A telegram to Parliament from Batavia
IN BATAVIA STOP
SEARCHING FOR DE ZOET STOP
CONGRATS ON DEFEATING TIP STOP
MILLION STRONG SEEKING REPUBLIC STOP
DO NOT CONDONE VIOLENCE BUT DRAW OWN CONCLUSIONS STOP
- P.S.
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Meanwhile, an NDP Deputy casts his ballot
Lannoy's Colonial Proposal: NAY
Savarin's Colonial Proposal: AYE
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Meanwhile, in Wyngaertville, Batavia
Pierre Savarin brushed the sweat off his brow. The sweltering heat reminded him of Commodore de Zoet's old stories of the city, back when it was called Batavia, and how awful of a place it was. The city had developed much more than any of the cities in Africa he had visited, with a great deal of European houses and several locals wearing fashions that would not look out of place in Brussels. He had little time to admire the city, however, as he had to meet with a very specific individual post-haste. His travel companion, a man named Josef who was fluent in several of the local languages, caught up to the former Prime Minister.
"What did you say this man called himself?" asked Pierre. "Something ridiculous, I remember."
"Lucky Star or something ridiculous like that, I believe," said Josef. "Not his real name, obviously. An American. Served as a private detective in one of DeWitt's companies. Speaks about fifteen languages. Has a peculiar obsession with snakes. Very, very eccentric, but the best private detective in the civilized world."
"And the Ministry of Justice aren't using their own detectives for what reason, exactly?" replied Pierre.
"They have no leads. Whoever kidnapped Minjeer de Zoet was very thorough. They thought that someone with a more unusual style might be able to help them out."
At this point, the two of them passed a brand-new townhouse with a sign out front reading "Hotel de Leeuw." Savarin chuckled; whoever ran this place at least had a sense of humor. Josef motioned that this was their end destination, so the former Prime Minister and his guide made their way in. After inquiring with a bellhop in a language Savarin did not understand, the two of them went up to the third floor and opened the door at the end of the hall. The door creaked open, and the first thing the two of them noticed was a large, black and red snake coiled up on the Persian rug in front of them.
"Aaagh!" Savarin recoiled in horror. "What on earth is that thing doing there?"
"Now, now, that's no way to introduce yourself," came a voice from behind the door to the water closet. A man emerged, about six feet tall and wearing what appeared to be a full British Army uniform.
"I thought you said he spoke French!" whispered Savarin to Josef.
"He has a particular distaste for it. He refuses to speak it with clients."
"Now you tell me! What about Dutch?"
"Not on Tuesdays."
"I can't believe this..." Savarin muttered to himself. Although he had studied a fair bit of English at university, it was never what he considered his strong suite.
"Well, looks like you made it out here OK," began the stranger. "Name's Lucky Star. You are looking for your Minister-President. Your whole country has no leads. I seem to be here to do something about it."
"Yes, that's correct," replied Savarin. "Have you any ideas as to his wheresabouts?"
Lucky Star snorted. "In between soaking up wine, women and song, I've been thinking it over, yeah." He picked up a pocketknife and threw it at a map of Batavia that adorned one of the hotel walls. "First off, despite the wisdom of the Ministry of Justice, I'd wager he's not dead."
"Not dead?" said Savarin.
"That's what I said, ain't it? Yeah, he's fit as a metaphorical fiddle, I'd say. Can't say what kind of shape he's in, mind you, but I'd bet very much alive. Don't you clowns have any records of his itinerary?"
"Clowns?" whispered Savarin to Josef.
"Those fellows who perform at the cirque, Monsieur," replied Josef, in French.
Savarin shook his head. "Americans, I swear..." He turned back to Lucky Star, returning to English. "Our Justice Ministry had been looking at it, yes, but we cannot tell when he...when he...went away," he replied. "There is too much uncertainty about where his tour ended pre...prema...before it was supposed to," he said.
"Well, if all you needed me to do was check off all the plantations on the list, you could have done that yourselves," said Lucky Star. "I reckon there's another element you're not telling me."
"Of sorts," said Savarin. "You see, we have searched all the places on Mister de Zoet's itinery, but have been as of yet unable to find his location. This is why we thought he was dead. Yet you seem to say he is not."
"Yeah," replied Lucky Star. "Take a look at where that knife landed, Prime Minister. That's where we're looking. This place has suspicion written all over it."
Pierre and Josef glanced over to the wall to the right of them and found the pocketknife lodged at a place marked "Het Wilhelmus."
"You think Jacob is there?" asked Savarin. Lucky Star nodded.
"This place has habitually bad relations with the rest of the Colonials. They got a few visits from the Dutch authorities in the past few years, but they couldn't catch them on anything. The owners, a family named the Vandroogenbroecks - rotten to the core, the lot of 'em - have bought off the Wyngaertville City Council since time immemorial to stay the hell away from whatever the hell they got going on there. I say we go take a look - with a few well-armed friends, of course - and make 'em see reason. I don't know what they'd want with the Minister-President exactly, but someone as corrupt as Papa Vandroogenbroeck must figure he'd be good for something. Extortion and ransom, probably. And what with him being Oriental and all that, they wouldn't be too fond of that either, so that's more fuel on the fire."
"You have made the preparations?" asked Pierre.
"Yes sir. Let's go rescue the President," replied Lucky Star. He then got up, stepping over the rattlesnake on the carpet, and motioned for the other two to follow him. The three men left the Hotel de Leeuw, ready to find Minister-President de Zoet - or what was left of him.
To be continued...
