"Steps," Joris managed to get out with what breath that encounter had left him.
They were on a series of wide, shallow ledges which might well have been used as a rude staircase. Luckily they were shallow and wide or Quinn s tumble might have carried both explorers to the bottom.
They must have descended for about fifty feet before they came out into a low arched room. Joris sent the light traveling slowly around the walls and then across the ceiling.
"Look at that!"
Quinn did not need the other's exclamation to rivet his attention on the roof painting. It was a black drawing of a crude manlike figure, but curved horns sprouted from its bullet head.
"The Black Man!" He identified it. "Could this have once been the meeting place for a Coven—a witches' Sabbath—"
"Yes. That is old—it was not made by boys playing. Ah-"
The circle of light moved over the Black Man and down the far wall. Even across the chamber Quinn could read the inscription. Kilroy still pointed the way. The hollowed-out room in which they stood was roughly wedge-shaped and the line of the sign pointed to the narrow end. It was not until they were more than halfway across that Quinn saw the other entrance, a hole in the wall. And it was from this that the muted murmuring issued.
Joris thrust his torch hand into the mouth of the crypt. There was just room enough for Quinn to see, over his shoulder, another passage, the floor of which was a band of black, swiftly-flowing water.
"This I was told of," the Netherlander withdrew the light again, "so we are on the right path. Now we shall have to wade with the current—" He hesitated.
"How far?" Quinn shed his coat.
"That I do not know." Joris stooped to put a hand in the water and flipped it out again quickly. "It is liquid ice—
"Waiting won't warm it up," Quinn observed. He unlaced his shoes and took them and his socks off. The marl was chill under his bare feet and he could well believe that the water would be worse. But he bundled together his slacks, shoes and coat and fastened them with his belt.
The Netherlander made the same preparations and in addition unwound the rope he had looped about his waist.
"Now we tie ourselves together. We do not know where or what this water covers and one may be swept away. I shall go very slowly. I have never heard of an underground lake in St. Pietersberg—but elsewhere in the Limburg Caverns there are such, and I have no wish to go swimming without warning. Give me a little start now—“
With the caution of one about to cross a mined field Joris lowered one foot through the hole. He grunted and shivered as the water closed about his flesh.
"Let us hope that there is not to be much of this. Now I will go forward a little and light you through. It is very cold—be prepared—"
All the preparations in the world would not have softened the shock Quinn felt when the ice of the flood clamped about him as high as his knees. Luckily the bottom was level and free of stones. They crept forward at a snail's pace, the current tearing at them with force enough to be felt.
The numb chill crept up their shivering bodies until Quinn came to think that he would never be warm again. There was no place to rest, or to climb out of the stream for a moment or two. His hands began to shake and he clutched his bundle of clothing tight to his chest for fear of dropping it.
Then the beam of light flicked to their right and Joris stopped.
"Here is a place to rest—" His voice floated back in a ghostly whisper, hardly to be heard above the sound of the water.
Quinn shuffled up and the Netherlander handed him the torch.
"Hold this while I explore it—"
The American steadied himself against the shiny wall and watched Maartens clamber through a slit.
"Come on—there is room—"
He drew himself out of the water and sank down, furtively rubbing his weak leg. The cold had settled in the muscles there and for some time he had felt a warning cramp. If his leg was going to give out—! Quinn caught his lower lip between his teeth in a savage pinch and rubbed frantically at the stiff, clammy flesh of his calf.
So intent was he upon his own problem that he paid no attention to Joris until an exclamation from the Netherlander made him look around. Maartens stood by the far wall of the pocket in which they found themselves and he had the torchlight on a small white pile.
"What is it?" asked Quinn without particular interest.
""A good Nazi—"
To Quinn that answer did not make much sense and then the other amplified it.
"From all indications he was a Nazi. Apparently he spied where it was not healthy to wear a black coat and has remained to serve as a warning—"
He snapped off the light. Quinn went on rubbing his leg. He found that the thought of sharing this hole with a tangle of bones was not as revolting as he might once have expected. At least they were out of that water for a while. Then another hand touched his and he started wildly.
"Muscle cramp?" asked Joris.
"Yes. It will straighten out," Quinn rephed hurriedly, hoping that he was speaking the truth. He tried to believe that it pained less now than it had when he climbed in here.
"We can't be too far from the exit now." Maartens' hands moved along with Quinn's, rubbing and attempting to ease the knotted muscles.
"It's feeling better. I can keep going all right." And, Quinn discovered, when they went back into the stream, he could. It wasn't going to last forever he promised his shaking body and numb leg. There would be an end to the dark and the water-It did come. Joris turned off the torch. The darkness ahead was broken by dull grayish light. But that gray did not grow much brighter. And when they at last splashed out to a muddy bank it was under a thickly clouded sky.
Quinn collapsed on an outcrop of stone and fumbled with his bundle. He sacrificed the scarf he found in his coat pocket to serve as a towel and then dressed. But Joris had already climbed to the top of a neighboring spur.
All Quinn could see below were fields at the extreme left and, for the rest, a tongue of thickly wooded land. A faint path led away from the stream to these woods. But there was no other indication that anyone had passed that way before.
He squinted up at the clouds. It was going to rain and rain hard.
Joris skidded down to join him.
"Over there," the Netherlander waved his hand to the right, "there is some kind of a house. I saw a piece of roof through the bare trees. This may be part of a hunting preserve—"
Quinn jerked upright. "The hunting box of the Sternsberg Dukes— We may have come straight to the right place! But the lodge was burnt down during the war."
"There might be a forester or keeper still living here. But I think it wiser for us not to travel too openly from now on. In the first place," a half smile quirked his lips, "we are now illegally in Belgium. And secondly, we are on the heels of those who do not care for witnesses. They have had training in the handling of too curious trailers —both customs men and Nazis—"
Quinn remembered the poor huddle of bones they had come upon in the caverns. He had no desire for a similar fate.
"So now we do not follow this very clear path." Joris dug his toe into the trace leading away from the stream. "Rather shall we circle to the right, making use of the cover afforded by that clump of bushes and that spear of rock. That will take us to the edge of the wood. But within that we must also walk with care. Snares are sometimes set—there is a black market for meat—or so I have heard. You are not woods trained?"
"I am not."
"Then you will step as lightly as possible and I shall lead. I am no forester but in the war days I learned woods-craft—I had to."
They made use of the clump of bushes and the outcrop of rock Joris had indicated and reached the edge of the wood—a process which entailed crawling. The sky was growing darker and a rising wind rattled the branches over their heads.
Within the forest there was a secondary defense of thorny briars which resented their intrusion vigorously.
And since the American lacked the amazing skill which Maartens displayed in getting through, over and around these, his hands smarted with pricks and there were long scratches across cheek and chin by the time he reached a small glade and relaxed thankfully on a pile of season-old leaves behind a fallen tree trunk.
Joris stood in the center of the clearing balancing a small pocket compass on the palm of his hand.
"It is going to storm—"
"Now that," panted Quinn, "is an understatement if I ever heard one."
He began to rub his leg again.
"It is better that we do not blunder along in the dark. I want to have a closer look at that house—"
"And you could do that easier if I weren't tagging at your heels?" demanded Quinn snappishly. "All right. I agree to roost here."
Joris glanced at him but the American could read nothing in that quick flash of eyes across his face. Instead of answering Maartens began to strip himself of all extra equipment—the knapsack, his jacket, even his cap. He hunched down and ran his hands through the mold under the leaves and smeared the muck across his face until it was almost as uniformly brown as his hair.
"You are well away from the path. I shall be gone"— Joris consulted his watch—"two hours at the most. If I do not return in that time—"
"I send for the marines and head a rescue party—"
But Joris shook his head. "You do nothing to find me. Instead you will take the compass and go south. That will bring you to the highway and the frontier post. You can tell a story of being lost in the caverns and return to Maastricht—"
"Okay, okay," Quinn broke in. "I can fill in the rest. But you d better get going before it is too dark to see anything."
Joris appeared to agree to that, for, without disturbing a spike of the dead weeds, he disappeared. Quinn rested a moment more and then got stiffly to his feet. He collected the bag and clothing the Netherlander discarded. He might be too green at this game to help much, but he had an idea or two of his own and he was not going to hunt any highway and beat it back across the border! What was the matter with him anyway? He must seem the type who would fluff out when the going got rough or Maartens wouldn't have made a suggestion like that. After all this was more his adventure than the Nether-lander's.
Smarting under his own self-appraisal Quinn started out. He had sense enough not to get lost in the woods, he thought, pulling out a pocket knife and cutting a small blaze on a tree trunk. He went on north, blazing a trail.
And his hope was rewarded as he came through the fringe of woodland to another strip of rough pasture studded with outcrops of stone. One of these was flat topped and could afford a vantage point. He made the effort to climb it and lay, belly down, looking east. In the gathering dark it was difficult to see clearly. But he began a careful sweep from left to right.
A quarter of the way around that half circle he sighted the steeply pitched roof of a small building. That must be the house Joris had gone to investigate. A raindrop the size of a fifty cent piece spatted on the rock beside his bent elbow, another struck him above the ear and trickled down to soak into the bandage. Then the sky opened and poured water, most of which appeared to be funneled directly onto him. Quinn squirmed under the force of the deluge, twice having to bury his face in his arms in order to breathe as the wind tore across him, sweeping cold half sleet with it.
A lull came and Quinn braced himself. It was then that he saw it—a mere shadow until a jagged fork of lightning revealed it clearly. The crumbled outline of a ruined tower, its top showing above the trees. It stood beyond the house and a little to the left. And he knew it. That was Odocar's Tower! They had come right to the place they were seeking!
In spite of the rain soaking his back and legs, gathering around under him in a puddle cupped by depressions in the rock, Quinn held to his post, trying to memorize the bearings of the tower. They should be able to reach it from here. And he was sure that that broken tumble of stone was their real goal.
When he was certain that he could locate it again he crawled down the slippery rock. The first fury of the storm had become a steady downpour which might keep up for hours. But the sky was lighter and he was able to follow his blazes without too much casting about.
Quinn got back to the clearing and took what shelter there was afforded by the largest tree. Joris had fifteen minutes left of his two hours. And to the American every one of those was doubly long. He kept on his feet, pacing a step or two each way, bitterly afraid that his leg might stiffen if he dared to sit.
With only two minutes left Joris came back, rising out of the murk with a whisper of his own name to identify himself. Quinn caught at his arm in relief and then dropped his hold instantly, hoping that he had not given himself away.
“Well?" He tried to school his voice.
"We have indeed come to the right place. The storm covered me and if they had any guards out I did not see them. There was only one man in the cottage but he was engaged in a most interesting occupation. He had one of those portable transmitters—walkie-talkie' as you call them. I believe that he was trying to send a message but perhaps the storm interfered, for he was growing angry at his results. He was an old acquaintance—"
"Who?"
"Hans Loo. And I did not see anyone else in the house. They were either upstairs or—"
"In Odocar's Tower!" Quinn cut in.
He told of the ruin he had sighted.
"So? Yes, they might well be there. Now we shall have to make some plans. I do not much like this—"
Quinn shivered and shifted his weight from his aching leg. That, too, was an understatement as far as he was concerned.
CHAPTER 14
—TO A DARK TOWER CAME
"We can look at this tower," Joris shouldered the knapsack, "and then we will decide what there is for us to do-"
"There may not be much time to decide," Quinn pointed out. "If Wasburg is a Sternlitz and has the secret of the treasure's hiding place, and if they are trying to get it out of him— Well, they aren't going to waste any time getting down to business. They may have their claws on the Menie right now. And if we continue to roost around under these water-spouting bushes making up our minds we'll find the cupboard bare when we do move!"
"There are a great many ‘ifs' in that," Joris grunted. "And the worst of it is, they all may be not only true but fatal! But neither does one move into battle without advance information. We can tell better when we see the tower—"
Joris took compass bearings at the rock from which I Quinn had sighted the ruins. And he took too much time f over that as far as Quinn was concerned. The American was consumed with a growing desire to get on with the job and the deliberation of his companion acted on him as a goad.
The steady beat of rain on their heads and shoulders slackened as they moved into the half protection of the trees, for here was a stand of firs, not as bare as the rest of the woods.
"We could do with some light," suggested Quinn after he almost lost balance catching his foot in an exposed root and giving his leg a nasty wrench.
"It is best to hurry while we have as much as we do now," was Joris' answer. "Because of the storm the dusk is almost here—"
Quinn gave all his attention to his footing. And so he was the first to sight the trap. A branch was hanging a few feet from the ground, swaying back and forth on an invisible support.
"Look out!"
But Maartens had already sighted it. "Stand where you are," he ordered. He crept forward but did not touch the branch.
"An alarm wire—maybe a booby trap," he deduced.
"Listen." Quinn had been watching the movements of that branch. "Suppose that limb had been heavy enough to bring down the wire when it fell? Then if they investigated and found it an accident would they be quick to hunt out another if we set one off?"
But Joris needed no more. He turned around slowly, eyeing their surroundings speculatively. And in a sapling, leaning at an angle with its roots half exposed, he found what h
e wanted. Carefully he dug around it in the soft earth, using bits of wood and being careful not to print the muck with his fingers.
"That will do, I think." He stepped back, measuring with his eyes the direction in which the tree must fall. Then he wrapped his hands in his handkerchief and put them against the slender trunk.
“When I say the word, you push me and I shall push this. It may not work but there is no harm in trying. Now!"
Quinn braced his feet on the slippery pine needles and pushed against Joris' shoulders. For a moment of suspense he thought that they could not do it. Then Joris jumped back and Quinn fell on the sodden ground. The tree was going over—slowly—almost with dignity. But it was falling along the line the Netherlander had sighted for it. And it snapped across the wire which had supported the betraying branch.
"Come!" Maartens scooped up the American almost by main force. And they went through the gap the tree had opened for them.
"Not a booby after all," the Netherlander observed. "It must be an alarm. But we're lucky, the dark will hide any marks we might have left. Also we shall put as much distance between us and this as we can!"
Quinn saved his breath and did not answer, but concentrated on keeping up with Joris' steady trot and breaking through the underbrush. Once they crossed a path.
But Joris stayed in the open woods, stopping to read the compass. It was almost night as to visibility when they came out on a sharp break in the ground. A gully choked with brush gave into a fan-shaped open space. At the narrow end of this stood Odocar's Tower on a spur of higher land. And around it was the sullen glint of water. No one had drained the ancient moat and, as far as Quinn could see, the only entrance to the mound on which the keep stood was across a narrow bridge. One guard stationed there could hold off an invasion. All the American s hazy plans for attacking the place vanished when he saw that.
But Joris did not appear dismayed as he studied the situation.
"They must have left a sentry at the bridge. And he—" Quinn stated the obvious.
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