by Andre Norton
Quinn waved away the last. “Bring me the specialty of the house. And in addition — Mijnheer Bevroot recommended the Vla cherry pie —”
The waiter supplied him with a napkin, his eyes only for what he was doing.
“As Mijnheer wishes.”
Then he was gone. Quinn looked through the window. This side was sheltered from wind and rain. He could just see the canal below without twisting his head too far — the water must lap the back wall of the Wise Tomcat. A rowboat or two were tied up at a water-washed door there, bobbing up and down. Such an exit might be convenient if one were in the black market or had other strange businesses. Did the police patrol the canals?
Quinn picked up the fork at his hand and began to draw patterns on the coarse stuff of the red and white cloth. Had his gift package reached the chief of police yet? And, if it had, what sort of flurry had it started in official circles? It might be safer to know, if he had the power to find out.
A tangle of threads — that was what he held mow. Maybe the Wise Tomcat could provide him with at least one loose end. There was Grosport and the money and Stark's message. If he would only be allowed to tackle one at a time.
He looked up. Level, unwinking green eyes were regarding him steadily. An intelligent black-furred face appeared to hang without support in mid-air just across the table — until one saw the black paws braced on the edge of the board. Opposite him now was an outsize in black tomcats.
“Dag, kater.”
The cat graciously replied with a polite and almost soundless mew.
“Mijnheer” — the worried waiter materialized. “Kater —” He turned almost apologetically to the second occupant of the canal window table.
Quinn laughed. “This is perhaps a reserved table, reserved for my friend here?”
The waiter showed a faint shadow of smile. “As you say, Mijnheer. After the manner of his race Kater has very strong opinions concerning his own importance and place in the world. This table he has chosen —”
“Then,” Quinn continued in Dutch, “I am his guest. Mijnheer Kater” — he bowed to that pillar of feline respectability on the other side of the board — “will you perhaps join me in, say, a dish of milk?”
The waiter permitted himself a short laugh which must have been used infrequently it sounded so rusty.
“Milk is more for the jonge kat — the small kitten, Mijnheer. Kater here has a taste for stronger drink.”
“Then by all means bring him his regular tipple. And don't keep the gentleman waiting!”
For “Kater” had turned his black mask to the waiter and had mewed on a much louder and more impatient note.
“As the Mijnheer desires.”
Quinn began to spoon up the thick soup which had been put before him.
“Not a pleasant night out, Mijnheer,” he observed between mouthfuls.
Kater's head swung toward the window in answer, and the green jewel eyes studied the murk without with obvious displeasure.
Quinn allowed the best soup he had eaten in years to warm his middle. At least the Wise Tomcat was worth visiting because of its cook, if for no other reason. Though to share a table with Kater was an experience he would not have wished to miss either. Marusaki should join them now. What did the secret agent do when his contact appeared to be a large, perfectly groomed, and extremely well-poised tomcat? Now that was a question for van Norreys himself to answer.
The waiter came back with a Delft ware bowl to set before Kater. And into that he poured a good half of a bottle of beer. Quinn's soup plate was changed for another which gave forth savory smells. Then both he and Kater plunged into the business of refreshment.
Kater was a dainty drinker and a slow one, pausing now and then to gaze out the window or to watch Quinn. He used that shattering feline stare which can discomfit human beings — the stare which suggests that one's hair is uncombed, that there are egg spots on one's tie, and that one is generally behaving in a silly and unmannerly fashion. But Quinn, having dealt with Kater's tribe before, refused to be discommoded by it.
Instead he talked steadily, even with his mouth half full, asking Kater questions and now and then actually winning a mew in answer. At the arrival of the Vla pie he had developed the feeling of being caught up in some wild fantasy. The long dark room, which ran the full length of the ancient house from court to canal, with its poor illumination, was certainly lifted bodily out of the sixteenth century. Its walls swallowed sound, noises made in it were muted and far away.
His own table stood slightly apart, almost isolated. And Kater, his black fur melting into the shadows until one did not know where dark began and cat ended, had certainly come straight from the Middle Ages.
“A witch cat, a familiar,” Quinn decided at last. “That is what you are, my friend. Be glad that you reside here and now in these supposedly enlightened days. In the past you would have made a most unpleasant acquaintance with the Inquisition. You have finished? Good. May I suggest that there is but the merest suspicion of foam clinging to your left-hand upper whisker? Yes, that deals with it.”
Kater's red tongue swept left, then right. He removed his paws from the table and sat back on the chair so that only eyes and ears now could be seen above the level of the board.
“An excellent dinner,” Quinn complimented the waiter, “and a most interesting table companion. I am indeed indebted to Mijnheer Bevroot for his suggestion that I visit the Wise Tomcat.”
He was taking the money for the bill out of his wallet when the waiter asked in a low voice, “You are a friend of cats, Mijnheer?”
“I am.”
“The Wise Tomcat is very old, Mijnheer. We have had many, many cats to bring us luck. And they have made friends — famous friends. You have perhaps heard of Jerome Bosch, Mijnheer?”
“A little. He was a painter of strange and weird pictures —”
“Once he painted the Kater of his day, Mijnheer. Would you care to see that painting?”
“Most certainly.”
Quinn bowed politely in farewell to Kater and followed the waiter. This must be the contact van Norreys had promised him.
They went back down the stairs to a door set flush with the old paneling so that it seemed a part of the centuries-darkened wood. Quinn entered a room half as large as the dining hall above.
It was almost completely dark. Only at the far end a desk lamp made a circle of pale light on a battered commercial desk, the chair drawn up to it and the person sitting there — facing the door and waiting. The door closed behind the American.
“Mijnheer?” The voice which addressed him was low, husky, and possessed a warmth which was in great variance to the body from which it issued.
Quinn bowed. He had not expected a woman. And she was a woman such as he had never seen before. Even though she was seated she appeared tall, and Quinn guessed that she might overtop him by inches when standing. A shapeless dress, not unlike a religious habit, covered her from throat to toes. Her jaw was square, her skin thick and pallid as if it were seldom touched by sunlight or fresh air. A pair of old-fashioned, metal-rimmed glasses with unusually thick lenses enlarged her eyes. Above a forehead, where the roundness of the skull seemed to push through a film of flesh, colorless hair was pulled sharply back into a knot which clung as if carved to the exact middle of her head.
“Mijnheer, you are?” she prodded him sharply.
“I am — Roajact, Mevrouw.”
“Jonkvrouw van Nul,” she corrected him.
“Lady of zero — nothing,” Quinn translated to himself swiftly. But certainly she represented a rather substantial “nothing.”
“Roajact,” she echoed, then sat silent as if fitting that into some logical sequence in her mind. “You wished of us?” Now she sounded impatient, annoyed, as if she could see no reason for his intrusion into the life of the Wise Tomcat. “You are a ‘trader'?”
“Say rather a seeker. I'm not in the black market, if that's what you mean. I'm only on my way to Maastr
icht to gather certain information.”
“So!” The word was a hiss, almost as if it had issued from Kater's lips. “Well, Mijnheer Roajact, you bring us a word of introduction. So I cannot say ‘no’ —”
Though you'd like to do just that, thought Quinn.
“Almost three months ago now a Capt. Stark Anders of the American Forces was found the victim of a hit-and-run accident in Maastricht —”
“And what may be our connection with the so-unfortunate captain?” She had now the air of a schoolmistress bringing a dull and unwilling pupil to face his lack of preparation.
“None, that I know of. But I want to discover who did have an interest in that affair.”
“The Netherlands Police are not deficient in service, young man. If a criminal is to be apprehended they would be after him. I cannot see that this occurence is any of our concern.”
“Perhaps not. But then who is the ‘man who sells memories'?”
The words echoed through the room. She sat very still, a thick granite statue, an ugly block. Quinn waited, meeting her stare for stare. At last her lips unfolded from a tight crease.
“How much do you know of him?”
“Jonkvrouw van Nul, I am not fool enough to answer that. But Capt. Anders knew —”
“We have no quarrel with Americans,” she cut in, much of the rich warmth gone from her voice. “Capt. Anders was not touched by us —”
“I have never accused you of that, Jonkvrouw. What I ask is that you give me some contact in Maastricht who will be willing to part with knowledge which can help me.”
“You are not one of us. You have no right to ask anything of us, Mijnheer.”
“No? I am Roajact — remember?”
Her robed shoulders moved in a ponderous shrug.
“You are not one of us,” she repeated stubbornly. “I am not alone, Mijnheer. I have associates who will not be pleased by your demands — not pleased at all.”
But Quinn remained firm. “I ask it as Roajact,” he repeated.
“I cannot give you an answer now, Mijnheer. It is out of the question. You come well recommended, yes. But credentials can be forged — they have been. How do we know that you are not in some official service? How do we know — ?”
“You can check, Jonkvrouw. You cannot deny that you have methods of doing that. I came honestly by Roajact. Bevroot has seen my passport, he sent me here.”
But she did not soften. “There is too much laxness creeping in. I do not like it.”
Quinn stood up. “Jonkvrouw van Nul, in two days I must leave for Maastricht. Before that time I want from you what I have asked — the name of a contact in that city who can help me find out what lies behind Capt. Anders’ death.”
“What was this Anders to you, Mijnheer, that you must concern yourself with him? If you are not official, why do you pry?”
“He was my brother.”
Again the folds of her robe moved a little, her thick-fingered hands came up from her lap to rest on the papers neatly piled on the desk. Quinn shot his last bolt.
“You say that your organization had no connection with his death. Why then are you so reluctant to supply me with help? I was assured before I came here that I would get your aid — without reservations or questions!”
“You know too much — or too little — and speak about that a little too freely. I repeat this — we have no quarrel with Americans. Capt. Anders would not have been eliminated by us. On the other hand we are not so strong that we care to fight a storm with broom straws. In our business it is sometimes best to keep the eyes and ears closed —”
“Unless there is a safe profit in opening them? In other words, Jonkvrouw, you wish to tell me that my brother was liquidated by those you have no desire to annoy?”
“I have not said so, Mijnheer. I shall discuss your request with my associates. You shall hear from us —”
“And I shall give you two days, Jonkvrouw. I am staying at the Hotel de Witt. If you do not contact me I shall inform those who provided me with my passport.”
But she remained unmoved by his implied threat. And he went out without any word of farewell from her.
“The man who sells memories!” Clearly Stark had uncovered something so important that the mere mention of it was enough to dry up the information channels of the underground van Norreys had considered to be an important aid to him. Well, he would wait the full two days, then he would try to contact Norreys. Or he could by-pass the network and go to Maastricht on his own.
Perhaps by now the police there would have learned something new about Stark. If they would allow him to see their reports he might be able to guess or to find a clue they had missed. He could at least hunt out the restaurant from which that torn bit of menu card had come. No, if the Jonkvrouw van Nul remained stubborn and voiceless he would try to go the course alone and would make no appeal to van Norreys.
He found his way back through the streets to the de Witt. As he paused inside the door to shake the worst of the wet from his hat the porter hurried up.
“It is the telephone, Mijnheer. Three times already has it rung for Mijnheer. It is with luck they call again even as you arrive —”
“Danke.” Quinn picked up the phone.
Before he could speak the voice at the other end of the wire, muffled and breathlessly indistinct, came through.
“Police — they come for you — tonight.”
There was a click as the line went dead. A little dazed Quinn hung up. This last bit of melodrama was too much — he didn't believe it. But some shred of caution started him toward the sane and safe shelter of his room.
5
DEATH WALKS A WINDOW LEDGE
Quinn slipped into his darkened room and stood quietly just within the door for a long moment, ears, eyes, and nose alert. It was the latter which served him best now. He did not smoke. But on the somewhat musty air of the room there was the scent of tobacco — strong and stale as if from the clothes of a chain smoker. Quinn's fingers found the switch, and the light went on. But the room was empty.
However, it had been searched again. And this time by someone who did not care if that occupation was betrayed. The contents of Quinn's suitcase had been dumped out in the middle of the bed. There were scratches around the lock of the briefcase. The window he had left closed was open.
Quinn found his flashlight, then snapped off the room light. With the beam of the flash he sorted out underwear, a shirt, his traveling kit, the first aid box, and forced them all into the briefcase. If he did have to flit he would travel light.
Then his hands and body froze. There was a sound outside that window. He dropped the briefcase beside the door and flattened himself against the wall, creeping along it behind the chair and round the lamp toward the oblong of pale light.
The pane was being forced up higher, the rasp of sound thundered in the silent room. And now the misshapen shadow of the intruder was a black blot which almost filled the whole sash space. But how had he reached there? There was no fire escape — he couldn't have walked that extremely narrow ledge which ran around the building a few feet below!
Quinn attempted to control his breathing, making his way around the room by inches. Just let that fellow get one leg over the sill and he could jump him! Surely the police wouldn't make that sort of an entrance.
The shadow in the window eased in. This must be a game at which he had had much practice. Quinn hurtled forward in a football tackle. But he had miscalculated. His fingers only tore at rough cloth while the body it clothed wriggled free. The man in the window heaved himself back to escape Quinn's clutch.
There could not have been more than a second before that searing scream of terror came. Quinn's full weight ripped down the window draperies before he could check himself.
He swallowed, fighting down sour nausea, and swayed forward toward the window, still holding tight to the splitting fabric.
In the narrow street below, figures were gathering about a flattened thing
. Quinn saw the bright beam of a light catch and hold on it. And the man who held that lamp was in uniform! The police! If they weren't already on his tail they would be now.
Quinn pulled himself erect by will power alone. He even summoned enough control to close the window.
There was that back staircase he had noticed earlier this evening —
He piled guilder pieces on the desk — enough to pay his bill. Then somehow he was out of the room. Under his feet the hall carpet was thick enough to deaden the sound of his running. And the back stairs were close, dark too, as if they had been planned for the aid and comfort of fugitives.
Three flights down there was another hall. Here were two half-open doors with light and the sound of voices behind them. But no one looked out as he fled past. He eased the bolt on the door at the far end. Luckily there was no other lock on it. Then he was in a paved court — the delivery entrance for the hotel.
The rain had stopped, but there were still clouds across the moon. Quinn walked with increasing assurance out into a narrow street, between rows of unlighted houses. There were no electric signs to break the dark, nothing but widely separated street lights. He reached the corner of the block without seeing another person and ducked into a doorway to think.
He was a foreigner in a strange city, with the police on his trail and perhaps others looking for him too. This was a problem to be faced by an experienced man such as Marusaki — not for him to solve. Only he, Quinn Anders, had to find the solution. There was Bevroot. But the antique shop was closed at this hour, and he had no idea where its owner lived. To wander about Dordrecht until Bevroot opened up his place was rank folly.
In an American city Quinn would have taken refuge for the night in an overland bus station or at the railway concourse. But until he knew more about the customs here he could not venture to seek such shelter.
So there remained only the Wise Tomcat. If the staff had been reluctant to aid him before, they would probably slam the door in his face now. He would have to force himself upon them.
