Retief at Large (57 page)

            "How
is it you always have the word first?" the colonel inquired plaintively.

            "Well,
as to that—" Magnan started.

            "Mr.
Magnan is under oath to reveal nothing, gentlemen," Retief cut in smoothly
as the car halted and the doors slid back on a wide, deep-carpeted conference
room.

            A
long, polished table occupied the middle of the floor, unadorned but for long
yellow pads and ballpoint pens at each place. A few seconds of unobtrusive
scuffling ensued as the diplomats, all veteran campaigners, vied for choice
positions, balancing the prestige of juxtaposition to the Ambassadorial chair
against inconspicuousness in the event of scapegoat selection.

            All
hands stood as the inner door was flung wide. The stern-visaged, multi-chinned
figure of Ambassador Grossblunder entered the room under full sail. He scanned
the assembled bureaucrats without visible approval, seated himself in the chair
the Agricultural Attache leaped to pull out, shot a piercing glance along the
table and cleared his throat.

            "Lock
the doors," he said. "Gentlemen, be seated. I have solemn news for
you." He paused impressively. "We," he concluded solemnly,
"have been robbed!"

            A
sigh passed along the table. All eyes swiveled to Magnan.

            "Robbed,"
Grossblunder repeated, emphasizing the point with a blow of his fist which made
the pencils, plus a number of the diplomats, jump. "I have for some time
suspected that foul play was afoot; a short time ago my worst fears were
confirmed. Gentlemen, there is a thief among us."

            "Among
us?" Magnan blurted. "But how—I mean, why—that is to say, Mr.
Ambassador, how could one of
us
have purloined the—all—loot in
question?"

            "You
may well ask. One might also logically inquire as to why any person connected
with this Mission could so far forget himself as to hide the feet that banns
him. That is, bite the fan that heeds him. I mean beat the hide that fans him.
Confound it, you know what I mean." Grossblunder grabbed a glass of water
and gulped a swallow. "Been here too long," he muttered. "Losing
my grasp of the well-rounded period."

            "A
thief, you say, sir?" Colonel Otherday prompted. "Well, how
interesting—"

            "Interesting
is hardly the word for it," Grossblunder barked.

            "Appalling
is a cut nearer the mark. Shocking, though a trifle flaccid, carries a portion
of the connotation. This is a grievous blot on the CDT copybook, gentlemen. A
blow struck at the very foundations of Galactic accord."

            A
nameless chorus rose.

            "Right,
chief—"

            "Well
phrased, sirs—"

            "You
said it, Boss—"

            "Now,
if anyone here wishes to come forward at this juncture—" Grossblunder's
ominous gaze travelled along the table, lingered on Magnan.

            "You
appear to be the focal point of all eyes, Magnan," the Ambassador accused.
"If you've a comment, don't hesitate. Speak up."

            "Why,
as a matter of fact, sir—" Magnan gulped— "I just wanted to say that
as for myself, I was utterly appalled—that is to say shocked—when I discovered
the loss. Why, you could have knocked me over with the feather in my cap—I
mean—"

            Grossblunder
looked ominous. "You're saying you were already aware of the pilferage,
Magnan?"

            "Yes,
and—"

            The
Ambassador glowered.

            "And
failed to confide this intelligence to me?"

            "I
didn't actually know until a few minutes ago," Magnan explained nastily.
"Why, sir, you are positive miles ahead of me. I'm simply able to confirm
your revelation—not that any confirmation is needed, of course."

            "There,
gentlemen," Grossblunder said with admiration, "is my conception of
an alert officer. While the rest of you went about your business, oblivious of
the light fingers operating to the detriment of this Mission, my Counselor, Mr.
Magnan, alone among my subordinates, sensed mischief afoot. My congratulations
to you, sir."

            "Why,
ah, thank you, Mr. Ambassador." Magnan essayed a fragile smile. "I do
try to keep abreast of developments—"

            "And
since you seem to have the matter in hand, you're appointed Investigative
Officer to get to the bottom of the matter without delay. I'll turn my records
over to you without further ado." Grossblunder shot his cuff, allotted a
glance to his watch. "As it happens, my VIP copter is at this moment
warming up on the roof to whisk me over to the Secretariat, where I expect to
be tied up for the remainder of the evening in high-level talks with the
Foreign Minister regarding slurb-fruit allocations for the coming fiscal
quarter. It seems our Groaci colleagues are out to cut us out of the pattern
luxury-trade-wise, a consummation hardly to be tolerated on my record." He
rose. "You'll accompany me to the helipad, Magnan, for last-minute
briefing. As for the rest of you—let Magnan's performance stand as an example.
You, there—" he pointed at Retief—"you may carry my briefcase."

            On
the roof—aslosh with rainwater under the perpetually leaden sky—Grossblunder
turned to Magnan.

            "I
expect fast action, Ben. We can't allow this sort of thing to pass unnoticed,
as it were."

            "I'll
do my best, sir," Magnan chirped. "And I do want to say it's awfully
white of you not to hold me personally responsible—not that anyone could
actually blame me, of course—"

            "You
responsible? No, I see no way in which I could benefit from that. Besides
which," he added, "you're not an Admin man."

            "Admin
man, sir? What—"

            "My
analysis of the records indicates that a steady trickle over the past two years
at the present rate could account for a total discrepancy on the order of
sixty-seven gross. Think of that, Magnan."

            "Sixty-seven
Bolshoi-type ballet theaters?" Magnan quavered.

            Grossblunder
blinked, then allowed a smile to quirk a corner of his mouth.

            "No
need to hint, Magnan. I haven't forgotten your magnificent performance in the
completion of the project six days ahead of schedule. The grand opening
tomorrow is the one bright spot on my Effectiveness Report—on my horizon, that
is to say. I wouldn't be surprised if there were a citation in store for the
officer responsible." He winked, then frowned. "But don't allow the
prospect to drive the matter of the missing paper clips into eclipse. I want
action."

            "Paper
clips, sir?"

            "A
veritable torrent of them, dropped from Embassy records as expendable items.
Outrageous! But no need to say more, my boy; you're as aware as I of the
seriousness of the situation." Grossblunder gripped his junior's thin
shoulder. "Remember, Magnan—I'm counting on you." He turned and
clambered into his seat. With a rising flutter of rotors the light machine
lifted into the overcast and was gone. Magnan turned shakily to Retief.

            "I—I
though—I thought he knew—"

            "Yes,"
Retief said commiseratingly. "Still, you can always pick an opportune time
to tell him later. While he's pinning on the medal, perhaps."

            "How
can you jest at such a moment? Do you realize that I have to solve not one but
two crimes, before the Ambassador and the Minister finish a bottle of
Port?"

            "That's
a thought; maybe you can get a quantity discount. Still, we'd better get
started before .they run the ante up any higher."

            Back
in his office, Magnan found awaiting him a letter bearing the Great Seal of the
Groacian Autonomy.

            "It's
an
Aide Memoire
from that wretch, Ambassador Shinth," he told
Retief. "Announcing he's moving the date for the unveiling of his Cultural
Aid project up to midnight tonight." He groaned, tossed the note aside.
"This is the final blow, Retief. He's ready to throw out the opening
ball—and I'm without so much as a kiosk to offer in rebuttal!"

            "I
understood the Groaci were behind schedule."

            "They
are. This entire affair is impossible, Retief. No one could have stolen a
complete building overnight—and if they had, where would they hide it? And even
if they found a place to hide it—and we were able to turn it up—how in the
world would we get it back in position in time for a ceremony scheduled less
than twenty hours, local, from this moment?"

            "That
covers the questions," Retief said. "We may have a little more
trouble with the answers."

            "The
building was there last night; I stopped to admire the classical neon meander
adorning the architrave on my way home. A splendid effect; Shinth would have
been green with envy—or whatever color Groaci diplomats turn when confronted
with an esthetic coup of such proportions."

            "He
may be quietly turning puce with satisfaction at this moment," Retief
suggested. "Rather coincidental timing, isn't it? His project ready to go
and ours missing."

            "How
will I ever face Shinth?" Magnan was muttering. "Only last night I
assayed a number of sly jests at his expense. I thought at the time he took
them rather blandly—" Magnan broke off to stare at Retief. "Great
heavens," he gasped. "Are you hinting those sneaky little five-eyed
Meyer-come-latelies could have so far abused diplomatic practice as to be
behind this outrage?"

            "The
thought had crossed my mind," Retief admitted. "Offhand I can't think
of anyone else who might have a yen for a Bolshoi-type ballet theater."

            Magnan
leaped up, yanking the pale mauve lapels of his early mid-afternoon
hemi-demi-informal cutaway into place.

            "Of
course," he cried. "Call out the Marine guard, Retief. I'll march
right up to that underhanded little weasel and demand the return of the
purloined edifice on the spot."

            "Better
be careful what spot you're on," Retief cautioned. "A Bolshoi-type
ballet theater occupies a full block, remember."

            "An
ill-timed jape, Retief," Magnan snapped. "Well, what are you waiting
for?" He paused, frowning. "Am I to deduce from your apparent lack of
enthusiasm that you see some flaw in the scheme?"

            "Just
a small one," Retief said. "His Groacian Excellency has probably
covered his tracks quite carefully. He'll laugh in your face—unless you can
show some proof."

            "Not
even Shinth would have the cheek to deny the facts if I catch him
red-handed." Magnan paused, looking troubled. "Of course, I haven't
actually found any evidence yet—" He nipped at a hangnail and cast a
sidelong glance at Retief.

            "A
ballet theater isn't the easiest thing in the world to hide," Retief said.
"Suppose we try to turn it up first—then we can start on the problem of
how to get it back."

            "Good
notion, Retief. Just what I was about to suggest." Magnan looked at the
watch on his thumb. "Why don't you just pop around and have a look here
and there while I whip my paperwork into shape. After dinner we can get
together and agree on a story— formulate a report, that is, indicating we've
done everything possible."

            Leaving
the Counselor's office, Retief went along to the Commercial Section. A chinless
clerk looked up from among baled newspaper clippings.