Spies Are Like Daffodils
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  RockBaker

Thirteen.


“I’m real sorry, Sir,” the skunk said in an earnestly apologetic tone as the conductor affixed a Closed sign on the door to the dining car. All of the car’s windows had been opened in hopes that the Marine’s spray would dissipate slightly by lunchtime. “The fellow got my dander up.”

The chef glared sourly at the tall skunk. “I've got better uses for tomato juice, you know,” the ermine said.

“It’s all right, Private,” the bear said, patting the taller mel on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I have to do this, though, but I’ve wired ahead to Tacoma. The Shore Patrol will be waiting for you.”

Private Wilkins nodded. “It’s all right, Sir. You have to do what you have to do. Still,” and he grinned at the bear, “it was worth it.”


***


Word was received from the porters that the dining car was closed until the train reached Tacoma, and probably for some time to come. The kitchen was unaffected, so sandwiches were available, although few of the passengers appeared to be interested in them.

Likely due to the lingering scent.

The Golden Bear would arrive in Tacoma by lunchtime, so the option of having a midday meal in one of the city’s restaurants had some appeal.

Nunevya was in her compartment, with Patafuerte and Phlute seated facing each other close to the open door. The fox suddenly sniffed, and his ears went back flat against his head as he glared at the stork.

“It wasn’t me,” Phlute said defensively.

“I know that,” Patafuerte said. “It’s von Fergnergenberg or whatsisname – but this time I’ll be ready for him,” and he reached into the hidden pocket of his suitcase. The tod stood up, shaking the bag free of his fist to reveal the short-barreled revolver he had brought with him from Seathl.

Nunevya immediately made an effort to get under her seat, but found her attempt blocked by the rotund shape of a thankfully empty brass spittoon.

Phlute got up and moved to stand behind Patafuerte, grimacing as a rather malodorous schnauzer in an overcoat approached.

“Not so fast, Major,” Patafuerte said. “I’ve – “

“We’ve,” Phlute interjected.

“I’ve,” the red fox tod growled. “I’ve got the drop on you now.”

Von Fecklessenburg raised one eyebrow and growled, “You are very brave, Patafuerte, to be threatening me with an empty gun.”

The red fox blinked, and Nunevya stifled a groan. Henry asked, “It's empty? Blast!” He turned the weapon toward him to look at the revolver’s cylinder. “Hey! It’s load – “

Von Fecklessenburg’s paws reached out, grabbing and twisting the weapon free of Patafuerte’s grasp, and the schnauzer stepped back a step, looking smug as he aimed the revolver from his hip at the fox and the stork.

“You – you LIED!” Patafuerte accused.

“Of course I did,” von Fecklessenburg said. “It is what I do. There is something else I do.”

“What’s that?” the fox said.

“Kill the enemies of the Grand Duchess.”

There was a sudden scrum as Patafuerte twisted around, grabbed Phlute, and tried to pull him into position between him and the schnauzer. “Shoot him first!” the fox said, trying to hide behind the very thin avian.

“You will not give me the bird,” von Fecklessenburg said.

Phlute and Patafuerte engaged in a brief slap fight before the Minketon’s operative turned, straightened his lapels, and said, “Not so fast, Major. This train is crawling with forty highly trained Minkerton's agents!”

“I do not believe you.”

“Would you believe THIRTY highly trained Minkerton agents?”

“No."

"Would you believe TEN?"

"No."

"Would you believe two Boy Scouts and a dyspeptic feral cat?"

“No.” Von Fecklessenburg smiled before stumbling backward as a fast-moving gray tabby blur struck him behind the ankle, burped, and sped off, pursued by a kitten in a dark blue uniform shirt and shorts.

“Eeee-heee!” the kitten said gleefully as he scampered down the aisle. “He does not like this game.”

“Enough of this,” and von Fecklessenburg pulled the trigger.

Phlute covered his face with his paws.

Patafuerte had his eyes firmly closed.

“Idiots,” Nunevya muttered from her hiding place under the seat.

There was a Pop! followed by a puff of smoke. Very slowly, the bullet nosed out of the barrel, paused as if making certain that the coast was clear, and then fell to the floor.

Phlute was frantically patting himself and examining his paws.

Patafuerte had opened one eye; he opened both and saw the bullet lying forlornly on the floor. "Blast that armorer!" the red fox growled.

Von Fecklessenburg growled. “It does not matter,” he said, jamming the pistol into his coat pocket. He stamped his foot, and there was a ‘Snap!’ sound. “I’ll kill you – “

“How?” Patafuerte asked, looking down. “Screw me to death?” He pointed at the Phillips screwdriver that now projected from the toe of the schnauzer’s shoe.

“Nunevya does not wish to know that,” the minkess muttered.

“I told them not to buy these from the Swiss,” the Major growled. He stamped his foot a few more times, the screwdriver replaced by tweezers, a saw, a magnifying glass (“He can use that to look for your brain,” Patafuerte said to Phlute, eliciting a growl from the stork), a corkscrew, and finally the knife blade that he was looking for. “Now! I kill you!”

The trio began a complicated, albeit brief, dance, as von Fecklessenburg tried to kick at either the stork or the fox, aiming for something vital, while the fox and the stork practically fell over each other in an effort to evade the possibility of a stab or a slash.

Patafuerte hit the doorframe, and the schnauzer took advantage of the red fox’s momentary halt to aim a roundhouse kick at the Rain Islander’s abdomen.

Thunk!

Von Fecklessenberg nearly fell over from the shock, and growled “Chyort!” when he saw that the knife blade had embedded nearly two-thirds of its length into the opposite door frame. He struggled to pull it free, but it was very firmly lodged. “Pardon me,” he asked, “could you lend a paw, please?”

The stork and the fox exchanged a look. “Are you . . . stuck?” Bernie Phlute asked.

“Da, I am quite stuck,” von Fecklessenburg replied, tugging ineffectually at the knife.

Henry Patafuerte asked, “And . . . you want us . . . to help you get loose?”

“Yes, if you would, please.”




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