The Flying Cloud, R505 - Season Two

Episode 61: In His Majesty's Public Service, Part I

Abercrombie flying out of a bar.

Everett, Jenkins, and Abercrombie sipped their tea, watching from the terrace as the Flying Cloud dwindled into the west. Soon the airship was little more than a dot above the horizon. Then she had faded from sight. The captain finished his cup -- a local black variety with some hint of tropical flavoring that was almost entirely unlike Earl Grey -- and stood.

"MacKiernan has provided us with a distraction," he announced. "I imagine Channel will spend some time trying to determine what heís up to. We must use this time wisely, and finish our investigations before his agents recognize us."

Abercrombie nodded. The three men might be dressed as civilians now, but in a town as small as Darwin, their disguise could not last for long. "Where díye ken we should look?" he asked.

"Channelís office might be interesting," mused Everett. "I cannot help but wonder if the fellow has kept some record of his skullduggery. But I suppose that breaking into the police station would be just asking for trouble."

"This would seem to leave us with the freight forwarder who handled that consignment of uraninite, the Russian ťmigrť community, and the railway depot," said Jenkins.

The captain considered the best way to deploy his forces. "It might be best if I was the one to speak with the shipper," he observed. "This would allow Abercrombie to circulate among the Russians, while you use the Cloak of Invisibility to investigate the train station. Weíd best get started. Be careful not to draw attention to yourselves."


The freight forwarderís office was a tidy wooden affair attached to one end of a modest warehouse. The man himself -- a middle-aged veteran with a wooden leg -- was seated behind a desk, absorbed in a paper. Anzac Cove, or possibly Ypres, thought Everett, glancing at the injury. He shook his head, remembering days of fire and blood, and rang the bell on the counter.

"Gíday," said the Aussie, looking up. "My monikerís John Decker. How can I doya?"

Everett hesitated for a moment, thrown off balance by peculiarities of the local dialect. "The nameís Everett," he replied. "Captain Everett."

"Youíre one of the missing Navy blokes!"

"I trust youíll exercise some discretion regarding this matter."

The shipper hadnít gotten where he was by being dim. "Bobís your uncle."

I shall assume that means yes, thought Everett. "Iíd like to ask about that cargo of uraninite you handled last month. I understand your client was the Russian who went missing on the train back Enterprise Creek?"

"Sítruth. There was something crook about that chappie. He was trying to hide it, but his yakker was too posh for an ordinary wog. And he said his moniker was Boris, but look at how he signed these papers." The Aussie pulled open a drawer, removed a shipping contract, and slid it across the desk. Everett wasnít surprised to see the letters ĎKí ĎAí, scratched out and followed by an unconvincing scrawl.

"What happened after your client vanished?" he asked.

"The very next day," said the Aussie with relish, "one of Channelís wankers was here, asking if Iíd heard from the bloke. This also seemed crook, 'cos weíd kept our bizzo secret, so I told him to rack off. A week later, some Russians from the tannery came by to ask if I knew someone named Dimitri. Then it was Russians from the fish plant asking about a Boris. By now I was ready to spit the dummy, so I told them to rack off too. Finally, in the middle of June, three Germans came looking for the man's cargo, but they called him Karlov."

Everett thought this over. It seemed this mysterious Russian had been keeping secrets from his countrymen here in Darwin. But why had they asked after him by two different names? Were two different groups of Russians involved? And why had Channel and one set of Russians both seemed to know the man as Boris? Did the police chief have some contact with the ťmigrť community? There had been a set of plans for their airship written in Cyrillic among the man's papers.

"So the Germans were the only ones who knew about the ore?" he asked. "What did you tell them?"

"Zilch," spat the shipper. "The Boche still owe me for this!" He slapped his wooden leg. "Besides, Iíd already sold the shipment to Captain Helga."

"Sold it?" Everett raised his eyebrows. "Didnít it belong to the man who arranged it?"

"Contract had a default clause if he didnít show up to claim it. It's standard bizzo if a customer doesnít want to pay storage charges up front."

"And that was the last of the matter?"

"Hardly! Last week, the blokeís wife showed up: a sheila named Natasha."

"His wife?" said Everett incredulously.

"With a ring, certificate, and wedding photos to prove it. A pity..." the shipper sighed, "...ícos she was a bit o' all right. Wouldnít have minded doing her a naughty. She wanted to know where her husband had been before he vanished, so I told her, and off she went."

"And what name did this woman call the man by?" asked Everett.

"Karlov."

This is all very interesting, thought Everett. But what does it mean?


The bar was a ramshackle wooden structure that teetered next to the water. It appeared to have begun life as a fish-drying hut, and from the smell, Abercrombie wondered if it might still be used for this purpose. The customers looked up as he entered. They were a sorry lot: beachcombers and refugees, exiled by the revolution that had swept their homeland. Some seemed in worse shape than the building.

"Whatíll it be?" asked the bartender.

What would a Russian exile drink in Australia? wondered the Scotsman. Vodka, in one of those new cocktails from America? "A martini," he replied. "Shaken, not stirred."

The barkeep raised his eyebrows, then busied himself with the drink. Abercrombie glanced around and noticed that other customers were staring at him with obvious hostility. One -- a brute so hairy he seemed to be covered in fur -- stepped forward to confront him

"What are you doing here, Communist?" the man snarled.

"What?" said Abercrombie in astonishment. "Iím nae communist! Iím a Scotsman!"

"Ha! All true Scotsmen are communists!"

By now, other men were standing up, pushing aside their chairs, reaching into their jackets to produce an assortment of truncheons, blackjacks, brass knuckles, and other durable heavy objects. Abercrombie raised his fists, then remembered Everettís injunction not to call attention to themselves.

"All right, lads," he said. "Iíll be leavin'."

"Isnít that just like a communist," laughed someone, "running away from a fight!"


The second bar was not much better than the first, though this particular structure appeared to have begun life as a glue factory. Its customers were every bit as sorry looking as the first crowd.

"Whatíll it be?" asked the bartender.

Abercrombie considered his reply. Perhaps the Russians at the previous establishment had thought his taste in drinks too plebian. "A mint julep," he replied, "light on the sugar, and go a bit heavy on the bourbon."

The barkeep scratched his head, then shrugged. As he left, Abercrombie studied the other patrons, noted their scowls, and sighed, guessing would happen next. A bald man -- skull so shiny it appeared to have been waxed -- made his way over.

"What are you doing here, Capitalist?" growled the man.

"Iím nae capitalist!" said Abercrombie. "Iím a Scotsman!"

"Ha! All true Scotsmen are capitalists!"

Around them, weapons had begun to appear. Abercrombie scowled in annoyance. This was turning into a trend. As he bid the place farewell, he heard someone snicker behind him. "Isnít that just like a capitalist, running away from a fight!"

Out on the street, the Scotsman considered his next move. Should he find another bar and try his luck a third time? No, he decided. Some days you only drink twice.

Next week: In His Majesty's Public Service, Part II...

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