I tried to warn the girls of the horrid reputations of the Trio—especially that goat McDoul—but they treated me like I was retarded.
“Now, now, Iggy,” cooed Jenny, chucking me under the chin, “you know Angela and I aren’t interested in any men.”
“Except you, Iggy,” cooed Angela, grinning like a hussy, “and that’s ’cause you’re just the cutest little thing.”
Anyway, the Trio poured cold water on Jenny’s proposal. As they explained it, Vincent wouldn’t be any help except as a source of information. This, for two reasons. Point One: Vincent was practically a midget, so his tunnels weren’t big enough for what the Trio called “normal-sized” men—translation: beer-bellied slobs. This part made me wince, because naturally Jenny and Angela started squealing with pleasure and right off proposed that the two of them and me carry out the rescue, since we were all small and could fit in the tunnels.
Fortunately, that plan fell through because of Point Two: Vincent was also a temperamental artist with his head in the clouds and wouldn’t be bothered with digging any tunnels that weren’t necessary for his art. Quite the rugged individualist, Vincent, as the Trio portrayed him.
So we were back to square one. And, now that it’s all over, I’ll admit that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to bring the girls in on the plotting and the scheming. Fact is, even though they were young as the morning and fresh as the dew and innocent as the lambs of the field, they had fiendish good brains. So it was Angela who actually came up with The Plan.
“You know,” she said, peering at McDoul closely, “you look a lot like the Cardinal. He used to come over to the Baron’s house now and then and I’ve met him up close. I mean, if you cut your hair decent and shaved off that horrid great beard you’ve got growing on you like moss on a tree. And even though the Cardinal’s not a hunchback, he always walks all stooped over like he was being crushed by the weight of his sins, which he probably is, so if we cleaned you up and dressed you right, we could pass you off as the Cardinal and maybe that’s how we could rescue the Cat.”
McDoul was delighted with the plan. It appealed to his conceit, his much-vaunted (him doing all the vaunting, naturally) perception of the social graces. All of it except the barbering and shaving part, I should say, but his objections here became moot after Greyboar held him upside down and the girls went to work with their scissors. Then it didn’t take long before the girls had a full set of Cardinal’s robes made up, which fit McDoul like a glove.
“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.”