by Andre Norton
“Sure.” Quinn fought off the vast fatigue which made every movement of his body an almost impossible labor. “I’ll get it —”
He was a long time doing that. Or so it seemed. And it was so heavy — he had to use both hands to lower it to the ground before he half fell down beside it.
Wasburg huddled on the edge of the ditch, his eyes dark and wide. He stretched out a scratched bloody hand. And in it was an old, rust-pitted key.
“Open it!”
Quinn forced the key into the lock. Once there it refused to turn.
“Rusty —” he muttered.
But Wasburg paid no attention. “Open it — open it!”
Quinn braced the box between his knees and took both hands to fight the stubborn key. It might break off in the lock — the fool thing was stuck — Then it gave, complaining. But even after it made a complete turn the lid would not yield. Quinn pried with his pocket knife. It came up.
“Count — must be eleven — must be — !” Wasburg's burning eyes were more alive than his shred of voice.
Quinn pulled out a length of oiled silk, then a pad of woven stuff many times folded. Underneath were small compartments — thirteen. Two were empty — the other eleven contained small rolls of wool.
“Eleven —” Quinn counted them while the Eurasian watched avidly.
“See — right ones —” he begged.
Quinn's fingers, black with grime, picked at the wool. Another and another. He set out the figures on the silk while Wasburg brooded over them. Eight — nine — ten — eleven.
The sun touched the silk, brought to radiant life the army standing on it.
“Behold —” Wasburg's voice had steadied and gathered volume. His face was alive, too, a sort of fierce exultation breaking the mask he had worn. “Behold the luck of Sternlitz — behold — the Bishop's Menie!”
18
AT SWORDS POINTS
Quinn lay flat — softness under his aching bones — watching a complex pattern of light and shadow flicker on the ceiling. At first awakening he had simply enjoyed the sensation of being warm and dry, drowsy and fed. Then he began to be plagued by the thought that he was lazing there when important things waited to be done.
He swept his hands over the cool sheets, frowned at the light patterns, and remembered. There was a snatch of recollection which had to do with a farmhouse and food and dry clothing. And he had certainly been in a car on a country road. But the rest was gone —
Before the house or the car there had been something else — Sunlight shining on a row of small men. The Bishop's Menie!
As if that had activated his physical machinery Quinn sat up in bed.
They had found the Bishop's Menie! He had held the pieces in his hands. That had been no dream!
And now — he looked around the room. He knew those walls and the chair by the window. He was back in his hotel in Maastricht.
And someone occupied the chair, head in the angle between arm and back, feet resting on an upended suitcase. Quinn put his legs out of bed and stretched. It must be almost mid-morning —
“So you've come to?”
Kane sat up, groaned and rubbed his shoulder, ran his hand across a chin which bore more than one day's growth of red stubble.
“How did we get back here?” Quinn reached for his robe.
“By car — over the border. Can't you remember?”
“Not much —”
“You did an excellent job of sleep-walking then. Whew!” He had glanced at his watch. “We got in here at eight last night. It's now nine in the morning. Which makes a good spell of bunk drill for us.”
“I'd like to do some catching up on past events,” Quinn mumbled through toothpaste. “What happened to Quong?”
“He investigated one of the booby traps. We let the authorities deal with the result. Loo was kaput too. But they collected Kammer and the chap who stood sentry at the tower gate. Only — officially they're smugglers. And we won't be called upon to testify against them. At this point it is better not to admit openly when you remove some of the enemy — silence is so much more confusing to their home base. And,” there was a cold note in Kane's habitual lightness, “a spot of confusion — all spots of confusion — which anyone can cause at that home base right now are to the good as far as we are concerned.
“Quong was a big man in that service. He will vanish for a time without a trace — because I don't believe that he told even his nearest companions where he was going or why — that is his usual procedure. So he slipped out of sight. Now there will begin to spread some nasty rumors. ‘Did you hear, comrade, that dear Quong was not altogether pleased with his paymasters? That he was dissatisfied when he left on his secret mission?’ Those are the words which will trickle into the right ears.
“ ‘Perhaps Quong has made a deal with the enemy.’ And Quong knows or did know too much. So Quong's paymasters begin to sweat because they never trust each other. And they will set in motion their own intelligence-gathering lines. Maybe they will hear of a mysterious passenger carried to the United States on an army bomber — a passenger held incommunicado. And they will sweat even more —”
“But how can you keep his death quiet entirely?”
“Eventually, of course, someone will report that so-dear Quong is now underground. But by that time the rumors will seem more believable than the truth. Haven't you heard all the tales of Hitler's escape? And I don't think anyone could possibly identify the body we found yesterday. No, Quong dead may serve us better than he ever served his masters when alive.”
“What happened to Wasburg and the Menie?”
“Wasburg is under Maartens’ wing. He had a slug dug out of his shoulder, and he probably spent the past hours in bed with the Menie under his pillow. Yesterday he was in no condition to answer questions, but we have hopes of learning a little today. Now,” Kane scratched at the stubble on his jaw again, “I shall withdraw to make myself beautiful. But I want a promise from you first, m'lad. You are going to stay put right here until I come for you. We don't know who Quong set loose in this town when he left. And the local boys who accounted for your brother must have some contact with his team. I have a fancy to keep you in one piece — at least until we finish this caper —”
“But I thought it was all over —”
“We may have found the Menie and accounted for Quong, but we still have Wasburg to deal with. So you stay — understand?”
It had the ring of an order, but Quinn did not resent it. Instead he nodded assent. And Kane went out.
Quinn dressed slowly, enjoying the feel of clean clothing. And he was still knotting his tie when the man from Norreys came back. But, in place of the lank scarecrow who had left, there returned an alert person in well-tailored tweeds and a snap-brimmed hat.
“Ready — ? We'll go on to Maartens’ —”
They went not to a hotel but a tall old house. And they climbed two flights of narrow stairs to a big room with french doors wide open on a balcony. Wasburg sat up in bed, a mountain of pillows behind him. And Joris opened the door to them.
Within reach of Wasburg's hand rested the chest. He watched the Americans enter almost warily, Quinn thought. Why — that had been Oliver's way back home when he had a treasure under one paw and suspected that Dad was about to interfere in his cat concerns!
“What are you going to do with me?” The question was shot at Kane.
But Kane seated himself without haste, skimming his hat onto a nearby table.
“Do with you? You're not a prisoner, Wasburg.”
“Am I not? You have brought me back across the border, not to my own rooms, but to this place where Mijnheer Maartens is to be obeyed. I do not think that I may walk out of here at my own choosing —”
“You are entirely wrong, Mijnheer,” Joris answered that. “Whenever you wish you may walk out of here and no one will stop you.”
“But not, I fancy, if I try to take this.” He drew the chest closer.
“Th
e ownership of that has yet to be proved. It belongs to the Sternlitz family. And who is the present Sternlitz heir?” Kane turned to Quinn.
“There is none that I know of. Unless it might be the Freule Matilda.”
Wasburg leaned forward, out of the hollow of his pillows.
“Please, Mijnheer Anders, who is the Freule Matilda?”
“The Freule van t'Oosternberg. Her mother was a relative of the last Duke. She lives near here in the Chateau des Dames.”
“The Freule van t'Oosternberg,” repeated Wasburg. “I might be allowed to speak with her? That is of the utmost importance, Mijnheer!”
“I think that it is of the utmost importance right now, Mijnheer Wasburg, to know who you are and why you believe that you have a claim to the Bishop's Menie,” Kane cut in.
Wasburg sank back into the pillows. In the bright sunlight his ivory skin was nearly the same shade as the linen behind him. His mouth was bracketed with lines of pain and weariness. And the mask was back in place, the heavy eyelids effectively veiled against those alive and burning eyes.
“Which moves me to ask in my turn, Mijnheer, just who you are and why you have this uncommon interest in my affairs. Mijnheer Maartens has been most discreet and has held his tongue. But I will venture to say that you do not have official standing —”
That last might have been more question than statement in Quinn's judgment.
Joris seated himself on a straight-backed chair as if he were riding horseback.
“We have little time to waste.” He might have been bringing an unruly classroom into order. “Kane represents one branch of an organization very much interested in the occupations of the service which employed the late Quong. I am remotely connected with another of the same type. We were drawn into this affair — not exactly as treasure hunters — that part of it was Anders’ by inheritance; his brother's death brought him overseas to finish the job Capt. Anders had begun — no, we came in because we have the greatest desire to defeat all and any games which your late companions engage in. Do I make myself clear, Mijnheer?”
“You do.” But Wasburg was staring down at his own hands. And for the first time Quinn saw the massive gold band on the middle finger of his right hand. The American was positive that that ring had not been there two days ago. Almost as if his own thoughts had been directed to it Wasburg began to turn it around and around his finger.
“You are frank,” he said slowly, “and after yesterday I believe that you speak the truth. Surely you did all you could to remove from the world one who had too long befouled it. First — as to who I am — well, since my father is dead, I am now Frederick Floris Pieter Sternlitz of Sternsberg, a duchy which does not exist. I am the grandson of Ludwig Carlos, who was the last Duke, by his marriage with the Lady Mei, a Manchu of the old Imperial House.
“When the Russians overran Manchuria my father and I were in the hills of the Gobi country. We tried twice to escape to the coast but were cut off both times. Last year we decided to make another attempt through Tibet and the Assam passes. They wanted my father because of his blood — he had influence over certain tribes which for centuries have held allegiance to his mother's clan. Also the Russians had not overlooked his European heritage either. They seldom —”
“Overlook anything,” Kane finished for him. “Yes, we are learning that, slow but sure —”
“We were caught before we reached Assam,” Wasburg continued in his expressionless voice. “For three months we were under house arrest — with no hint of violence. Then one day that one came. He brought with him one of the knights to show to my father. I knew of the Menie — but to me it meant very little. The secret of its hiding place I had learned as a young boy — more because it was a tradition of my father's house than because it would lead me to this —” The hand bearing the ring moved across the lid of the chest.
“That one told us that two of these knights had been found. He wanted the other eleven. And not because of their value either — I do not altogether understand why —
“That is what brought us in,” answered Kane. And in a few swift sentences he sketched the plan for counterfeiting the Menie and reselling the false knights again and again.
“Ingenious,” commented Wasburg. “Yes, now I can see why these would be worth more to that one than their mere value as a historic collection.
“When my father would not immediately reveal to him the hiding place we were separated. It was — the next morning —” For the first time his voice caught. Quinn remembered the taunt Quong had flung at this man in the treasure chamber.
“It was the next morning,” the Eurasian had his voice under control again, “that I was offered a chance for my father's life. I was to come here, to locate the treasure, and with it I could buy my father's life. To me the treasure was worth far less than his safety — you can understand that, I think?”
“We do,” Joris answered for them. “But why did you trust them?”
Wasburg laughed bitterly. “I did not. But what could I do? If I obeyed there was a faint chance that they might keep their end of the bargain. My father's influence among the tribes would be worth much to them. They might not kill him if I were their willing tool. So I was furnished with papers and sent on a roundabout route to Rotterdam. There I was told that another was after the treasure. I was given orders to find out what I could about him. So I was put on your trail in Dordrecht,” he said to Quinn. “The rest you know — you have witnessed most of it.”
“You have proof that you are Sternlitz?” Kane was regarding the smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette he had just lighted as if he could read a fortune in it.
“I have papers I have brought with me. I have this — the Duke's signet —” He displayed the ring. “I have enough — they wanted no dispute about my ownership after I found it.”
Kane's frown cleared. “Neither do we. What are you going to do now?”
The last Sternlitz shook his head. “That I do not know. I shall not return to the East. I am western educated by my father's wishes. And so I was a misfit in the tribal life. I do not know in what way I can earn my bread —”
“The collection is not complete —” Kane switched off on another track without any reason Quinn could see.
“No. Because of the old superstition that the Sternlitz land must be guarded by the Menie, two of the pieces were concealed in the foundation of the hunting lodge. Fortunatley they were the least valuable of the collection. They are the missing pieces —”
“One is in America,” Quinn broke in. “My brother sent it there. That leaves only one unaccounted for.”
“The one which was counterfeited,” Kane agreed. “And that one might just be located also. There is the still unsolved mystery of Tubac —”
Joris nodded. “I find the matter of Tubac now of the highest importance —”
“Sure. Top priority! We'll get on it. I take it that the collection is now your only asset?” he asked Wasburg.
“It is.”
“Van Norreys will be able to find a buyer for you if you want to sell. Maybe we can clear it for you to see him in person. We'll see.”
“About Tubac,” said Quinn. So the adventure wasn't over. He didn't know whether that idea was pleasing or not. When he thought of tramping on in Stark's boots a vast fatigue weighed him down.
“Tubac is another affair,” answered Joris, almost, thought Quinn, as if he were patiently explaining something to a child.
And he could translate that, too. “Tubac is none of your affair,” is what the Netherlander really meant. Well, he didn't blame them for that decision. They could have ended it all neatly in the treasure chamber if he hadn't made a mess of it.
It was time to accept what he had really known all the time. Stark's heroics were not for him. He waited for the old sensation of frustration and shame to rise. But now he didn't feel anything at all except an overwhelming weariness.
“If it works out we may be able to recover the other piec
e,” Kane was continuing, smoke curling from his nostrils as if he were the Freule's dragon brooch come to life. “We may have to do a bit of traveling —”
Quinn was sure then that some unspoken message passed between the tall American and Joris. But he had no resentment.
“Now, Sternlitz,” Kane got to his feet. “You're free to go if you wish. On the other hand you can help us with information, and we may be able to help you. It's up to you —”
For the first time the man in the bed smiled. And that smile broke the alien shadow of the East which had been across his face. Now he was one with them.
“I believe, Mijnheeren, that I am now in good hands. It is my intention to trust you. What I know is at your service. There is only one thing which I ask of you — a meeting with this lady of my house — this Freule van t'Oosternberg.”
“We'll leave that to Anders to arrange. I believe she suggested a return engagement, didn't she, fella?”
Quinn roused himself to nod.
But three days passed before he was able to escort the sling-equipped Sternlitz into a taxi and drive for a second time to the Chateau des Dames. Again he followed a liveried footman through the long corridors to the dim room where sunlight fought hard to enter.
“May I present, my lady,” the formal words came easily in that room, “Frederick Floris Pierter Sternlitz of Sternsberg —”
Sternlitz bowed with more grace and ease than any trans-Atlantic man could ever show.
“So — the last piece of the picture! Well, come here, young man — come here!” The imperious voice brought Sternlitz into the light by her table of scraps.
“A new piece, too. There is a little of the Sternlitz in you—”
“I regret —” began the Eurasian.
“Nonsense! The Sternlitz blood was running thin. It needed a transfusion! You are entirely presentable, kinsman —” One of the ivory hands which had been toying with magnifying glass and penknife was suddenly thrust at him.
Sternlitz touched his lips to the knuckles.
“Well-mannered, too,” she commented. “And you — jongeling — so the adventure is over?”
