know where to find us?”
“Smart flyin’ or dumb luck, dependin’ on how you look at it. Ol’ Moxie Mabel had a little juice in ’er so I thought I might’s well go up an’ take a look around, but she won’t climb too good so all’s I could do was comb the flatlands, of which there ain’t none to speak of around here, ’cept Lodestone Flat, which is where you’re standin’ now in case you didn’t know. I smelt your smoke an’ knowed the Miners’ Rest was bunged up tight shut for the winter so when I seen your plane settin’ down in front of ’er, I figured I must o’ found the missin’ murderers.”
“Murderers? I fail to understand you, sir. As I said before, we are musicians.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, mister. I ain’t deaf. Not that deaf, anyhow. You’re the buggers who done in some other poor son of a bitch that played the coronet.”
“Do you mean cornet? What cornet? The cornet is primarily a band instrument. We don’t use them all that much in orchestral music.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me, mister. Maybe it was a kazoo or a bugle. Like them things them two buzzards over there is carryin’. You ain’t kiddin’ me none for all your hifalutin’ talk. You didn’t even shoot ’im down like a white man. You bunged ’im full o’ some kind o’ fancy rat pizen an’ left ’im to drown in his own puke while you made your darin’ escape in that there flyin’ saloon over there. I heard it on the six o’clock news this mornin’.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Bulligan.” Madoc thought he might as well horn in here, since his father was looking decidedly out of his element. “This cornet player you’re talking about, was he in fact a French horn player, and was his name Wilheim Ochs?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Dead as a strung-up rustler in front o’ three million people.”
“Three million?”
“Well, three thousand. Three hundred. Three somethin’. What difference does it make? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? You look like kind of a sneaky little cuss to me. You the one that slipped ’im the pizen?”
No, but I’m the cuss who’s going to pinch you for flying an unregistered plane, Madoc thought of replying. It was inconceivable that such an agglomeration of baling wire and wishful thinking could have passed any sort of inspection within the past thirty years. However, Ace Bulligan was at the moment their only hope of a linkup with the outside world, and all they could do was humor him along.
“Wilhelm Ochs was a member of the orchestra which Sir Emlyn Rhys here is conducting,” he explained in as unsneaky a manner as he could manage. “He became ill during last night’s performance, collapsed backstage after the concert was over, and died just before the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. He’d been having serious problems with his stomach for quite some time and it was assumed at the time we left that he’d died of natural causes. Otherwise, we shouldn’t have been allowed to leave. If you have definite information that Mr. Ochs was poisoned, we naturally want to know the details. Can you remember exactly what was said on the radio?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Oh, sorry. My name is Madoc Rhys. Sir Emlyn is my father and Lady Rhys over there in the tweed coat and skirt is my mother.”
“Lady Rhys, huh? Howdy, ma’am.” Ace Bulligan raised his goggles and then his helmet by way of courtesy. “Used to be a Lady Lil worked at the Miners’ Rest. She wore black silk stockings an’ pink satin bloomers. Seen much o’ the Queen lately?”
“Not since shortly after Christmas,” Lady Rhys answered quite matter-of-factly. “Her Majesty was in excellent health and spirits at that time, I may say.”
“Well, next time you run into ’Er Majesty, tell ’er Ace Bulligan says hello. What’s a titled lady like you doin’ with a bunch o’ sidewinders like these here, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“They are not sidewinders, Mr.
“Smart flyin’ or dumb luck, dependin’ on how you look at it. Ol’ Moxie Mabel had a little juice in ’er so I thought I might’s well go up an’ take a look around, but she won’t climb too good so all’s I could do was comb the flatlands, of which there ain’t none to speak of around here, ’cept Lodestone Flat, which is where you’re standin’ now in case you didn’t know. I smelt your smoke an’ knowed the Miners’ Rest was bunged up tight shut for the winter so when I seen your plane settin’ down in front of ’er, I figured I must o’ found the missin’ murderers.”
“Murderers? I fail to understand you, sir. As I said before, we are musicians.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice, mister. I ain’t deaf. Not that deaf, anyhow. You’re the buggers who done in some other poor son of a bitch that played the coronet.”
“Do you mean cornet? What cornet? The cornet is primarily a band instrument. We don’t use them all that much in orchestral music.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me, mister. Maybe it was a kazoo or a bugle. Like them things them two buzzards over there is carryin’. You ain’t kiddin’ me none for all your hifalutin’ talk. You didn’t even shoot ’im down like a white man. You bunged ’im full o’ some kind o’ fancy rat pizen an’ left ’im to drown in his own puke while you made your darin’ escape in that there flyin’ saloon over there. I heard it on the six o’clock news this mornin’.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Bulligan.” Madoc thought he might as well horn in here, since his father was looking decidedly out of his element. “This cornet player you’re talking about, was he in fact a French horn player, and was his name Wilheim Ochs?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Dead as a strung-up rustler in front o’ three million people.”
“Three million?”
“Well, three thousand. Three hundred. Three somethin’. What difference does it make? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? You look like kind of a sneaky little cuss to me. You the one that slipped ’im the pizen?”
No, but I’m the cuss who’s going to pinch you for flying an unregistered plane, Madoc thought of replying. It was inconceivable that such an agglomeration of baling wire and wishful thinking could have passed any sort of inspection within the past thirty years. However, Ace Bulligan was at the moment their only hope of a linkup with the outside world, and all they could do was humor him along.
“Wilhelm Ochs was a member of the orchestra which Sir Emlyn Rhys here is conducting,” he explained in as unsneaky a manner as he could manage. “He became ill during last night’s performance, collapsed backstage after the concert was over, and died just before the ambulance arrived to take him to the hospital. He’d been having serious problems with his stomach for quite some time and it was assumed at the time we left that he’d died of natural causes. Otherwise, we shouldn’t have been allowed to leave. If you have definite information that Mr. Ochs was poisoned, we naturally want to know the details. Can you remember exactly what was said on the radio?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Oh, sorry. My name is Madoc Rhys. Sir Emlyn is my father and Lady Rhys over there in the tweed coat and skirt is my mother.”
“Lady Rhys, huh? Howdy, ma’am.” Ace Bulligan raised his goggles and then his helmet by way of courtesy. “Used to be a Lady Lil worked at the Miners’ Rest. She wore black silk stockings an’ pink satin bloomers. Seen much o’ the Queen lately?”
“Not since shortly after Christmas,” Lady Rhys answered quite matter-of-factly. “Her Majesty was in excellent health and spirits at that time, I may say.”
“Well, next time you run into ’Er Majesty, tell ’er Ace Bulligan says hello. What’s a titled lady like you doin’ with a bunch o’ sidewinders like these here, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“They are not sidewinders, Mr.
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