by Andre Norton
They were waved out of sight by both Dirk and the Graf who had interrupted his writing long enough to grant them that courtesy. And while Maartens' car bore no resemblance to the sleek vehicle which had delivered them to the van der Home's, it bore them away with sturdy competence.
Joris, Quinn found out, was proceeding to the province of Limburg on a journalistic task which he hoped might add luster to his name in newspaper circles, and he was perfectly willing to talk about it.
"You have, perhaps, read even in America of Hans van Meegeren," he began.
"Isn't he the painter who was able to fake Vermeers so perfectly that even the experts were fooled?"
"Just so. From 1936 to 1946 he painted six canvases. And these were Vermeers—or so many experts swore. To the Nazis he sold some. So after the war he was brought to trial for collaboration. Then he told the truth about his work. And to prove what he could do he painted in court another picture—a picture which could not be told from a Vermeer—one which the critics had to admit that they would have accepted as genuine. Now I am going to Maastricht because it is thought that van Meegeren might not have told all that he knew and that there may be other Vermeers which are not that at all."
The rest of the drive was uneventful and Quinn found a room in a hotel which Joris recommended. They arranged to have dinner together and Quinn decided not to make any contacts that day but to spend the rest of it as a tourist.
But his desire for peace and quiet was shaken as he came again into the hotel lobby. A train or plane must have just come in for there was a small crowd of new arrivals there. And on the edge of this group, looking about him with what appeared to be frank interest in foreign surroundings was a tall man. His gray hat and coat were American to the last thread and, as he turned his head, his eyes met Quinn's squarely. There was not a spark of recognition in them. Quinn only hoped that he had been as blank at that moment of meeting. For this was Lawrence Kane—the van Norreys' troubleshooter!
CHAPTER 8
THERE WAS A WISE MAN OF MAASTRICHT
The cafe Joris had selected lay on the edge of the Groote Market. It was not, Quinn gathered, as famous as the Vrijthol, but perhaps better suited to the purse of a struggling newspaperman. However, the American could find no fault with the quality of the food.
"This is not the right season for Maastricht," Joris informed him. "In late February there is the Prins Camaval when the city takes to itself strange dress and there is much excitement. But now—there is nothing except perhaps a pilgrim or two, or some troops on leave from the Occupation Forces across the border—"
But Quinn was no longer listening. Instead he stared down at the menu card he was holding. So this was where Stark had been when he had scribbled that last message! Months ago now—would anyone remember him being here? Quinn fingered the angle of the card's edge. Should he even try asking questions?
"Do many tourists come here?" he asked.
Maartens waved a hand toward a table on the other side of the room. Three British soldiers were sitting there.
"The troops appear to have discovered it. But for others —I do not think it would attract. The tourists go to places which are in the guide books—the Vrijthol or the restaurant of the Hotel Dominicain. Only in carnival time, when every cafe is filled to overflowing, might some wander in here. It is too far removed from most of the points of interest—the church of St. Servatus or the Shrine of the Star of the Sea."
Quinn had not yet made up his mind about asking questions. And before he did, something put it almost out of his mind. He had had his eyes on the door—without really seeing those who passed through it. But now he did notice the man who was just coming in. And for a second he had an odd feeling that he was repeating an experience from the past.
The newcomer hesitated just inside, almost as if he were in two minds about going out again. Then he crossed the room to a table in the far corner. Quinn dared not turn his head to watch him pass. But he moistened suddenly dry lips and said to Maartens,
"The man who is sitting down in the right corner there. Describe him!"
Maartens without change of expression or voice replied in English,
"He is, I would swear to it, Eurasian. Black hair tight on the head, eyes which do not open very wide. But the nose—the nose is not that of an Oriental—it is thin, sharp on the tip. He is young. You have some knowledge of him?''
"Only this—I would take my oath that the same man followed me into a restaurant in Dordrecht. And Dordrecht is too far from Maastricht for me to believe in pure chance for a second such meeting—"
Joris tore off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly. "No, in that you are right. Nor is the trip from that city to this a regular one for only a casual wayfarer. You know nothing else about him?"
"Nothing. But I would like to learn more. However, one can't just go up to a stranger and—"
"Ask bluntly, ‘Sir, please to tell me your name and your business here!' That is very true. Though such an act would save everyone a great deal of trouble—always providing you were answered with the whole truth. But your desire for knowledge need not be denied fulfillment. I shall see what can be done in the matter. Of course, we cannot altogether rule out chance. And since the Netherlands has had to withdraw most of its nationals from the Indies there are many of mixed blood who have returned here—to discover themselves without roots in a land which does not welcome them overmuch. He may be only a harmless drifter whom coincidence has placed twice in the same room with you—"
Quinn laughed. "I would be only too glad to know that is true!"
But Joris did not smile. "On the other hand," he went on with his calm, deliberate speech, "there are various other explanations which are now shooting into my mind, most of which could not be considered pleasant. I would suggest that it is best for you to be a little on your guard. Understand—I am without curiosity concerning your business. But if you do have opponents, it may be that you are now sharing the room with one of them. So, as soon as it is possible, I shall set in motion some questions." He then applied himself seriously to the business of emptying his plate and Quinn followed the example.
But Quinn's attention remained divided. Were his neck hairs really quivering? Was that enigmatic stranger keeping the back of his head under surveillance? His shoulders ached with the desire to turn around and see.
"And how are you progressing on the case of the spurious Vermeer?" he asked Maartens as they lingered over their coffee.
Joris shrugged. "It has become largely a matter of using the feet. I walk, I trot, I crawl painfully, here, there around Maastricht, asking stupid questions to which I get no proper answers. However, it is a job and I shall probably finish it someday. But I have come across during my progress something of much more interest—the case of a mysterious disappearance—" For a moment he lost his habitually stolid and somewhat cynical attitude toward the world and looked almost eager.
"Disappearance?" encouraged Quinn. It had made him think of Stark. Maastricht was after all the town in which Stark's accident had happened.
"Yes—that is what my informant believes it to be. I encountered her this afternoon on my search for a Mijnheer Blanc of Antwerp. Mijnheer Blanc she had no knowledge of—but I heard much from her about a Mijnheer Tubac.
"Until two months or so ago he lived at her house as a boarder. He was an old man, inoffensive, gentle, likable. He came to this city in 1946 recovering from an illness. He had been in the concentration camp at Amersfoort because he had had the supreme misfortune to possess a Jewish grandmother. He lived quietly and was a most respectable and law-abiding citizen. A little shy perhaps, but a man of learning. He had been, the Mevrouw believes, an authority on art from Amsterdam. She thought very highly of him.
"One afternoon he received a letter. When he read it he was overjoyed, elated. He told Mevrouw that it came from an old friend, one he had supposed lost in the war. This friend had only now escaped from one of those countries behind the ‘iron curtain.' T
he friend was ill and wished very much to see Mijnheer Tubac. He paid his room rent for three weeks in advance, and took with him only a small suitcase, leaving behind him all his other possessions including some books Mevrouw knows that he valued highly. He went away the same day, excited, happy. And he has never returned. Mevrouw began to worry when she did not hear from him at the end of the three weeks. When no news came and the time passed she at last went to the police. A search was started. At the station it was discovered that he had purchased a ticket for Valkenburg in the mountains. Beyond that—they have found exactly nothing. The trail was, of course, very cold. And he has no relatives worrying and spurring on the authorities. It remains a mystery which only Mevrouw still thinks of—"
"But who was Tubac?" Quinn asked. A man who had disappeared about the same time as Stark's death. It began to seem like too much of a coincidence.
"That is the important question. Who was Tubac—or— what did Tubac know? A scrap of the wrong kind of knowledge is a dangerous possession nowadays. I believe that the case of Tubac merits more study. But who will bother? He was an old man, he had no relatives—at least none have been found. He had but a small amount of money. Why should anyone wish to scoop up Tubac?"
"Which makes it all the more interesting when something did happen to him—"
"Natuurlijk—naturally. I am intrigued by the problem of Tubac. He may prove to be of even more interest than a pseudo-Vermeer. So I shall keep him in mind."
As they went out of the cafe Quinn contrived to catch a glimpse of the Eurasian. The man sat at ease, dividing his attention between his plate and a folded newspaper. If he had any interest in Quinn he did not display it. But it was only with the greatest self-control that Quinn walked down the street without turning his head to see if the stranger was following.
Joris' pace became slower and slower as he reached the second block beyond the cafe. And at last he stopped to gaze intently into a shop window—as if he had been arrested by the beauty of the display within. Quinn eyed the collection of dreary prints and the two brightly colored chromos in honest surprise. He had not pictured Joris so much the lover of bad art as to be interested in that trash.
"We have now a tail," the Netherlander said softly. "And also he is an inefficient one—he should be sent back to class and learn again his A B Cs, this clumsy bungler—"
Quinn saw then the reflection mirrored in the somewhat dusty glass. There was a street lamp halfway down the block behind them. And a man hesitated under it for a moment. Even to Quinn's untutored eyes he was making a bad job of pretending that he could not make up his mind about something.
"It is our friend from the restaurant." Joris was better at identifying that white slice of face than the American. "Now we must learn which of us he wishes to follow. I shall return with you to your hotel. If he takes up some position of vantage near there I shall let you know. And if he does—you must simply go quietly to bed and sleep the sleep of the just, allowing that bungler to flatten his feet waiting for you to emerge. Let us now go—"
When they separated some twenty minutes later, Quinn lingered wistfully in the lobby. It was so early that he hated to spend a whole dull evening in his room. But he had promised to await Joris' call there. At last he bought some papers and trudged upstairs. He had not seen Lawrence Kane again and no message had been left for him. Apparently the man from Norreys did not want any contact.
Quinn spent some minutes in telephoning Dokter Ger-hardt Roos and the Dokter seemed genuinely pleased to hear from him. He appointed eleven the next morning for meeting at his house and provided Quinn with careful directions for reaching it.
Quinn then took out the Graf van der Home's letter of introduction to Tante Matilda, added a short note of his own asking to be allowed to call on her at her convenience, and sealed them together for mailing. There, that was his duty done. He started preparing for bed and then the phone rang.
Joris' careful English came across the wire.
"You are the hound to which the tail is now attached. I would advise little night walking and a secure locking of the door—"
"It's already locked. And Fm going to bed—not out."
"A most wise decision. I shall see you in the morning. Perhaps by then I may have learned more about this menace from the East. Goed nacht."
"Goed nacht—" But Maartens had already rung off.
Quinn went over to the two windows which formed a small bay. He looked down into a well stretching five floors below to darkness. There was no ledge, no way of climbing that sheer expanse of wall—unless the climber had suction pads on hands and feet. He crossed the room and tried the door. The lock held firm. But for the first time Quinn wished that he had something more deadly than a penknife in his pocket. He only just stopped himself from putting that under his pillow.
He did not go to sleep early and it was late the next morning when he struggled out of a frustrating dream. He took his time about dressing. If any watcher still hung about outside he was going to add to the waiting time all the minutes he could.
But when he reached the lobby Joris was already there, sitting in a chair frowning at the front page of a newspaper. As Quinn paused to drop his letter into the slot the Netherlander joined him.
"Since duty brought me into your neighborhood I thought that breakfast together might be wise—"
"Glad you could make it. Shall we eat in the hotel?"
"If you wish. Or—this is market day. If you care to walk that far you shall find the scene most interesting to watch," Joris returned in English.
"The market cafe it is then."
Quinn gave a quick glance up and down the street as he stepped out. But as far as he could see there were no suspicious loungers. He crossed to the far corner elbow to elbow with the Netherlander.
"Our tail-?"
"Perhaps his aching feet have driven him to rest," Joris chuckled. "This stone pavement would not ease them. I am told that he lasted until five of the clock this morning and then he went. No one came to take his post. No, there is no need to look behind you now. For the rest of the day there will be others watching for you. I have news for you and this open street is the best place in which to give it.
"Our Eurasian friend is a mystery man. His background is a most peculiar blank into which my sources have not yet been able to penetrate. First—were he a member of various organizations I could hint at, he would have been provided with a background so perfect that one would be able to find out what he ate at his name-day party at the age of two. They are so thorough in such things. Behind him would stretch a nice clear road for any inquirer to follow—follow all to no purpose. But he has no past. So either he is ultra devious or he is an amateur and not a member of the opposite party.
"He landed two weeks ago in Rotterdam, came in on a freighter which had cleared from Malaya. His passport is made out in the name of Wasburg—Wilhelm Wasburg —and he claims to be a Dutch national from Sumatra. Of his business nothing is known so far. He went from Rotterdam to Dordrecht and was there for about a week as if he were waiting for someone—"
Quinn's heart skipped and his stride was only half as long as he had intended.
"Yes, it might have been you for whom he was waiting-'
"But why? No one knew—"
"That you were coming?" Joris laughed. "My American friend, you are indeed an innocent abroad in a forest filled with wolves. A man can learn anything about anyone if he knows the proper sources and has the price! But I have now put some wheels in motion and perhaps by tomorrow —or later—we shall learn more of Mijnheer Wasburg. There are now those to watch him. Though I should not, if I were you, go walking alone at night."
Quinn balled his fists in the pockets of his coat. Stark had walked alone by night. Had there been a Wasburg behind him too during those last dark hours?
"And what do you propose to do with yourself today?" Joris asked, when they were seated in the cafe.
"I have an appointment with Dokter Roos for eleven.
He assisted my father in gathering material on the Sternlitz castle."
"Ah, Dokter Roos! He is a scholar-historian of note-though now he has retired from teaching to write his great history of the middle ages. You might—" Joris broke off suddenly and stared frowningly before him. When he spoke again it was about his own plans for the day which were, he said with a sigh, designed to wear him out-being mainly running about from place to place to trace down thin leads on the Vermeer.
"And Tubac—you plan to do some tracing on him, too?" Quinn asked.
"Yes, the problem of Tubac. I am beginning to think that that might have the germ of one of your very excellent police-thrillers—many of which I have read. The quiet little man who lives without making friends or enemies, who does nothing to cause a ripple—until he disappears without a trace for no discoverable reason—"
"He might be the real head of a black market ring, or a counterfeiter or a spy—" supplied Quinn. "The title of art expert is ambiguous enough to cover a great many activities—"
Joris was frowning again. "Art expert was certainly what he claimed to be when he first spoke with Mevrouw—"
"But he wasn't one? Is that what you have discovered already?"
"He said that before the war he had had his own gallery in Amsterdam. Last night I consulted an old directory of that city. There were a number of Tubacs listed as living there in 1939. But none of them dealt in art objects. When I have to myself again a free hour I shall talk—or rather allow myself to be talked to by Mevrouw. She has a ready tongue, saying much which contains little fact— but I may have overlooked some hidden clues in her chatter."
"So Tubac is now the little man who wasn't there?"
Joris looked puzzled and repeated the phrase as if translating it to himself and then he laughed. "A most apt title for him. He was not there in Amsterdam and now he is not here. I find Mijnheer Tubac of engrossing interest. So—but look now at the time! I must make speed to enter my weary round. And a busy morning to you, Anders, among the history tomes. We shall see each other later—"
