by Andre Norton
The coffee appeared. His eyes focused on the steaming cup. His hands were still shaking, and no amount of will power 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 inquire — ?”
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 — ”
“That they were watching the wrong man!” Quinn guessed. His self-confidence was beginning to return.
“Yes. It was Wasburg who saved you.”
“But who fired the shot?”
“A new player. He is now under investigation. Luckily you kept your head and left before the police arrived. It would not do to become involved with the law just now. They take, as you can imagine, a very strict view of any activity employing guns — ”
Kept his head! Quinn knew a prickle of shame at that. It had been more an exhibition of sheer funk — his swift disappearance from the scene.
“I went to the hotel. The porter told me you had left but gave me this note which he said you had dropped. Then I called my contact and had the story from him. He said you were here. And I shall see you back to the hotel — we will take no more chances — ”
Quinn managed a weak smile. “I have no desire to take any. But I'd give a lot to know who wants to perforate me and why. I thought Wasburg was the one I had to look out for — ”
“Yes. Wasburg is now another sort of problem altogether. Do you recognize this?”
Joris held out a small piece of tracing paper. Quinn spread it flat on the white cloth so the lines showed as clearly as possible. It was a copy of an elaborate coat of arms. And he knew that pattern of lions and arrows very well.
“These are the arms of the Sternlitz family.”
That was true enough. But there was something else, a slight alteration on that shield. He traced the mark with his finger nail, and the explanation clicked into place in his mind.
“But there is something else to be learned from this?” Joris prompted shrewdly.
“This — see here,” Quinn's nail retraced its path. “I don't know whether you know anything about heraldry?”
Joris shook his head.
“Well, originally all arms were devised to be read — they were to serve as a man's signature. There are alterations of each family shield to place its bearer in the line of inheritance — as the heir, the second son, third, fourth, etc., as a cadet of the house, as the eldest daughter and heiress — each had their own separate insignia on the complete arms. In the feudal days a gentle born man could translate his opponent's or neighbor's shield and be able to place him properly in society — even when he couldn't read or write his own name. Nowadays this identification is a more or less forgotten art except with the College of Heralds or a few antiquarians.”
“And I take it that this representation of the Sternlitz arms is not a common one?”
“No. This is a copy of the arms as they would be borne, not by the Duke — were he alive — but by his eldest son and heir. A distinction few would know now.”
“His son and heir,” repeated Joris thoughtfully. “That is very, very interesting.”
“May I ask where you got this?” Quinn folded the paper in its original creases.
“Wasburg was visited today. Unfortunately — or perhaps fortunately — he was not at home. His visitor was a little bored and decided to investigate the room. There is a most ingenious false bottom in Mijnheer Wasburg’s suitcase — an excellent piece of work. In it were several documents which my friend did not have time to photograph — he was thoughtfully warned that Wasburg was about to receive another visitor. And there was also a small sheet of paper which he saw first and traced. The arms of the eldest son and heir — hmmm — ”
“The last Duke of Sternsberg was the last male of the Sternlitz line in direct descent,” Quinn returned. “He was never married, and he had no son or heir — ”
“When did he die and where?”
Quinn shrugged. “There is no answer to either of those questions. He was an explorer, very much interested in mapping the old silk road across the Gobi. There is a rumor that he was killed by nomads somewhere in Inner Mongolia. At any rate he never came back to civilization.”
“So — he vanished into thin air in Inner Mongolia — and when did this event occur?”
“Sometime in the 1890s — that was all unknown territory then. He was in his late forties — I couldn’t tell without checking dates again. But he was unmarried when he disappeared.”
“Around sixty years ago, eh? He could have had a son and a grandson by now. Wasburg is Eurasian — ”
But Quinn had already thought of that. A new factor in the game. If the Sternlitz family still existed — even with an unknown heir—then what about the ownership of the Bishop’s Menie? He should pass this along to van Nor-reys at the first opportunity. Now he did have a good reason for forcing a meeting with Kane!
“We haven't asked you any questions, Anders,” Joris continued in his usual level tone, “but the time may be coming when each of us will have to show a few cards. I am now guessing that you have more than a historian's interest in the Sternlitz family and that more than a quest for dates and names brought you abroad. Do you know of anything which would make the Sternlitz clan of value to our friends in the northeast?”
“Yes.” Quinn went no further than that one bare word of assent.
&nb
sp; “I thought so when I heard they were willing to try murder,” Joris said almost to himself. “Before I give you any more assistance I am going to ask you one more thing — what are your credentials?”
Quinn tugged off his watch. He looked from it to the cafe clock.
“Running a little fast — ”
Maartens took it out of his hand. “Is that so? I have some knowledge of watches. Let me look — ” He opened the back of the case and gave the Roajact plate a single glance. Then it was closed and back in Quinn's hand almost in one motion.
“Any assistance we can render is yours,” the Netherlander said. “You are — ?”
“Roajact.”
“That word will be enough to use for identification if you need it. I shall ask you nothing more. But my service and yours have always worked together when it was necessary.”
“We need more information on Wasburg. If he is of the Sternlitz family it will have a great deal of bearing on my business here.”
“Before I came here I had asked for a more exact report on that one’s background. But there seems to be nothing we can uncover before the moment he disembarked at Rotterdam. To try to get behind the veil will take time. But I have something for you — ”
He delivered it by shaking hands on the threshold of the hotel. Quinn’s fingers curled around a small cold rod. Before he could ask, Joris explained.
“A souvenir of the past. Made by American ingenuity for the use of the underground. It can fire two shots but must be used at very short range. However it is easy to conceal and — within its limits — deadly. Goed Nacht,” he raised his voice slightly.
But he remained where he was until Quinn entered the building. And the American did not stop to inspect Maartens’ gift until he was in his room.
The weapon was not unfamiliar. Stark had told him of it. He was holding a slender tube, fashioned to resemble a fountain pen or pencil — it even possessed a pocket clip. But, Quinn knew, depress that clip just in the right manner and you had a gun. A small, and as Joris had pointed out, deadly weapon to be used at close quarters. And he would have it tonight when his watch touched 12:15!
10
ENTRANCE OF A FALSE KNIGHT
Quinn’s eyes had adjusted to the dark so that now he could pick out the larger pieces of furniture. He sat quietly on the bed, the samll rod which might mean safety clutched in damp fingers, his attention on the door which he had just unlocked. He was straining ears as well as eyes, but it was a long time before he caught that faint click. Then he gathered his feet under him — ready to spring if need be.
The door opened only far enough to allow a shadow to slide through.
“Anders?” the questioning whisper had no identity.
“Here. Who are you?”
For an instant a face was illumined, the invader must have turned his own flash on himself. Lawrence Kane stood there. Quinn relaxed and put the pen gun into his pocket.
“You’ve played it smart, Anders. It’s better that no one here knows we have any connection. But I must show you this — ”
Quinn heard a noise as if something metal had been put down on the small desk. Then again the beam of light flashed out to catch and hold on a figure.
A knight, helmeted, a battle ax half raised as if in desperate defense stood there.
“Another of the Menie!”
“No!” The answer was sharp. “It is only a copy!”
“What! But why — when — there is no record of any replicas of the Menie — ”
“It is of modern make — at least it was done within the past twenty years. Van Norreys has checked it thoroughly. It is a copy of one of the real pieces all right and made by an artist. And it is not a copy of the one we already have. Look here — ”
Kane's hand came into the line of light. He picked up the knight, turned it upside down and produced a jeweler's glass which he held over a point in the base.
Quinn leaned forward and looked. With the aid of the magnifying glass he could see what the other meant — a very tiny but perfect outline of a leaf.
“That is the signature of an artist van Norreys knows. The man was employed before the war by the House of Norreys both as a designer and to copy famous pieces of jewelry for their owners who wished to wear less precious replicas and keep the real thing in a safe. He has even copied crown jewels in his time. But this is his trademark, and while he was employed by the House he did not do it!”
“Where did this turn up?”
Kane laughed. “A collector sent it to Lorens. He wanted it checked — thought that some of the tiny gems in the shield seemed loose. When van Norreys tried to get its history out of him he became very, very evasive. And he shut his mouth altogether when Lorens proved to him it was a fake. Van Norreys couldn’t pressure him into spilling what he knows — though the boss is still working on him. And — ”
“But why a fake?”
“We think that this proves we’re on to a very slick game. Because if one of these has been made, why not five — ten more? It takes time to do such fine work, yes. But that would pay — even if it took several years. Suppose a certain number of collectors — or just wealthy individuals who want to sink money into a negotiable object — are approached quietly and offered a piece such as this for cash at a price considerably under what it might be worth on the open market if it were authentic. The story of the Sternsberg collection is known — it would be hard for anyone to prove ownership of the pieces if they were found. And this could be sold as a bit of secret war loot. Any number of plausible stories could be told to a buyer who didn't care to probe too deeply anyway. The collector gets a fake, and the seller gets good American cash all in an under-the-counter transaction which will be hard to trace and which the buyer can't protest about even if he discovers the truth later. It's an excellent way to do a little milking for the dollars our friends over the curtain want so badly!”
“But if this is a copy — then the copyist must have had the original to work from.”
“Right. So van Norreys is beginning to do a little detective work in the States to see if there have been others unloaded there. Our dealers in the rare and strange might have more than one that they are faking.”
“What about the man who made this?”
“The House of Norreys closed in 1940 when the old Jonkheer van Norreys foresaw the invasion of the Netherlands. He pensioned off most of his master workmen then. Lorens knew this man, he’s been trying to trace him. But the fellow lived in Rotterdam, and you know what happened in the bombing there. We can't find any trace of him at all. He was of mixed Dutch and Austrian descent — a master goldmsith and artist. His name was Wulfanger.”
“You're here on his trail?”
“That and other things.” Kane’s tone did not encourage further questions.
“As to the ownership of the Sternsberg treasure,” Quinn put in, “there might be a claimant for that after all.” In a few sentences he told of Wasburg and the hidden crest they had found.
Kane listened without interruption. “Since Wasburg does not appear to be the one thirsting for your blood, you might try to contact him. At least this Maartens may be able to turn up something on his back trail. If you do make contact or learn anything I want to know about it. By the way, as fellow Americans, it will appear odd if we continue to be totally oblivious of each other while staying in the same hotel. Tomorrow — or rather today — we’d better stage a casual meeting of some kind.”
Quinn nodded, then realizing that he could not be seen in the dark, said, “I’ll be at the mail desk at eight. You could bump into me there — ”
“Good. I’ll see you then — ”
He scooped up the false knight as the light snapped off. A moment later the door opened and closed. Quinn locked it, and in spite of the excitement of the night he went directly to sleep.
The next morning the meeting by the mail desk was carried out as planned. He traded a few inane remarks with Kane under the eye and ear of the
head porter. Then they separated as Quinn started off on his own to investigate the records of the Company of Archers.
But as he set out for that building he saw in the cafe across the street the thin dark face of Wasburg. And, driven by a sudden burst of impatience and a desire to bring matters to a head, Quinn turned in there, walked directly to Wasburg’s table and sat down before the other could move.
“I believe I have still to thank you — ” he began.
“The Mijnheer is mistaken. I have no knowledge of him.” The cool answer accused Quinn of impertinence.
“As you wish, Mijnheer — or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”
For the first time those drooping eyelids were raised, and Quinn found himself staring into a pair of remarkably blue and piercing eyes.
“Mijnheer is mistaken. I have no knowledge of him,” Wasburg repeated in the same emotionless tone. He drew out his wallet and selected a bill, glancing over his shoulder as if to summon the waiter. Quinn arose.
“Have it your own way. But you may be making a mistake, Wasburg. There are others in this game, and it might be well to join forces — ”
It seemed to Quinn that for a moment Wasburg hesitated, as if he were actually considering the idea. Then the Eurasian’s head moved in an almost imperceptible shake of negation.
“Mijnheer, there is in English a saying of the people, ‘He travels swiftly who goes alone’.”
Quinn lost patience. That cool voice made him feel about seven years old and a backward seven at that. He went. If Wasburg wanted to spend the day trailing him, he was welcome to the job. But he didn’t think that the Eurasian was going to learn very much.
The records of the Company of Archers were intriguing, and the Keeper of those records, an amateur antiquarian of some note, was very cordial when he had read Dokter Roos’ note of introduction. Quinn spent all the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon delving into old parchments and coming up with fat nuggets to be transferred to his notebook. He looked up rather dazedly, black lines of Latin still printing themselves before his strained eyes, when the Keeper came apologetically to the table where he was working.
