At Swords' Point

by Andre Norton

  “Suppose the Menie could be smuggled over here, sold for its admitted astronomical value to some big boy who made his pile in the black market and who can't rid himself of his profits without tipping off the federal boys? The price he paid would go overseas to just the people we'd hate most to see clutching a sheaf of green stuff in their hot little hands. Yeah, sonny, this treasure hunt may be a main event. That's why the chief is letting you in on the secret of one his passages. Understand?”

  Quinn did at last. He tugged self-consciously at the watch band. Marusaki's logical explanation of the possible use of the Menie made sense all right. And just this might have started Stark on the trail which ended so abruptly in Maastricht. But it made him all the more determined that the question of the Bishop's Menie was going to be his to answer.

  “You will keep this?” He indicated the knight.

  “If you wish. And now, if you are ready, Marusaki will drive you back to New York. Do not forget —”

  “Voorstraat, Diedrich Bevroot —”

  Marusaki hovered impatiently by the door of the strongroom. “He'll do, chief. Catch ‘em young, bring ‘em up right. That's the trick.”

  But van Norreys had still another warning to give. “Your worst enemy,” he said slowly and emphatically, “is overconfidence. You must remember only that you are going to do research for your book, that you have no other purpose in mind.”

  And that was good advice, Quinn realized. He must batten down his excitement. He must be only Quinn Anders, the quiet student whom no one had ever noticed — Quinn Anders, the would-be historian with no connection with any wild business of secret underground organizations and information networks. He must have made his decision clear to van Norreys without any audible protestations. For, after a long and searching look, the Netherlander smiled.

  “I think you shall do —”

  “Sure, chief.” Marusaki shuffled his feet. “I've seen a good many come and go in my time. He's got the stuff!”

  But by the time Marusaki drove into the outer reaches of New York in the dusk Quinn wondered about that last statement. They had not talked at all about the future during the past few hours — instead the Norreys man had delivered a steady monologue about his own past. And after only a few minutes of listening Quinn had grasped the purpose behind that flow of reminiscence, all told in a matter-of-fact way. Marusaki was endeavoring to plant during the short hours of their trip some idea of how to work undercover. As soon as he realized that, Quinn asked questions at intervals, questions which were answered at once, sometimes in detail. It was a fast briefing and a superficial one. But Quinn reached his hotel knowing far more about the possibilities of situations which might develop from the action he had pledged himself to take than that morning he had dreamed might exist.

  Quinn made his good-bye as casual as Marusaki's and hurried to his room. There was something to do before he picked up his ticket and went to the airport. Before he even took off his hat he did it.

  He extracted a page from his father's notes — read it over twice with concentration, tore the paper into small bits and burned it in the ash tray. The flimsy black flakes he flushed away in the bathroom. He now knew all there was to know about the Bishop's Menie, and no one else could learn it from him.

  There was nothing else which might tie him to the Sternlitz treasure. He was almost certain of that — now he was going to be sure. Leaf by leaf he flipped through the two notebooks, checking each page whether the script on it was in his own backhand, typewritten, or in his father's fine printing. Nothing. But he did tear out and burn a pencil sketch of Odocar's Tower. He shut the briefcase, made sure of his passport, and gathered up his bags.

  All the way out to the airport he thought of the cardinal rule Marusaki had impressed on that afternoon. If one had to live a role, one lived it every minute of the day and night. If one was to be a pearl dealer from Port Darwin, for example, one thought, lived, slept, and ate as a pearl dealer — and was nothing else until the moment came when that role led to one's goal.

  In one respect he was very lucky. He did not have to assume another personality at all — and he probably wouldn't be fitted for acting. No, he had already a perfect reason to poke and pry around old cities and ask logical and profitable questions about places and people. He was only a history student interested in an obscure military order which had been in existence for a short time seven hundred years ago.

  So as a tourist he enjoyed to the full the excitement of travel by night on the huge “Flying Dutchman,” eastward bound to meet the sun. From the moment Quinn took his seat with the rest of the travelers en route for Shannon and Amsterdam he gave himself wholly to the fun of traveling only as one who has been long rooted in one place can.

  His seatmate, who had boarded the plane later, barely finding his place before the door closed, seemed totally uninterested in his surroundings and spent the very short night sleeping heavily. His round face with its plastic rimmed glasses was so utterly commonplace that he made no impression on Quinn.

  Being spring the night was short, darkness hardly having a chance to close down before they were speeding into the dawn. Quinn aroused as they curved in for their final landing. Below, the green of polder grass was cut by the silver of canals. But most wonderful of all were the squares and rectangles of living color. Sheets of crimson, rose, white, yellow, blue —

  Perhaps it was Quinn's gasp which awakened his seatmate. He leaned across, bumping his head sleepily against the pane almost cheek to cheek with the American.

  “Those are bulb fields, Mijnheer.” His English carried a thick accent. “These you have not seen before?”

  “No.”

  “We are still to the east flying. See, that starfish below — that is Naarden. Watch the canals, there should be on them flower barges bound for the city. This is the season that the fields are at their peak.” He sat back in his seat and stared frankly at Quinn. “This is perhaps your first visit to the Nederlands, Mijnheer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have chosen well the proper time in which to come. Den Haag, Marken, Amsterdam, Rotterdam — you have them all before you at their finest. You travel for business or for your pleasure, Mijnheer?”

  “Neither,” Quinn returned with what he hoped was just the right amount of enthusiasm. “I am a student over here to do some historical research.”

  “Ah, a student! Do you then go to Leyden or Utrecht?”

  “Not yet. I have some time free for sightseeing first.”

  “Good! You will look about our Nederlands before you must, as your countrymen say, ‘dig into your books.’ Well, Nederlands is not now so great as once it was — this poor country. We have lost the Indies. So back here — where there is so little, so very little land — must come hundreds, thousands of peole who have lived for generations under another sun. It is a sad business for all. Tighten up the belt — that is what now we must all do. Ah, now we approach Schipol. Look well around you here, Mijnheer. This airport is the crossroads for half the world today. From here you may go without difficulty to India, to Egypt — to Timbuktu — if you wish.”

  When they landed Quinn found himself taken in charge by this self-appointed guide. The Netherlander insisted upon escorting him to the customs, somewhat officiously dealing with the currency forms and explaining in detail papers Quinn already understood. But the man did it all with such a manifest desire to be helpful that Quinn concealed his annoyance and bridled impatience. It was when the time for baggage inspection came that Quinn discovered the loss of his briefcase.

  Those who had carried the luggage from the plane denied having seen it. And there ensued a period of confusion since Quinn's new friend embarrassed him with the noise of his complaints and the way he made them to every authority or bystander.

  Had the briefcase contained anything but irreplaceable notes Quinn would have joyfully said good-bye to it at the end of two minutes of the uproar — and would have slunk out of the office to make off
in the first vehicle offering itself for his escape. He had always hated scenes, and he was now the center of a very noisy one.

  At last the case was discovered in the very center of a mound of bags. Quinn sighed with relief and beckoned to a porter who had been the butt of part of the tirade. He put a guilder piece in the man's hand. The porter caught up both of Quinn's bags and headed to the other door, the American only too glad to follow him.

  “Mijnheer, that other gentleman. He is good friend with you?”

  “Just a fellow traveler on the same plane. I don't even know his name.”

  “Then, Mijnheer, why does he make the joke? Your bag, Mijnheer, the small bag which he so loudly talks of. It was he who put it so, hidden among the other cases. He makes the joke?”

  Quinn did not allow himself to glance back over his shoulder at the doorway through which his “friend” might burst at any moment.

  “Perhaps he did. I shall ask him. Thank you for all your trouble.”

  “Danke, Mijnheer!” The man touched his cap.

  Quinn picked up the briefcase. He had an idea that from now on he would be happier if he kept that under his own hand.

  3

  SUDDENLY A MAN OF TOO MUCH PROPERTY

  During practically every moment of the following hour Quinn wished that he had had the courage at Schipol to be rude and had fled before his self-appointed guide had joined him at the taxi stand. For by waiting he acquired a companion who stuck closer than scotch tape. It was only when van Noorden, as he belatedly identified himself, saw the American on the train for Dordrecht and the train actually pulled out of the station, that Quinn was free to relax in blessed solitude. He promised himself firmly not to go to the hotel van Noorden had recommended, and certainly he was not going to call upon any of the people whose names and addresses, scrawled across the back of a business card, had been thrust upon him in the last minute before he escaped.

  The adventure left him sleepy and cross, and he was beginning to believe himself allergic to Holland into the bargain. To cap his discomfort the compartment was filled with other passengers. Having no desire to be saddled with a second van Noorden Quinn burrowed for his notes. This would be a good time to read again about the disbanding of Bishop Odocar's order. And if he were furiously reading no one would interrupt. He turned the pages of his notebook slowly.

  He had flipped them all to the end cover and what he saw there straightened him in his seat and banished drowsiness. The leather binding was turned in to form a pocket, a handy holder for random notes. The last time he had looked at it the only contents had been a map of Sternsberg. But something new had since been added.

  It was a yellow envelope, thick, tightly sealed, new. And it had been jammed in behind the map so hurriedly that one corner was badly creased. Quinn shut the notebook without removing it.

  So that was why his briefcase had been mislaid at the airport! For it was only there that the envelope could have been planted on him. But why — and what was in it? Had he been alone he would have looked. But somehow he did not want to do that under the eyes of four strangers.

  He had to school himself in patience and recall Marusaki's advice. Over and over again that expert had dinned into Quinn's ears that the worst problems he would have to contend with were impatience and boredom — that one must never make events move unless one was very, very sure of all the facts and could foretell part of the immediate future. That one must wait for — as Marusaki had expressed it — what the gods sent, which was almost always trouble. So Quinn read himself a lecture and restored the notebook to the briefcase which he put under his elbow. Then he sat quietly, but he saw little or nothing of the countryside passing by his window.

  Quinn had been warned that the taxi service in Holland was not the universal convenience that it was at home. But he was able to find a cab at the station which took him to the hotel Stark had suggested, the de Witt.

  It was in the small lobby, just before he turned to follow the porter to his room, that he received the second shock of that day. One which jerked him completely out of his desire for bed and sleep. For the clerk handed him a letter.

  “Mijnheer Anders, this arrived some time ago with instructions that it be held for you —”

  Quinn accepted the envelope. It was smudged with dirt, the print of a shoe heel plain on its back. But the writing sent a thrill of what was almost pain running through him. There no mistaking those spike capital letters, that twisted “Q”.

  So it was with a letter from Stark in his hand that Quinn went to his room without clearly seeing any of his surroundings at all. He tipped the porter and was alone at last. And he turned the key in the door before he tore open the letter.

  Inside was an irregular bit of tough paper. Apparently it had been torn from a menu. At first he could see nothing on the back at all, but, in the full light of the reading lamp he switched on, he was able to read just four words. Man who sells memories.

  A man who sells memories! But what and who — Yet this was a message so important that Stark had scribbled it on the only paper near him at the moment.

  Quinn dropped into the chair under the lamp and studied that scrap with more care than he had ever given to any historical book or manuscript, determined to print on his mind every fiber of that paper, every curlicue of the list of dishes printed on it. If he ever saw the parent menu again he was going to recognize it.

  Then he reached for an ash tray and matches. The bit of paper became a powdery black fluff. But still he was able to close his eyes and see it exactly as it had been.

  The envelope was of cheap paper, so smudged and soiled that it looked as if it might have been dropped in the street and trodden upon before it was mailed. Which — Quinn's fingernails made prints on it — might well have happened to it. Suppose Stark had been followed, suppose he had written the note, put it in an envelope, and thrown it away. What would be the normal reaction of anyone finding it — especially if Stark had been able to put a stamp on the envelope? Why, the finder would simply pick it up and drop it into the nearest post box. But if Stark had been reduced to such straits he must have been very hard pressed. Perhaps — Quinn's lips became a very thin line — perhaps this had been prepared on the very night of his death. And, if that was so, Stark must have known that he was in danger.

  Which made “a man who sells memories” about the most important message Quinn had ever received. He stared blankly at the wall trying to arrange thoughts and suspicions in a logical order. And suddenly he wished that he could lay the whole thing before van Norreys — even tell it to Marusaki. But they were both a sea away, and he wasn't going to be able to get rid of responsibility so easily. There remained the introduction van Norreys had given him to the queer half world, the existence of which he had hardly been able to believe back in that sane and comfortable New England house where it had first been described. But suddenly, here and now after Stark's last note, he discovered that he could well accept the reality of even the mumbo-jumbo of Roajact.

  He got up and methodically stripped, showered, and redressed. Once he glanced longingly at the bed. But he had other things to do now. He was almost ready to leave when he remembered the envelope in the notebook. Might as well start solving all the mysteries in order, he thought with something approaching wry humor as he reached for it.

  Quinn had his hat already on his head again as he ripped open that envelope with small regard for its contents. A second later he was gaping in total disbelief at what he held.

  It was not true, of course! It couldn't be!

  Only it was. He could feel it — he could move them between his fingers, crisp and new and a little inclined to stick to one another.

  Ten one thousand dollar bills!

  His mind refused to accept the evidence of fingers and eyes. He rumple them, counted, re-counted.

  “Ten thousand dollars!” His lips shaped the words slowly.

  Ten one thousand dollar bills, new, as if they had just been issued from th
e mint! Holding the bills fanwise under the lamp he studied them carefully. So that was it! The slightly fuzzy picture — Quinn grinned without any humor at all now. That was the catch — counterfeit! But real or counterfeit, they meant trouble for him — bad trouble. He could be tagged as a currency smuggler. Or was he only a messenger boy? Would someone turn up here to claim the package which Mr. van Noorden entrusted to him? Because it must have been van Noorden who planted this on him. Well, if anyone did come, he would be slightly surprised by his reception!

  Quinn went to work. It was a good thing, he thought a little more cheerfully, that he had been an ardent student of espionage in fiction all these years. One learned so much from reading.

  He wrapped the bills in paper taken from his own supply of unmarked correspondence sheets and with the aid of tape from his small first aid kit fastened them to the underside of the bottom drawer in the chest. They could stay there until he decided the best way to get rid of them. He might send them anonymously to the police. But not just yet. It would be interesting to see if they were to be called for — and who was going to do the calling.

  Quinn experienced a sort of elation. He considered that he had handled that rather well. It was a good omen for the start of the whole affair. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was not going to be pushed around. Almost jauntily he picked up his coat and went out.

  The clerk in the lobby provided him with the name of a restaurant within a short distance, and twenty minutes later he was ordering — and so testing his Dutch — what seemed like a table load of food. It was beginning to rain outside. There was a flurry among the bicycles along the street.

  Quinn chewed and thought and honestly enjoyed himself. He had quite a lot to think about. There was van Noorden and the money and the note from Stark. As yet he couldn't see any tie between the currency business and the quest for the Bishop's Menie. Unless — of course —