that weapon?” Frank asked in an awed tone.
“That impressed you, did it? That was a two-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, barrels sawed down to six inches, and equipped with a pistol grip. I think I broke my hand shooting it. Ruined my cape for sure. We’re lucky I didn’t put the canvas in the line of fire.”
Frank sighed wearily. “Mr. Orcrist, in honor of our coup tonight, do you suppose a bit of scotch would be put of order?”
“Not at all, Frank, help yourself.” Frank opened the liquor cabinet. Orcrist sat silently, massaging the wrist and fingers of his right hand.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Orcrist…”
“Yes?”
“What becomes of the paintings once they’re duplicated here? Do you sell both the original and the copy to collectors?”
“Uh … no. If I steal one painting and sell two versions of it, the word would eventually get around. I only sell the forgeries.”
Frank waited vainly for Orcrist to go on. “Well,” he said finally, “what do you do with the originals?”
Orcrist looked up. “I keep them. Tm a collector myself, you see.”
During the following week Frank worked on the forgery of the Monet. It was difficult for him to assume the impressionist style, and he tore up two attempts with a palette knife. As the second imperfect copy was being hacked into ragged strips, Orcrist, sitting in his easy chair, looked up from his book.
“Not making a lot of headway?” he asked.
“No,” said Frank, trying to keep a rein on his temper. What a cheapwaste of good canvas, he thought. Dad never would have behaved this childishly. Where’s my discipline?
“What you need, Frank, is a bit of recreation. Go spend some of your wages. You know the safe areas of Understreet Munson—go have some beer at Huselor’s, it’s a good place.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Say, what’s the date?”
“The tenth. Of May. Why?”
“The Doublon Festival is going on in Munson! On the surface, I mean. I haven’t missed it in the last six years! Why don’t I take my wages and spend the evening there?”
Orcrist frowned doubtfully. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” he said. “You can’t really afford to be seen topside yet. You’re wanted by the police, you know. Stay underground.”
“It’ll be all right,” Frank insisted. “I’ll go when it’s dark; and everyone wears masks anyway. You’ve shown me a couple of safe routes to the surface streets, and I’ve been to the Doublon Festival a dozen times, so I won’t get lost. I won’t do anything foolish.”
“I’ll send a couple of bodyguards with you, anyway.”
“No, I’d rather be on my own.”
Orcrist considered it for a minute. “Well, it’s a bad idea, but I won’t stop you.” He stood up and crossed to a desk against the wall. “Be back by one o’clock in the morning or I’ll send some rough friends to bring you back. Here’s ten malories. That ought to buy you a good time.”
Frank gratefully took the money and turned to get dressed.
“Wait a minute,” said Orcrist.
Frank turned around in the doorway. Orcrist was rummaging in another drawer. “Take this, too, in case of a
real
emergency,” he said, holding a small silver pistol. “It only holds one bullet, but it’s a forty-five. And don’t lose it; the damned thing cost me quite a bit.”
“I won’t lose it,” said Frank, taking the little gun. It was the first time he’d ever held a gun, and he felt ridiculously over-armed.
“The safety catch is that button above the trigger. Push it in and the gun will shoot. Leave it where it is for now. And for God’s sake keep it in a secure pocket.”
“I will,” said Frank. “And thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
After Frank had left the room, Orcrist rang for Pons. “Pons,” he said, “young Rovzar is determined to go to the Doublon Festival tonight. I could have forbidden it, of course, but I don’t like to operate that way. So I want you to contact Bartlett and … oh, Fallworth,
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