by Andre Norton
Quinn was able to use the shop window device several times on his walk to the house of Dokter Roos. But he was never able to spot any tailer and he suspected that if Joris had planted one on him for his protection it would be a man he could not trick into betraying his presence. That made him wonder just what sort of a game Joris was playing. For Quinn was sure that the young newspaper man had some link with Mr. Of Ditto's friends. Maybe he was now being sheltered after a fashion by a wide and powerful organization. And that thought made him laugh a little at his own egoism as he came up to the number he was hunting.
The home of Dokter Roos was a tall house with a suggestion of very ancient times chnging to its dark stone. Perhaps that was caused by the goodly portion of the age-old city wall one could see behind it. But its narrow, gloomy height would make an excellent setting for some weird adventure embodying an alchemist's laboratory. The painfully neat library-study he was ushered into did not fit at all.
From where he stood before one of the dustless bookcases a man as tall and narrow as his house—in proper proportion—turned to greet the American. His voice was an astounding boom which almost shook the piles of papers from work table and desk and his flow of mingled —and mangled—English and Dutch bore Quinn along with him away from all thoughts of undergrounds and tailers.
For the next hour they talked shop—enthusiastically, critically—interrupting each other to spout dates and names. Dokter Roos pulled out books, rummaged for papers to prove his points. Quinn was no longer Stark Anders' brother, he was completely Dr. Anders' son.
They were disturbed at last by the pleasant-faced maid who had admitted Quinn to the house.
"I go now, Dokter—"
"Danke, Ada. We shall manage. Greet for me your sister—my best wishes for her health—''
"Danke, Dokter." A moment later they heard the front door close.
Dokter Roos must have been waiting for that sound. He put aside the paper he held.
"Ada goes to her sister who is ailing. She will be gone for several hours. That is one reason why I asked you to come this morning. It is not altogether on the matter of history that you would consult with me—"
Quinn hesitated. He had been advised to come to Roos, yes. But he was not going to mention the Bishop's Menie. Instead he told the story he had prepared for this time.
"My brother was Stark Anders, an officer in the American Occupation Forces. He was killed here in Maastricht about three months ago. The police say it was by a hit-and-run driver—"
"But that you do not believe?"
"No." Quinn cast about for something to add to that.
Dokter Roos' thin, blue-veined hand flicked up in a motion of protest. "Do not feel that you must tell me your reasons for not accepting the official verdict. It is sufficient that those reasons were powerful enough to bring you into certain channels. You have also had trouble since landing in our country?"
Swiftly Quinn gave a resume of all that had happened to him. Dokter Roos listened quietly with complete attention. The same attention he might have shown for a new historical theory on the validity of which he might be asked to give an opinion.
"A most exciting introduction to a country which is thought to be a very prosaic and, as you say, 'humdrum' nation, Mijnheer Anders. Someone appears to wish to hinder you. I do not like the implications in this case at all. For your father's son and for a fellow seeker after knowledge I shall do all that I can. In the meantime understand that Mijnheer Maartens' reassurances to you are true—you shall be under protection while with us.
"My advice would be to continue to conduct yourself wholly as a student of history. To visit the Freule van t'Oosternberg as the Graf suggested is an excellent move. The last remaining lady of the Sternlitz hne would naturally be approached by anyone writing a history of an order which a member of her House founded. Go openly about your business—if you believe yourself under surveillance take no notice of it. There will be others to handle the matter.
"Now," he took up a half sheet of paper and wrote swiftly in a crabbed backhand, "should you at any time find yourself in difficulties call upon me. If you cannot reach me at home—here is a list of four places where such a message may be left.
"On the other hand, should you at any moment receive a message from the Jachtmeester—the Master of
Hounds—you will know that it is of the greatest importance. We promise you all the aid we can give.
"No—give me no thanks, Mijnheer Anders. These are times when men of good will work with one another lest all of us be wiped away—as one brushes aside a tiresome and annoying fly. Since 1940 we have been forced to attend school again and those lessons we have learned well. I aid you now—maybe in days to come you will be in a position to lend assistance to one of us. Pull together or we shall be pulled apart—that is an execellent motto for these times!"
CHAPTER 9
BULLET BY DAY
Dokter Roos furnished a cold but remarkably good lunch and in the late afternoon Quinn returned to his hotel at a strolling pace. He was not in the least surprised to see Mijnheer Wasburg seated in the window of a cafe overlooking the hotel entrance.
And at the sight of him Quinn's sense of humor broke free. What was the proper etiquette to follow in such a circumstance? Did the pursued politely ignore the hound, or should one favor his watcher with some token of recognition? Not a full salutation, but maybe a slight inclination of the head, or an upraised thumb—something similar to the old V for Victory sign? There should be a gesture equivalent to the ancient formal duelists' salute applicable to such an occasion. Quinn passed the cafe reluctantly. It would have been rather amusing to beard Wasburg—
But inside the hotel he momentarily forgot the Eurasian, for Kane stood near the door talking to one of the staff. As he passed, Quinn caught the words "St. Petersberg." Although van Norreys' man had shown no interest in him so far he would like to know it if Kane were leaving town. While the other American was there Quinn had a sense of security. There was a vouched-for countryman he could appeal to if the worst came to the worst.
He dawdled at the desk waiting for his key and listened. Kane was planning a trip through the St. Pietersberg Caverns—he wanted to rent a car to take him upriver to the entrance. What were the St. Pietersberg Caverns? Quinn made a note to find out as soon as possible. And he couldn't hang around any longer without attracting attention. He left Kane still discussing routes, rates, and timetables and went upstairs.
There he went to work on his notes, re-reading and checking material under the fresh impetus gained from his talk with Dokter Roos. There was that new discovery just brought to light when they repaired the bomb damage at the small chapel across the border—the fighting prior's tomb. The inscription Roos had copied from it would change the dates in chapter five and would certainly suggest a new line of research for chapter twelve. Maybe he should go and see it for himself. And the records of the Company of Archers—. The Dokter promised him a chance to inspect those. Luckily they had been kept in Latin. He couldn't cope with a medieval Flemish dialect. Why, he had learned enough today to give him about a month's work—!
Ideas began to click into place as if he had located a missing bit of a picture puzzle. His pen moved eagerly across the paper. The whole of the next to the last chapter was re-writing itself in his mind. And if Wasburg had stepped into the room at that moment Quinn would have waved him away with impatience.
So when a sharp knock—a knock plainly meant to draw the full and immediate attention of any occupant of the room—sounded an hour later he looked up almost dazedly. Something white was being pushed into the room, making a scratching sound as if rubbed against the pile of the carpet.
Quinn moved. But, stiff from sitting so long, his weak leg twisted and he banged into the wall before he caught at the door knob. His clumsiness must have warned the messenger, for, by the time the American was able to unlock the door, the corridor outside was empty. He limped down it as far as the elevator—to see no o
ne. For all he knew his quarry might have gone to earth behind any one of the closed doors he passed.
He went back to his room and read the note.
"Tonight, 12:15, unlock your door."
And below that single line of angular script was drawn the picture of a tiny riding crop surmounted by the word "Jachtmeester."
A communication from the "Master of Hounds'? But, Quinn decided, it had not been written by a Netherlander. The "12.15"—that was American. And was that a suspicious point or not? He wished that he could get a weapon better than a pocket knife before twelve-fifteen.
There was just one man in Maastricht he thought he could appeal to on that score—Joris. He would do it too.
Now he tore the Jachtmeester's note into strips and made sure they were totally destroyed. Afterward he attempted to go back to work but the past had closed its doors and he could not concentrate. He put on his hat and coat and went out. In the lobby he found the head porter alone.
"I have heard something of the St. Pietersberg Caverns," Quinn began.
The man became enthusiastic. "And you have not yet visited them, Mijnheer? They are one of the great sights of our country! They lie two miles upstream from Maastricht—one may take the steamer from Stadsjark— or it is possible to hire a car and drive there.
"Before the days of the Romans even they were in existence. You will be able to see names written on the walls there—great historic names of the men who visited them. And artists have also made reproductions of famous paintings on the stone. In one of the outer galleries is a copy of The Night Watch.
"But one walks the galleries with care, Mijnheer, entering not without a guide. Men have been lost in there. Once there was a party of monks whose dried bodies were only found many, many years later. It is very easy to become confused in the circles of so many corridors. See how many there are!" He produced a small map and spread it out to display a black network of hues. "These are just the known and mapped passages. But others exist to form a regular labyrinth. It is said that among the secret ones are free passages into Belgium—that during the war these were known and used by the underground.
"It is a strange place indeed, Mijnheer. Shark's teeth, mind you, have been found in the stone and shells also. Once it must have been part of a sea bottom. Would you care to have me arrange a tour for you, Mijnheer?"
“Perhaps later," Quinn replied. "I have some business to attend to before I can do much sightseeing—"
"It is too bad that you must wait. The other American gentleman—he plans to go soon and you might have enjoyed the trip in company. But business is of importance. Only tell me, Mijnheer, when it is your pleasure to go and I shall make the arrangements for you—"
Quinn thanked him but just as he turned away the porter pulled a slip of paper from one of the cubbyholes in the section behind his seat and held it out.
"Mijnheer Anders! Please to excuse—I have almost forgotten this. A message for you."
Another from the Jachtmeester? But the typewritten words bore no resemblance to the other script.
"Meet me—market cafe—six—information—Maartens."
Quinn looked at his watch. It was five after five. And the streets outside were light. He decided against taking a taxi. The sidewalks were crowded with a large section of the population of Maastricht and even Wasburg couldn't do anything with a hundred or more witnesses around.
Quinn was almost in sight of the cafe when he was tempted. He was crossing the mouth of a street so narrow that it was hardly more than an alley which no modern machine could negotiate. But along it was a line of shop fronts, small-paned, with an intriguing hint of the far past about them. And he caught a glimpse of what he was sure was armor in one of them. He still had more than twenty minutes—he could just go and look in the window— He went.
The street was paved with cobbles and there was no sidewalk. Quinn kept close to the old buildings along it. He was right—there was a curiosity shop here. The window seemed to be a jumble of goods in no order at all and he was tempted to plaster his nose to the somewhat dusty panes to see it better. He liked the look of a basket-hilted broad sword which might have been swung valiantly by a Royalist in some Cromwellian scuffle. Hadn't King Charles' exiled followers taken refuge in Holland? This could well be an authentic legacy of that old lost cause. It would look fine back home, up over the mantle crossing the saber Grandfather Nichols used in 1862. Quinn turned to the door of the shop—only to be sent sprawling with force enough to drive most of the breath out of his body in a wild grunt of amazement.
He clawed at the wood, got his balance and looked up. One of the small window panes was starred with a spider web of cracks.
"What—?" He gasped. The man who had pushed him into the shallow protection afforded by the doorway dodged Quinn's grab for his arm. But not before the American had seen him clearly—Wasburg!
"Wait—!" He tried to sprint, but for the second time that day his bad knee let him down. He stumbled and he fought to regain his balance. It was too late anyway. The other had already reached the main street and was gone.
"Mijnheer! Mijnheer! What happens! What happens to my window? What do you, Mijnheer?" The shop owner caught at Quinn's sleeve.
"I'd like a few answers myself," returned Quinn grimly. He touched the broken glass. The old pane was thick, hand blown, but a sliver of it gave way under his examination. And that was on a line with where his head had been —he was sure of it!
But Wasburg had pushed him out of the line of fire! Which must mean that Wasburg was not the sniper—and also that Wasburg wanted him safe. Quinn swallowed twice, hurriedly. The shopkeeper had gone, probably to call the police. The American made a quick decision. He was not going to wait and answer official questions. He wanted to see Maartens—and Kane. No more of this 'I don't know you’ stuff as far as the Norreys' man was concerned. If he, Quinn, was being set up as a target for somebody with lethal intentions he wanted all the help he could get.
Quinn hurried out of the alley and made himself one of a crowd of pedestrians going in the right direction.
This was too public a place, he hoped, for the sniper to put in another appearance.
The American was still breathing hard when he sat down in the cafe to wait for Joris. His middle section felt empty and his mouth was so dry he could hardly give an order for a cup of coffee. On that night in Dordrecht when he had escaped from the hotel he had felt something like this— He rubbed his finger tips across the coarse cloth on the table, but his touch was still on that broken window glass. And his fingers were shaking. Quickly he dropped his hands to his knees, out of sight. He tried to breathe slowly, to fight the pounding of his heart.
This wasn't just a game he was playing. He remembered fleetingly, with a kind of horrified wonder, his mood of the afternoon when he had sighted Wasburg and had wanted to wave to him. Then it had seemed like a game—in spite of the hotel in Dordrecht, almost in spite of Stark, it had been a game. But it wasn't!
The coffee appeared. His eyes focused on the steaming cup. His hands were still shaking and no amount of willpower could stop them. He sat miserably conscious of his weakness, fighting the betrayal of his body. Slowly he won. He had to use both hands to raise the cup to his lips the first time—but he won.
Joris—? Where was the Netherlander? Quinn's watch told him that he had been sitting there even longer than he thought he had. It was a quarter past six. The cafe was filling up with patrons and the waiter had brushed past his table impatiently several times. Quinn summoned the man.
"I was to meet my friend here. But perhaps he could not come and has left a message for me. My name is Anders—"
"If the Mijnheer will allow me but a moment to in-quire—.”
Quinn pushed aside the coffee cup and kept his eyes on the entrance to the cafe. The street outside was growing dusky. If Maartens did not come he would take a taxi—
“Mijnheer, I am most sorry to report that there has been no message left for you. If you
wish to call your friend there is a telephone in the hallway to the left—"
"Danke."
As long as he was here he might as well eat. He pulled at the menu card, very sure that whatever he ordered was going to be sawdust and wood in his dry mouth. Was this the fear the fox knew when the hounds were on its trail and it was cut off from the safety of the den? The streets he would be forced to cross before he could wind back to the hotel arranged themselves in a pattern in his mind. And there were an unhealthy number of deep doorways and alley openings all along that short journey. He should get up and go right now—before it grew any darker. But could he?
He wasn't Stark. And he was learning that he could not play his brother's role. He was only a wader who had ventured from firm rock out into the river bed and was now plunged into a pot hole. He wasn't Stark!
"Anders!''
Quinn looked up. Maartens slid into the seat across the table.
"I was shot at—" The American blurted it out.
"I know."
"The Mijnheeren desire?" That was the hovering waiter right on the job.
Quinn could not have answered. He did not even hear the order Maartens gave glibly enough.
"You're late!" Quinn accused the Netherlander.
Maartens snorted. "Since this—" he pushed over the note Quinn had received—"was not written by me it is a wonder that I arrived at all!"
"You didn't send me this?"
"No. And you certainly are a trusting innocent!"
"Please—" Quinn began to realize just how stupid he had been.
"So that lesson has been learned? Good. Now we shall get to business."
"But how did you already know that I had been shot at?" persisted the American.
"I told you that there would be those who would keep an eye on you. The only trouble was—"
