Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Page A

‘Prince Charlie lives!’”
    â€œWho is Prince Charlie?”
    â€œIf your ignorance of history is so abysmal it is not for me to attempt to alleviate it. Go now—and do not forget the guns.”
    Tony went. He had every intention of keeping on going, too. The information first, he must try to get that, but instantly afterward he had to try to give these Latin thugs the slip. There was an edge like dull razor blades to the wind that cut through his thin jacket, accompanied by a damp smell of rain hovering close. Did the sun ever shine here? When he opened the door a bell tinkled overhead and a tired woman came through a curtain from the rear. Most of the shelves in the shop were half empty, and what goods were there seemed uninteresting to anyone. Dusty pipes with tiny bowls, cans with labels turned away that he could not read, mysterious envelopes and packages. The only touch of color was a rotating holder on the counter with variegated postcards on it.
    â€œGood morning,” Tony said cheerily as he closed the door behind him. The woman looked him up and down with complete indifference and remained silent. “Brisk weather, though.” Perhaps she was mute? He came closer and gazed down through the patina of scratches on the glass counter top through which there was reluctantly revealed the cigarettes below. “Packet of ten Mayors, please.” She didn’t move; that wasn’t right. “I mean Players.”
    This twanged some thin thread of communication because she bent and extracted a package of cigarettes and placed them on the glass between them. As soon as she had done this he whispered, “Prince Charlie lives!”
    This elicited a gratifyingly fine reaction. Her head jerked up, her eyes flicked briefly to one side, then back again, and she spoke loudly over her shoulder. “John, front, John,” as though calling a dog. Instead the weathered J. Hardy himself pushed through the curtain.
    â€œArrr,” he said, or something that sounded like that.
    â€œGentleman wants ten Players.”
    â€œGive him.”
    She fluttered her hands, not knowing what else to say, so Tony came to the rescue. “I also said that Prince Charlie lives.”
    Hardy looked aside quickly, then back to Tony as he swept the cigarettes from the counter and put them back in the case. He had a deep and nasty voice.
    â€œNone of that here. No Players. Get out.”
    That took care of the information. Escape was still a possibility.
    â€œAll right, forget all that. Do you have a back door? Some friends, a joke, I’ll go out by the rear.”
    The bell jingled merrily as Hardy spoke and I kill this man to prove to you that I do mean what I say. Hesitate for an instant more and your wife is dead. It goes without saying that you will be killed as well. And all for nothing. To protect a ragtag band of simpletons. Now, make your mind up and get ready.”
    In the brief silence he put the gun back to Tony’s head. The men holding him stepped aside so as not to be behind him. This, as much as anything the colonel had said, was assurance that he was ready to commit coldblooded murder at any time.
    â€œGIVE ME THE POSTCARD!”
    The words were a roared command. Tony jumped as though he had been shot already, feeling this was his last moment on earth.
    Hardy grabbed a postcard from the rack and threw it on the counter.
    â€œVery good,” the colonel said, lowering the gun and putting the card into his pocket without looking at it. “Before we leave be sure in your heart that you have given me the correct card because I will not come back and ask you again. If it is wrong there will be shots from the darkness at night and you both will be dead meat. Just nod your head, do not speak—it is the correct card?”
    Both of the terrified people nodded dumbly and Tony hated this man for the humiliation they had all suffered at his hands. He would never forget it.