And so we return to the point where Jake Greenmount had returned, with a new friend, to find that friend's plans for a splendid luncheon somewhat derailed. The feline, with becoming politeness, accepts a rain cheque for another day, and trudges up to the suite, to perform sundry domestic tasks for the Tushes. Or, rather, Mr. Tush, since Mrs. Tush's nerves seem to be still a-jangling.

"Well, Jake, we've all done a good turn for that young horse, eh?"

"Uh-hunh."

"With any luck, the first of a number of commissions."

"Uh-hunh."

"I've got dinner tonight with Mr. Crane. He's a fur that owns a radio station and a newspaper here in the islands. Might bring up Stanley during that conversation."

"Uh-hunh."

"Something wrong, Jake?”

"You seen th' little guy, sir?"

"Who? You mean Sergei? No, no I haven't. He wasn't with you?"

"Nuh-unh. I went to th' radio place this mornin'. I done some singin' wit' a nice lady cat."

The boar's expression shows a mixture of surprise and pleasure. "Really? I wonder how they found out."

"I dunno, sir. I wanna tell th' boss 'bout it, but he ain't here."

"Oh, I'm sure he's around and about, doing something inventive. By the by, could you press my suit, Jake?"

And while the catamount was engaged in that not overly onerous activity, the roebuck in question was busily engaged in an important task. Namely, keeping out of the sight of constables and detectives alike. Much as it deeply pains his soul, he has had to put aside linen suits and in particular roses in the lapel in favour of rough denim and flat hats. While more fitting for a son of toil and member of the great universal working class, the wardrobe lacks a certain ton. Nevertheless, such garb is preferable to prison garb. He had seen that offered to Her Serene Highness, and the memory stings.

Perforce, it is the side-streets and alleys that must be resorted to, as these are less frequented by the Majesty of the Law. It is at this moment that the Great Organizer is in that pose favoured by Rodin, with elbow on knee and chin on paw. What is wanting, Sergei Ivanovich feels, in intelligence, the oxygen for all great thinkers. Or Thinkers.

Help, as it often is, comes in unexpected quarters.

"Psssst."

Cervine ears swivel, cervine eyes scan, but nothing is found, and the noise is put to either imagination or husky mosquitoes.

"Senor, you like the conversation, yes?"

More scanning of the horizons, near and far, and yet no source of the disembodied voice can be found. Worrying thoughts cross the roebuck's mind of madness, that locale not far from Genius. Happily, these are dispelled by the touch of a small paw upon grimy work-shirt.

"Hee! You no see Fausti, yes? No? I am here, senor."

"So it appears. I was not aware that creation supplied members of my species in smaller packages. Ever thus, as the fur says, "Progress Marches On!" In any event, you are evidently Fausti. How do you do."

"You are the polite and gentlefur. This please Fausti. Less please is how you fall to you current state."

"A sad and tragic tale, Citizen, one that is not likely to be immortalized in ballad."

"Fausti know the piano player. For the few dollar, he make the verse for Russian deer. Many tear guarantee."

"I have other things to think of, Citizen, that my own humble and at the moment somewhat fragrant self."

"Not so fragrant, Fausti is think, as the very fancy wolf mel, no?"

"Ah! You saw the action today?"

"Si, there was much business for Fausti, as furs flee to Long Bar from fancy hotel. Much talk of the fight."

"And how did things turn out, Citizen? Regrettably, I was not there, as I felt my presence would be not desirable from the point of view of many parties."

A sly look from the eyes just barely visible, under small antlers and above the dust-bin lid.

"Ah, senor, you will no see this thing, this fisticuff, in the newspaper. Fausti is sure of this, for he has seen many the affray get the quiet treatment."

"As I have observed to a colleague of mine, when Capital meets Monopoly, the Truth is always the loser."

"Maybe. Maybe not, senor. Fausti, he know much, for he is bartender."

"A worthy and ancient profession, to be sure, Citizen. But this is all well and good. Where, if you will forgive the exercise of ego, does the humble self fit in?"

The eyes above the dust-bin shift left and right, and a small paw beckons closer. "There is the wolfess that nice roebuck play with, no?"

"I would not "play," as you put it, with Her Serene Highness for any sum of money you care to name, or any stakes short of having myself pulled apart by wild lobsters."

"Oh! That is the image amuse, the wild lobster treatment. Fausti make note of this, it bring the laugh to his customer."

"The world-wide copyright is duly assigned. The meeting continues, and the the question is moved: what about the wolfess?"

"Ah, senor, there is the rumour she want the big game."

"She should cultivate the friendship of my friend Citizen Jake Greenmount. Game rarely gets bigger than that."

"Hee! No, no, senor. Fausti mean the card game."

At once, the Great Organizer's ears snap up, as if touched to one of those galvanizing batteries so popular in Regency drawing-rooms. "Card game, you say, Citizen? And by implication, one where large sums of money wrenched from the toil and sweat of the working classes are waged for the idle amusement of Decadence?"

"With much the drink of the champagnes and fancy liqueurs, senor."

"Ahh. Light dawns as to how this knowledge is within your ken."

"Si. The concierge at the Shepherd's, he make sure that, hee-hee, the occasional case of the drinks go how you say "miss," and get deliver to this place of which Fausti speak. He no think Fausti know about this, but Fausti know much, since it is the tool of Fausti's trade he take away. The filthy cabron."

Knuckles are rapped upon the lid. "The personal remarks, however justified, are ruled out of order, Citizen. Let us return to the matter at paw. You have knowledge of where Her Serene Highness is going to have her high-stakes game?"

"Si. Fausti know where. Is only one game in town with the stake, and the elegance, fit for Princessa."

"And this information will, of course, not be gratuitous."

A soft look of reproach from soft brown eyes. "Please, senor, you no understand. Nice roebuck no have hear of Fausti -- Fausti, he is the humble bartend. But Fausti, he has hear of roebuck. When he see roebuck with fat capitalist boar, he is sure of it."

Tiny paw beckons closer, and the Great Organizer's head inclines in obedience.

"State Amber Trust, 1922. Artel "Red Karelia," 1923. The Fourth State Credit Society of Byelorussia, 1923. Café Rocket, Moscow, 1924. State Kino-Productions, Moscow and Nizhni Novgorod, 1924...need Fausti go on?"

Truth be told, Sergei Ivanovich is shocked, and not a little afraid. "I had no idea the Recording Angels came in such small and eloquent sizes."

"Ahhhh, senor, in the circle that Fausti once move in, we appreciate greatly the art. You make of the organization very well, senor, and Fausti, in his humble way, make try to emulate in the Rio de Janerio. But Moscow, it is not Rio de Janerio, no?"

"Assuredly not. Well, then, this is a professional matter."

"Si. Fausti, he is confident that the nice roebuck will think of Fausti if opportunity come, no?"

A paw is extended, and a somewhat odd production of shaking paws ensues.

"Bueno. Listen careful, senor. The place you seek, is call "Oasis Club." Very, very nice. Very, very classy. Fausti tell you where is, when it operate. Fausti cannot help you get in, though."

"I have no intentions of playing games of chance, Citizen, as it is a matter that does not appeal to my rational mind."

A shifty-eyed look. "Perhaps, senor, perhaps. But there is no doubt friend who nice roebuck wish to help, no? Under obligation, yes?"

"I decline to comment, Citizen, as it would violate confidences."

"Of course, of course. You accept advice from Fausti?"

"Naturally. I disdain no source of intelligence."

"You get very, very pretty blonde lady horse to find out how get in Oasis Club. Fausti mean no offence, senor, but there are thing that the femmefurs can do that the mels, we cannot."

"There is...or was...a club on the Reeperbahn where they would take issue with that statement, Citizen, but I digress. Your wisdom is duly docketed."

"Gracias, senor. You no forget the Fausti, no?"

"Impossible to do so, Citizen."

"Viva la revolucion, comrade!"

"All power to the Soviets, my friend. Thank you."

*****

At the other end of the socio-political spectrum, a conference is underway at the top floor of the building that houses the offices of both the Spontoon Mirror and radio station LYRC.

Publisher meets publisher over coffee. Truth-telling requires us to note the coffee is fortified with a local pineapple brandy, which on both sides has helped lubricate the conversation.

"So it's settled, then."

"Oh, quite, quite, Mr. Tush, I assure you. Professional courtesy, eh?"

A secretary pokes her head in the door. "Mr. Mooney is here to see you, Mr. Crane."

"Splendid, splendid, send him on in. Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Mooney."

"Uh, good afternoon, Mr. Crane. I'm not interrupting...?"

"No, no, to the contrary! Mr. Tush and I were discussing your spirit of reportorial enterprise just now."

"Y'mean the punch-up at L'Etoile?"

"Well, yes, that and the Princess' yacht party. I'll get to the point quickly, Mr. Mooney. Your notebook, please."

"My...oh, no."

"If you please, Mr. Mooney."

The item in question is produced, and handed over mournfully. The contents are carefully examined, and only those pages that are pertinent to the events of the morning are removed. The residue is handed back, while the redacted pages are placed in a handy ash-tray, and given a Viking funeral.

"No by-line, I guess, right?"

"No, Mr. Mooney, but I repeat, this is not an indictment of your spirit of enterprise. There's an envelope waiting with my secretary that has your name on it. A word of advice, though: find some other place to take Miss Watermaster for a celebratory meal, hmmmm?"

"Yessir."

With somewhat mixed feelings, the cat makes his departure.

"Not, my dear Mr. Tush, the first time with that gentlefur. He is ever an inquisitive one, my Mr. Mooney."

"You spike a lot of his stories?"

"Quite a few. I find his stories are invaluable in causing other furs to incur obligations to me. Most productive."

"Like the obligation from me, eh?"

"Oh, come now, sir." Wings are spread in a friendly gesture. "You will find me a very easy creditor."

"Well, as a matter of fact, I think I CAN pay you back, after a fashion."

"I was wondering what that portfolio you are carrying is all about."

"Yes, funny thing. Would you believe one of my servants is responsible for this?"

"Really? And furs complain it's so hard to get good help these days. Untie the string there, and let's have a look, shall we?"

*****

With Mrs. Tush indisposed, and Mr. Tush away on business, Jake Greenmount is left to his own devices. However, without his captain, he feels rudderless and adrift.

Scant days before, he was dressed in ragged clothes and considering petty larceny in order to keep body (including stomach) and soul together. Today? He's wearing a suit, he's had an average of five square meals a day, and he had a somewhat successful, if mystifying, day at a radio studio.

All of this, he chalks up, with kitten-like innocence, to his colleague, his erstwhile "boss," whose name he can't really pronounce. Truth be told, only about four words in ten that the little deer speaks can be comprehended by Jake. But yes, he believes that he would not be in the position he is in at the moment without the roebuck.

The position he is in, in the strictly physical sense of the word, is the lobby of Shepherd's Hotel, which has recovered from the twin excitements of the jewel robbery and the very recent punch-up in its four-star restaurant. With unseeing eyes, Jake observes the reconstruction of the newsstand in the corner. Idle thoughts pass: has the new issue of the Nursery Weekly come yet? There's a serial story in there that Jake is eager to catch up on.

A fine example, dear reader, which I ask you to emulate!

In any event, the brawny feline is lost in his thoughts until a harsh whisper breaks in.

"Hey."

Jake's head moves from side to side, rapidly, attempting to find the source of the voice. He is morally certain that it is he, the catamount, that is being addressed.

"I reiterate, Citizen, "hey." You will find me behind this potted plant."

The location is reached with alacrity. Almost as quickly, deer is picked up and given the benefit of a bone-crushing hug, which lifts him off his hooves.

"Chee, it's great t'see ya, boss!"

"*Accchr-grhrgl.* Yeeesh, and I....too...but I beg...please...put me down, Citizen."

The order is cheerfully obeyed.

"I reiterate that I am not some class of concertina, Citizen Jake," the buck whispers, "and in a further budget of news, I beg you both to bend down and keep your voice to a whisper."

"The cops is after youse, boss?"

"Eloquently and accurately put, Citizen Jake. At any moment, I expect posters with my noble visage in profile and full-face to be distributed by the sheaf about these places of amusement, at which point the climate will assuredly get quite hot for me. Do you follow?"

"Yeah, yeah I do, boss. Chee, I'm sorry yer in trouble. What kin I do t'help youse?"

"I knew, in the bottom of my heart, Citizen, that were I in need, I could merely call upon you, and you would rally to me. Further evidence (should any be needed) of a noble and honourable nature. Now, in point of fact, I do need help, and it is of absolute importance that this be carried out swiftly."

"Got it, boss."

"Splendid. You know where Citizeness Trotter is?"

"Youse said she's at th' Grand, didn'tcha?"

"Correct. I place this envelope in your paws, Jake. It is, in turn, to be placed only in the paws of Citizeness Trotter, and no other."

"Hot tip, boss?"

"If it were any hotter, we would need an asbestos envelope."

"Got it, boss. I'll get onnit, right away."

"Splendid."

"Hey!"

"Yes, Citizen?"

A massive paw clumps down on denim-ed shoulder. "You take care o'yerself, hanh?"

Paw is gripped, fervently. "Rest assured, Citizen Jake, this is not the first time I have been, as some say, "behind the eight ball." Why that particular article is in odium, I could not say. The English language baffles me on occasion. Perhaps you will explain it to me, sometime. In any event, plans are afoot!"

A quick peek through the foliage indicates no opposition forces.

"Expect me when you see me next, Citizen!" And with that, the roebuck vanishes, shielded by a passing laundry-cart.

*****

Scant minutes later, Phoebe Trotter is examining with rapt interest the contents of the envelope. When she is finished, she takes out a lighter, and reduces the letter to ashes.

"Right. Jake, are you ready for some further orders?"

"Sure t'ing, Miz Trotter!"

The filly strides over to the writing desk, selects some stationery, and after a brief bit of thought, writes out some orders of her own. The communication is left unsigned, and the envelope unsealed.

"Do you know where to find Stanley, Jake?"

"I knows where he eats, Miz Trotter."

"That'll do. But whatever you do, hunt him down, Jake, and make sure he gets this as soon as possible. Events are going to happen. Not tonight, but I think very soon. I need to get working on my end of it, but Stanley needs to get ready, too."

"Got it, Miz Trotter. An' hey, Miz Trotter?"

"Yes, Jake?"

"Furs was talkin' in th' lobby...y'know, 'bout you an' dat wolf guy. I'm real sorry t'hear 'bout it, Miz Trotter."

Jake's genuine and unforced sympathy elicits a wistful smile from the filly. And a kiss on his cheek.

"You're a good fur to think of me, Jake, but don't worry about it. These things work out in the end. You'll see. Especially if you get going with that envelope. Don't worry about getting a reply, Jake. All I need is for you to give that to Stanley."

"You got it, Miz Trotter."

*****

Papadopolous’ Polynesian Poi Palace appears to have a monopoly on the culinary attentions of Stanley Morgan. Budgetary considerations, of course, are at the forefront, though in a certain sense, the muddy coffee of uncertain brewing process makes the stallion nostalgic for certain Greenwich Village diners frequented in times past.

Folded inside the shirt-pocket of the artist is the communication delivered by Jake Greenmount. The contents are met with the same grim determination that no doubt the Duke of Wellington had when his Brussels dance-party was so rudely interrupted.

The addition of a fifty Spontoon pounds note as a good luck gesture has not gone unnoticed, and is the proximate cause of the fact that the fly-specked menu is being perused without being read.

So deep is this study, that he does not notice that the stool next to him is now occupied by another fur.

"So, Stanley, what do you recommend from the menu?"

Slightly startled, the horse turns and becomes face-to-slightly-battered-face with Henry von der Wald.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Henry. Not your usual kind of place."

"Well, L'Etoile d'Argent is a bit hot for me now, Stanley. Humble fare, for a humbled fur. You heard about Phoebe, right?"

"Well, I saw her give you the ring."

"Followed it up with a note, this afternoon. The whole show's off."

The stallion puts down his menu, and turns to his now dining companion.

"Not sure what you want to hear me say."

"Doesn't matter, Stanley. I know it when I've been whipped, and I can sure feel it right now. I was a chump to think I could beat you."

"Well, now, I wouldn't say..."

"Oh, yeah. You beat me. Trust me. I've done in more than one fur on the Street. I've been on the other side, and I've seen the Look. And I'm seeing it in the mirror right now. When I'm not putting iodine on my cuts. That old Russian bird's some heavyweight."

A refill, and a new cup of old coffee are delivered. They are consumed in a silence that lasts some minutes, before the wolf mel reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a small, square item.

"Any particular reason, Stanley, you left me with a present? It's neither Christmas, nor my birthday."

"I've got no further use for it, Henry, but I'll bet you do."

"Wouldn't happen to fit a Speed Graphic camera, would it?"

The only response is a grim smile over the rim of a coffee cup.

"Got it. Yes, you're right, I've got a use for it, all right. Thanks."

More silence, this time over tomato soup and the first hamburger sandwich that the most feared fur on Wall Street has likely had since he was a junior clerk. It is only broken, at the end, when some shilling coins are placed on the counter.

"You've still got the problem of having to figure out how to get the means to take care of Phoebe, right?"

"I'm working on it, Henry."

"I'll just bet you are. And you'll probably succeed, too. You missed your calling, Stanley. You've got a streak in you that other furs should pay attention to. Renaissance Italy would have been too small for the likes of you."

"Funny. You're the second fur who's told me that in the last few days."

"It's nice," opined the wolf mel, as he picked up his hat, "that I can follow public opinon."