“Not bad,” mused Greyboar, inspecting the final result. “Not bad at all. He’d never pass a close inspection, of course, but we’re fortunate there that the Cardinal always favors a cowl. To hide his guilty face from the righteous, no doubt. As long as McDoul moves fast, he should be able to get past the guards.” Then he scowled. “Unless he gets questioned and has to talk. That’ll blow the whole thing, that gutter accent he’s got.”
“I beg your pardon, my man?” came a strange, haughty voice from beneath the cowl. Greyboar was startled. I wasn’t myself, I’ve heard McDoul impersonate the upper classes’ accent before. He was really quite good at it—claimed it derived naturally from his unfailing perception of the social graces.
“Say that again!” demanded Greyboar.
McDoul drew himself up in the very image of Great Prelate of the Church, deeply offended.
“I’ll have to insist you abandon that tone, my good man! I’m a forgiving soul, but still!”
“That’s quite a trick,” admitted Greyboar. “This just might really work.”
“And what do you plan for him to do?” I demanded. “Just waltz on into the Cardinal’s mansion? And then what? Suppose he gets past the guards at the front door—then what’s he supposed to do? Finish digging the tunnel to the Cat’s cell and carry her out past the guards? And all this in three hours, which is maybe about the most time he’ll have before the Cardinal finds out there’s something fishy going on!”
“Oh, he won’t be alone,” said Greyboar. “You and I’ll be going in with him—and these other two thieves, as well.”
Erlic and G.J. did not seem overjoyed at the idea, and began to say so in no uncertain terms. But Greyboar stilled their protests with a look. Yeah, that look.
“It’ll work like a charm,” he rumbled. “I figured it all out while Jenny and Angela were getting McDoul dressed up in his ecclesiastical finery. Oh, that reminds me—we’ll be needing a couple of servant outfits for Erlic and Geronimo Jerry, and Inquisitors’ robes for me and Ignace. And cut the Weasel’s long oily ringlets while you’re at it, will you, girls? They don’t go with the image of your Cardinal’s lackeys.”
No sooner said than done. Jenny and Angela started working on G.J. and the Weasel immediately, ignoring the latter’s complaints.
While they were working, Greyboar explained the plan. I was impressed, I’ve got to admit. I usually had to do the fine-filigreed plotting and such, but the strangler’d come up with as clever a scheme as I’d ever heard. Maybe all that philosophic rumination was oiling up the rusty gears in his head, after all. But more likely it was the image of the Cat wasting away in her cell which made him think better than he usually did.
Not meaning to make fun of the great brute here, mind you! If I could bend steel bars with the fingers of one hand, I imagine I would have let my brain cells wither on the vine, too. But built like I am—well, let’s just say that I had to rely on wit rather than brawn to get by. Helped having Greyboar for a client and friend, I admit.
But I don’t want to get too carried away, here. There was still a great gaping hole in his scheme, big enough to drive a wagon through. The Trio spotted it at once.
“An’ what’ll th’Cardinal be doin’ all this time?” demanded Erlic. His voice was sulky, caused, I’ve not a doubt, by the sight of his beloved oily ringlets lying on the floor. “E’en wit’ th’four o’ us t’do th’work, it’ll still take th’day or two t’dig the Cat out. Vincent said th’tunnel t’her cell was still th’good ten feet away.”
Greyboar scratched his chin. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I still haven’t figured that out. Somehow or other, we’ve got to get the Cardinal out of the picture for a couple of days. I’m stymied on that part of it, I admit.”
“Oh, that’s easy!” exclaimed Jenny, smiling like a spring day.
“We’ll take care of the Cardinal!” shrieked Angela, clapping her hands with delight.
I tried to cut them off, but it’s hard to advance the cogent voice of reason when you’ve got Greyboar’s hand the size of a dinner plate wrapped around your mouth.