list.

"The defendant has given a long list of assumed names to the police, which includes, by way of selection: St. John the Baptist, Piers the Ploughfur, Sir Francis Bacon, Yemelyan Pugachoff, Vladimir Mayakoffski, Filip Preobrazenskii, Mansa Musa, Joseph Crater, Jeffrey T. Spaulding, Ambrose Bierce, Ostap Bender, Sir Austen Chamberlain, Lt. Pyotr Schmidt, Alexei Vronskii, Ilya Oblomoff and last, and perhaps not least, Confucius."

The Great Organizer, who evidently is also a Great Philosopher, Statesfur and Fur of Letters, not to mention Revolutionary Spirit, brushes the tip of a paw against his lapel with becoming modesty.

"I propose, Your Honour, to have the defendant detained until such time as he is willing to identify himself fully to the authorities."

"But is he a danger to the public, Inspector?"

Truth-telling buck that he is, the Inspector admits that he has no evidence that the Great Organizer is indeed a threat, whether under the name of Pyotr Schmidt or not.

"And you say that he is without documents?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"Well, then, if he's a flight risk, let him flee, says I. Eh, what?"

The Inspector is not totally convinced by this logic, but the matter is put in abeyance by a messenger, who hurriedly delivers an envelope to the Magistrate. From it is extracted a letter and some crisp bank-notes. The rooster addresses the court.

"Evidently, defendant, you have an employer that is willing to post bond for you, in the amount of five hundred Spontoon Pounds. Capital idea. You're bound over to keep the peace, and remanded into the custody of, let's see...ah, yes, Harold Tush. Mark that down, will you, clerk?"

Sergei Ivanovich bows to the court, and with a winning smile, turns and bows to Inspector Stagg.

"Au revoir, my dear Inspector! Until we meet again."

The Inspector is not a fur to be exceeded in politeness. He raises his hat. "Oh, indeed, "Nemo," we shall meet again."

For a moment, the roebuck is flustered and annoyed. The Inspector has, however briefly, topped him in literary allusions. Most rare for a policefur.

With unerring instinct, hoof-steps are taken not toward the suite of the Tushes, but rather, to that oasis of calm, the Long Bar of Shepherd's Hotel. Sergei Ivanovich is confident that even at this relatively early hour of the day (eleven), the boar has fled to the quiet, mahogany-lined precincts in search of refreshment.

In this, he is not disappointed. There is already a three-quarters empty glass before the boar, indicating a head start.

"I am indeed grateful, Citizen Tush, that there is a meeting of the minds between Master and Servant. Your gesture in springing me from durance vile is noted, and I am, naturally, at your disposal." A quick look around. "If I may ask, where is my colleague, Citizen Jake? Surely he is supposed to be in attendance upon you."

"He's looking after my mate, Sergei. Speaking of which, I desperately need your advice on something. Look at this!"

A large buff envelope is thrust into cervine paws. The writing on the outside is consulted with furrowed brow.

"I see. You have opened my mail. And here I am, thinking that the days of cabinets noir were over. You have not developed a sudden urge to branch out and work for the Cheka, have you? If you do, apply to me for information on the subject. I have a vast and hard-earned store of knowledge on the subject."

The envelope is opened (for a second time) and the contents extracted. Even for a well-read, well-traveled and experienced fur such as Sergei Ivanovich, the photograph that is produced cause both eyebrows to be raised.

"My God, Sergei, what do you think?"

There is no immediate answer, as the photograph is examined from many different angles with keen interest.

"You will forgive me, Citizen, if I observe that the composition is rather in favour of Her Serene Highness, who evidently has a diet that is more suited for Indian Wrestling. However, there are those who have different tastes -- the phrase that leaps to mind is chacun a son gout, though in this case it might well be chacune a sa gout -- but yes, this matter is fraught with interest."

The front of the envelope is consulted again. "How did this fall into your possession, Citizen?"

"By messenger, it was left at the front desk for you, in my care."

"Indeed? And did said front desk take note of the messenger's vitals?"

"No. They were very busy, and just put it in the pigeon-hole."

A pursing of the lips and lowering of the brows in thought. "We move in dark waters, Citizen, and we involve ourselves in matters governed by Brain." The photograph is reinserted into the envelope. "We must meet Brain with Brain, therefore. Trouble yourself no further, as the matter is now in my paws."

The proper psychological moment having arrived, accompanied by the last of the whisky being drunk, the roebuck continues.

"One dislikes rising such tawdry matters as that of money, especially in light of the generous bail I was afforded earlier today, Citizen, but would it be an issue if I were to touch you for the round sum of five hundred pounds further?" The buff envelope was raised. "I will have need of capital to cover expenses in connection with this matter, as I already have certain indicia of how events came to pass."

The boar looks slack-jawed, as the whisky is already having something of an effect. Nevertheless, a cheque made out to that redoubtable individual, "CASH," is written in the amount specified.

"Look, anything, Sergei. Just figure out a way to do something with that...my God!"

"Rest assured, Citizen, the matter is in my paws."

Upstairs, what is in the paws of Jake Greenmount is his throbbing head. In default of the appearance of the Great Organizer, he has been dragooned into the role of dresser for Xanthippe Tush, and the experience has left his emotions badly shaken. Little seems able to rally him.

With the possible exception of the large double-cheeseburger that has suddenly materialized under his nose.

"Hey! If I may be so bold as to coin a phrase."

"Oh...hi, boss."

"Come now, that is not the proper spirit to address to a fur that brings you the foodstuff dreams are made of. At least for carnivores. I myself cannot see the interest into two slabs of grilled meat, but as I was saying to our lord and master not twenty minutes ago, chacun a son gout."

The plate is looked at with weary eyes, and motioned away with the back of a paw.

"I don't wanna have a burger."

Truth be told, the plate is almost dropped in shock, as the Great Organizer has not foreseen this. Foodstuff is carefully placed on a side table, and the form squeezed onto the small portion of space on the sofa not currently occupied.

"Boss, it ain't that I'm ungrateful. Really, I ain't. But I got bounced in de drink, spent a night in jail, and dat sow had me dress her..." There is a violent shudder of the shoulders, indicating emotion. "And what's more, we ain't done nothin' t'help dem horses, boss. Face it, I'm a flop. I oughta go back t'rollin drunks, like when ya found me."

"Citizen! I hear your cri de coeur, your despair! Remember that despair is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, and unlike some of the other ones, it is not nearly as much fun to commit." (Tactfully, Sergei Ivanovich omits a reference to gluttony.) "I will not have your soul in purgatory because of this."

A head-tilt. "I thought ya didn't believe in dat stuff."

"I do not, Citizen Jake, but I have your higher feelings in mind. Let us put the cards on the table, shall we? We are still in the midst of a plan of operations, Citizen. You speak of being a flop. No! You are NOT a flop, Citizen! The status of a flop only comes at the end of the performance, when the curtain is ringing down, and the critics, having put on their hats, are walking back to the newspaper offices, thinking of vile and slanderous statements to be made. I have painful experiences in that line. Get me in a sentimental mood, and I will relate to you the time I attempted to put on a production of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" in Moscow. Critics are swine. Speaking of swine, I have something to show you, Citizen."

The contents of the envelope are show. The first reaction from the catamount is to bug out his eyes. The second is to clap his paws over them.

"Awwwwww. Now I gotta go to confession."

"Intriguing, isn't it? Here, Citizen Jake, we see the skill of the professional at work."

"Ya mean the photographer?"

"Well, yes. But the fur who developed this photograph from the original negative is no dab paw at it. A very artistic type."

With paws over his eyes, it's difficult to read the expression on Jake's face. Sergei Ivanovich, however, has a thoughtful expression, as Sir Issac Newton might have had a split-second after being woken from his under-tree nap.

"Citizen?"

"Yeah?"

"Look me in the eyes. That requires the removal of your paws, please. There, that's better. I, as your boss, order you to do two things."

"What's dat?"

"One, eat your hamburger. It's getting cold, and there are those of the working class in New York that are without such delicacies. Two, and this can be accomplished while you eat your burger, follow me."

"Where we goin'?"

"To have a tete-a-tete with Citizeness Tush."

The paw, having reached for the burger, suddenly withdraws.

"I ain't hungry no more."

"Citizen! You are ordered to do so. You would not disappoint me, would you? Revolt is such an uneasy thing, even for somefur who goes occasionally by the name of Pytor Schmidt."

With decreasing reluctance, the cat's muzzle is soon filled with the offering, and the cat's footpads follow hooves.

He watches in interest as the roebuck knocks on the door, not with the polite air of an ambassador seeking an audience with a friendly sovereign, but rather in the manner of the knights of old, demanding the surrender of a fortress. It has its desired effect. In short order, an angry muzzle protrudes, searches, and looks down, finding Sergei Ivanovich's leveled gaze.

"What do YOU want?"

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many things. Of parcels, jewels and photographs. Of bullies, nags and such. And whether egos can withstand, the public's constant laughs."

"I herewith present to you, Citizeness, a document that has come into my possession. I dislike parting with documents. Documentation is precious to me for a variety of reasons. Nevertheless, I think you will find this of great interest. And with that, I shall take my leave. Come, Citizen Jake. Your consumption of that hamburger puts me in mind of a fresh garden salad to restore my tissues. The cuisine of the jails here leaves even that of the Lubianaka to be desired."

Not six steps are taken before there is a loud, frightened shriek which startles Jake into nearly (mark you, nearly) dropping his meal.

It is noteworthy that the Great Organizer is not in the least startled.