Universe Twister - Keith Laumer [213]
"What's got into George?" LaVerne inquired. "He ain't been hisself for a couple weeks now."
"Maybe he knows we got a barbecue planned for next month," someone suggested.
"Nothing ain't been normal lately," LaVerne mourned. "Not since—"
"Belay that!" Shorty yelled. "You slobs are at attention!"
Lafayette's escort hustled him up three steps into a small squad-room lit even at this hour by a forty-watt bulb dangling from a kinked cord. An unshaven man in shirt sleeves sat with a boot propped on a battered desk, picking his teeth with a short dagger. He raised a sardonic eyebrow and reached for a form.
"Book this mug on suspicious, Sarge," Shorty said.
"Suspicion o' what?"
"Suit yourself. Forgery, maybe. Or Peeping Tom. Or watering wine. Just hold him while I work up a file on him that'll keep him on ice until they pension me off."
"This has gone far enough," Lafayette spoke up. "While you flatfoots jabber, the kingdom may be lost. I have to see Princess Adoranne, right now!"
The desk sergeant listened with his mouth slightly open. He looked Lafayette up and down, then turned an unfriendly eye on the mustachioed noncom who had arrested him.
"What's the idea bringing a loony in here?" he demanded. "You know all them nut cases go directly to the filbert factory—"
"Call Princess Adoranne," Lafayette said in a voice which cracked slightly in spite of his efforts. "Just request her Highness to come down for a moment, all right?" He tried a friendly smile, which caused the desk sergeant to edge backward.
"Hold him, boys," he muttered. "He's getting ready to go violent." He dinged a bell on the desk; a door opened and an uncombed head of shaggy pale hair appeared, surmounting the thick-lipped, puffy-eyed face of a deputy.
"Oglethorpe, slap a set of irons on this pigeon," he said. "Throw him in dungeon number twelve, at the back. We don't want him yelling and getting everybody upset—"
"Irons?" Lafayette yelled. "I'll have the lot of you pounding beats on the graveyard shift!" He jerked free, eluded a grab, made a dive for the door, hooked a foot over an outthrust ankle and witnessed the finest display of pyrotechnics since the previous Third of October: Artesian Independence Day.
Hard hands were clamped on his arms, hauling him upright. He tried to move his legs, then let them drag. He was aware of descending stairs, of tottering along a dark, evil-smelling corridor, of a heavy iron gate being lifted. A shove sent him stumbling into a low-ceiling room that stank of burning kerosene from the flambeaux mounted in brackets along the wall.
"I'm S'Laf'yet 'Leary," he mumbled, shaking his head to clear it. "I demand a lawyer. I demand to see Adoranne. I demand to send a message to my wife, Countess Daphne—" He broke off as his arms were twisted up behind him and held in a double come-along grip.
"Looks like the booze has rotted his wits out," the blond turnkey said, exhaling a whiskey breath into O'Leary's ear.
"Stick him in number twelve, Percy. All the way in the back."
"Sure, Oglethorpe—but, geeze, I ain't swept twelve out in a while, an'—"
"Never mind coddling the slob. He's one o' them Peeping Irvings."
"Yeah? Geez, Oglethorpe, is he the one they spotted last month, climbing the ivy fer a glimpse o' Princess Adoranne taking a shower?"
"Never mind that, Percy! Lock him up, and get back to yer comic book!"
Percy, Lafayette noted vaguely, was even larger and less intellectual-looking than Oglethorpe. He allowed himself to be prodded along to the end of the dark passage, stood leaning dizzily against the wall as the jailer selected an oversized key from the ring at his belt.
"Say, pal . . . uh . . . how was it?" the lout inquired in confidential tones as he removed the handcuffs. "I mean . . . does her Highness look as neat in the nood as a guy would figger?"
"Neater," Lafayette said blurrily, rubbing his head.