Too Many Magicians

by Randall Garrett

  “I could have forced the information from him but he was acting in good faith and he had enough troubles as it is. I felt that you could give me all the information he has and a great deal more besides. We met My Lord Commander downstairs, but doubtless he, too, is under orders, so, as with Goodman Lewie, it would not be worth my time to pry the information out of him when I can get it from you.

  “This much we know: Goodman Paul Nichols, the night manager, failed to show up for work at midnight last night. This, apparently, is important; and yet, your agents were asking questions about him some nine hours before. What we want to know is why. I shall not ask you why we were not given this information this morning; I shall merely ask that we be given it now.”

  Captain Smollett was silent for the space of several seconds, his cold gray eyes looking with unblinking directness into Darcy’s own. “Um,” he said finally, “I suppose I deserve that. Should have mentioned it this morning. I admit it. Thing is, it just isn’t in your jurisdiction—that is, normally it wouldn’t be. We have men looking everywhere for Nichols, but he hasn’t done a thing we can prove.”

  “What do you think he’s done?”

  “Stolen something,” said Captain Smollett. “Trouble is, we can’t prove the thing we think he’s stolen ever existed. And if it did exist, we’re not certain of its value.”

  “Very mysterious,” said Lord Bontriomphe. “At least, to me. Does this have a beginning somewhere?”

  “Hm-m-m. Beg your pardon. Don’t mean to sound mysterious. Here, will you be seated? Brandy on the table over there. Pour them some brandy, Commander. Make yourselves comfortable. It’s a rather longish story.”

  He sat down behind his desk, reached out toward a pile of file folders, and took an envelope out of the top one.

  “Here’s the picture: Zwinge was a busy man. Had a great many things to keep an eye on. Being Chief Forensic Sorcerer for the City of London would be a full-time job for an ordinary man.” He looked at Lord Bontriomphe. “Be frank, m’lud. Did you ever suspect that he was working for the Naval Intelligence Corps?”

  “Never,” Bontriomphe admitted, “though Heaven knows he worked hard enough. He was always busy, and he was one of those men who think that anything more than five hours sleep a night is an indication of sloth. Tell me, Captain, did My Lord Marquis know?”

  “He was never told,” said Captain Smollett. “Zwinge did say that he suspected that My Lord de London was aware of his Navy work, but if so he never mentioned it.”

  “He wouldn’t.” said Lord Bontriomphe.

  “No, of course not. At any rate, Zwinge had a great many irons in the fire. More things going on in Europe than just this one affair, I can assure you. Nonetheless, he felt it necessary to go to this Healers and Sorcerers Convention. Look odd if he didn’t, he said, what with his being right here in London and all. But of course he kept right on working, even there.”

  “That is undoubtedly why he put the special spell on the lock of his hotel room,” said Lord Darcy.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Captain Smollett. “At any rate, yesterday morning he sent this letter to me by messenger from the hotel.” He handed the envelope to Lord Darcy. “You’ll notice it is stamped 7:45 A.M.”

  Lord Darcy looked at the outside of the envelope. It was addressed to Captain Percy Smollett and was marked “Personal.” Darcy opened it and took out the single sheet of paper. “This is in code,” said Lord Darcy.

  “Of course,” said Captain Smollett. He took another sheet from the file and handed it over. “Here is the clear,” he said. Lord Darcy read the message aloud:

  “ ‘Sir: I have a special packet for you containing information of the utmost importance which I have just received. It is impossible for me to leave the hotel at this time, and I do not wish to entrust this information to a common messenger. Accordingly, I have given the envelope with my seal upon it to the hotel manager, Goodman Paul Nichols. He has placed it in the hotel safe and has been instructed to hand it over to your courier.’ ”

  The note was signed with the single letter “Z.”

  Lord Darcy handed the papers back to the captain. “I see, Captain. Pray continue.”

  “As I said, the message arrived at 7:45. It was placed on my desk with the rest of my morning mail. Now—I didn’t arrive here at the office until a few minutes before ten. Hadn’t had time to even glance at my mail when Commander Ashley came in, bringing the news from Cherbourg that Barbour had been murdered—which was bad enough—and the further intelligence that Master Sir James had been stabbed to death only half an hour before. Since you already know of the importance we’ve attached to this affair, you’ll understand that for the next few hours I was a very busy man. Didn’t have a chance to look at my mail until well after two o’clock. When I decoded the letter, I sent Ashley, here, over to fetch the packet.” He looked at the Commander. “You’d better take it from there, Commander. I’m sure Lord Darcy prefers to get his facts as directly as possible.”

  “Aye, sir.” He turned to face Lord Darcy. “I went directly to the hotel and asked to see Goodman Lewie, and told him that Sir James had left an envelope addressed to Captain Smollett in the safe, to be delivered to the Navy.

  “He said he knew nothing of it, and I told him that it had been left with Goodman Paul.

  “He informed me that Goodman Paul had made no mention of it when he went off duty at nine, but he agreed to open the safe and get the envelope out.

  “I was standing by him when he opened the safe. It’s a small one and there wasn’t much inside it. Certainly there was no envelope addressed to Captain Smollett, nor any sign that there had ever been one. Bolmer swore that he had not opened the safe that morning, and both of the desk clerks substantiated that. Bolmer and his two assistant managers are the only ones who know the combination, and the security spell only allows the assistant managers to open the safe during the time they are on duty, that is, from three P.M. till midnight for the afternoon manager and from midnight to nine A.M. for the night manager.”

  Lord Darcy nodded. “That does rather narrow it down to Goodman Paul. Only he could have removed that packet from the safe.”

  “My thought exactly,” said Commander Lord Ashley. “Naturally, I insisted upon speaking to Paul Nichols immediately, and asked for his home address. It turns out that he lived there in the hotel; he has a room up on the top floor. Bolmer took me up and I knocked on Nichols’ door, got no answer, and Bolmer let us in with a pass key. Nichols wasn’t in. His bed was made and certainly didn’t look as though it had been slept in. Bolmer said that was odd because usually Nichols goes out to have a bite to eat after he gets off work, then comes back to the hotel and sleeps until around six o’clock.”

  “Did you find out whether Nichols took advantage of the hotel’s maid service?” Lord Darcy asked.

  The Commander nodded. “He did. Nichols quite often went out of an evening, and the maid had orders to make up his room between 7:30 and 8:30. I looked the room over and checked through his things. He didn’t seem to have packed anything. His suitcase, empty, was in the closet, and Bolmer said that as far as he knew it was the only suitcase Nichols owned.”

  “That’s the advantage of being a counterspy,” said Lord Bontriomphe with a sigh. “If an officer of the King’s Peace tried searching a man’s room without a warrant he’d find himself in the Court of the King’s Bench trying to explain to My Lord Justice how he had come to make such a mistake.”

  “Well, I didn’t really search the place,” Ashley said. “I was just taking a look around.”

  “So,” said Lord Darcy, “you found that Nichols was not there and apparently had not been to bed since the bed was made on the previous evening.”

  “Right. I questioned some of the hotel servants. No one had seen him come back from his breakfast—or perhaps for him it was supper—so I instructed Bolmer to say nothing but to let us know as soon as Nichols returned. Then I came back here and reported to Captain Smollett.�
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  Lord Darcy nodded and looked back at the captain.

  “Been looking for him ever since. Sent men over to the hotel, to wait for him to come to work at midnight; he didn’t show up. Still no sign of him. Not a trace.”

  “You suspect then,” said Lord Darcy, “that the disappearance of the packet and the disappearance of Nichols are linked. I agree with you. The contents of that envelope would have been in code, would they not, Captain?”

  “Yes indeed. And not the simple code used for that note, either. Furthermore, Zwinge always used ink and paper with a special spell on it. If an unauthorized person broke the seal, the writing would vanish before he could get the paper out of the envelope.”

  “Obviously, then, Nichols did not remove it from the safe, read it over, and decide that it was valuable on the spur of the moment.”

  “Obviously not,” agreed Captain Smollett. “Furthermore, Zwinge was no fool. Wouldn’t have given it to Nichols unless he trusted him. Also, since the envelope had that protective spell on it, the only way to read the contents would be to get it to a magician who is clever enough and powerful enough to analyze and nullify Master Sir James Zwinge’s spell.”

  “Do you have any idea what sort of information might have been in that envelope, Captain Smollett?” Lord Darcy asked.

  “None. None whatsoever. Can’t have been terribly urgent—that is, not requiring immediate action—or Zwinge would have brought it here himself, in spite of everything. But it was certainly important enough to drive King Casimir’s agents to murder to get it.”

  “How do you think this ties in with the murder of Barbour, then? And with the Navy’s new secret weapon?”

  The captain scowled and puffed at his pipe for a few seconds. “Now there we’re on shaky ground. Obviously it was discovered that Barbour was a double agent; otherwise he wouldn’t have been killed.”

  “I agree with you there,” said Lord Darcy.

  “Very well. But that leaves us several possible speculations about FitzJean and about the Poles’ knowledge of the confusion projector.

  “If, as we hope, they know nothing of the devise, then they knew nothing about FitzJean except the purely mendacious material which Barbour had passed on to them. When they discovered he was a double agent, they simply killed him and ignored FitzJean. Information on fleet disposition isn’t worth taking any great pains over.

  “However, I am afraid that we would be unrealistically optimistic to put any faith in the notion that the Polish Government is entirely unaware of the existence of the confusion projector.

  “Much more likely, they are sparing no effort to find out what it is and how it works—which would still indicate that they know nothing whatever about FitzJean. If they did, they would certainly not have killed Barbour until they could get their hands on FitzJean—which, of course, they may have done. Or again they may already have the secret and not give two hoots in Hell about FitzJean.

  “And finally, there is the possibility that FitzJean was himself a Polish agent sent in to test Barbour. When they discovered that Barbour’s output to them differed drastically from what they knew the input to be, his death warrant was sealed.”

  Captain Smollett spread his hands. “But these are mere speculations; they tell us nothing. Important thing right now’s to get our hands on Paul Nichols. Would have given you this before, but, as I said, there’s actually nothing we can hold Nichols on. Can’t prove that envelope ever existed, much less that he stole it. So how could we turn the matter over to Officers of the King’s Justice?”

  “My dear Captain, you should study something besides Admiralty law. Fleeing the scene of a crime is always enough evidence to warrant asking for a man’s arrest and detention for questioning. Now the first question any investigator asks himself is: Where would the suspect go? To the Polish Embassy?”

  Smollett shook his head. “No. There’s a twenty-four hour watch on everyone entering or leaving the Polish Embassy.”

  “Exactly. I know that. So do the Poles. But the local headquarters for this Polish espionage ring is somewhere in the City. Where?”

  “Wish I knew,” said the captain. “Give half a year’s pay for that information. We have reason to believe that there are at least three separate rings operating here in London, each unknown to the others, or at least known only to a select few. We know some of the agents, of course. We keep an eye on ‘em; I’ve had my men watching every known agent in London for the past eighteen hours. So far, no news. But what we do not know is where any of their headquarters might be. Hate to admit it, but it’s true. We have no hint, no suggestion, no clue of any kind.”

  “Then the only way to find Nichols,” Lord Darcy said, “is to comb London for him. And that requires legwork. While your men are searching for him covertly, Lord Bontriomphe and the Armsmen of London can be looking for him for questioning on the charge of fleeing the scene of a crime.”

  Bontriomphe nodded. “We can have a net out for him within an hour. If we find anything, Captain, I’ll let you know immediately.”

  “Very good, m’lud.”

  “I’d better get started on it,” Bontriomphe said, getting to his feet. “The quicker the better. If you need to contact me for any reason, Captain, send word to the Royal Steward. We have set up our headquarters there; there will be a Sergeant-at-Arms on duty at all times, and I shall be checking in there regularly.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, m’lud.”

  “I shall see you later, gentlemen. Good day.” Lord Bontriomphe walked out the door as if he were pleased at the prospect of finally having something he could sink his teeth into.

  “As for me, Captain,” said Lord Darcy, “I should like to ask your indulgence in what I know may be a touchy matter.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I should like to have a look at your secret files, most especially at the letters from Barbour concerning FitzJean and the confusion projector.”

  “M’lud,” said Captain Smollett with a wintery smile, “any Intelligence organization is justly jealous of its secret files and our Corps is no exception. Until now, these files have been classified Most Secret. Barbour’s existence as a double agent was known only to the high echelons of the Admiralty. But you’ve taken me to task once for withholding information. Won’t happen again. I shall have the pertinent files brought in so that both you and Commander Ashley can study them. And may I ask your indulgence?”

  “Certainly, Captain, what is it?”

  “With your permission, I’d like to make Commander Lord Ashley the liaison officer between the civilian investigators and the Navy. To be more specific, between you and me. He knows the Navy, he knows Intelligence work, and he knows something about criminal investigation. He was in the Naval C.I.D. before he was transferred to this Corps. His orders will be to assist you in every possible way. You agree, m’lud?”

  “Of course, Captain. A splendid idea.”

  “Very well, Commander; those are your orders then.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” He smiled at Lord Darcy. “I’ll keep out from underfoot as much as possible, my lord.”

  “That’s settled, then,” said Captain Smollett, getting to his feet. “Now I’ll go get those files.”

  * * * *

  Master Sean O Lochlainn stood near the closed door of the murder room and surveyed its entire contents. Then he turned to Journeyman Sorcerer Lord John Quetzal who stood next to him. “Now, d’ye understand what we have to be careful of? We are not yet ready to take the preservative spell off the body, so we have to be careful that none of the spells that we’re working with inside the room interfere with it. D’ye understand?”

  Lord John Quetzal nodded. “Yes, Master, I think I do.”

  Master Sean smiled at him. “I think you do, too, my lad. You followed through on the blood tests beautifully.” He paused. “By the by, d’ye think you could do them by yourself next time, should you happen to be called upon to perform them?”

  Lo
rd John Quetzal glanced sideways at the little sorcerer. “The blood tests? Yes, Master Sorcerer, I think I could,” he said firmly.

  “Ah, good.” Master Sean nodded with satisfaction. “But”—he raised a warning finger—“this next one’s a little tougher.

  “We’re dealing here with psychic shock. Now, whenever a man’s hurt, or when he dies, there’s psychic shock—unless, of course, he just fades away in his sleep or something like that.

  “But here we’re talking about violence.”

  “I understand,” said Lord John Quetzal.

  “All right. Now, you’re going to be my thurifer. The ingredients are laid out on the table. Now I’ll ask you to prepare the thurible, seeing as how it’s you that’s got to use it.”

  “Very well, Master,” said the young Mechicain nobleman, with the tiniest trace of uneasiness in his voice.

  On the table near the door sat the instrument which Master Sean had taken from his symbol-decorated carpetbag. It was a brazen pot with a perforated brazen cap, which, when assembled, would swing from the end of a clutch of chains some three feet long. Now, it was open, on the table.

  Lord John Quetzal took several tools from his own carpetbag. Under the watchful eye and sharp ear of Master Sean O Lochlainn, the young sorcerer prepared the contents of the thurible.

  After placing the brazen pot on an iron tripod, he fired up several lumps of charcoal in the bottom of it. Then, from the row of jars and bottles which had been lined up on the table, he took various ingredients and put them into his special golden mixing bowl, using a small golden spoon. With his own pencil-sized golden wand, he cast a spell over each ingredient as he added it, stirring it into the mixture.

  There was frankincense and sweet balsam, samonyl and fenogreek, turmeric and taelesin, sandalwood and cedarwood, and four other lesser known but even more powerful ingredients—added in a precise order, each with its unique and individual spell.

  And when he had finished the mixing, and cast the final spell, the journeyman sorcerer lifted his head and turned his dark eyes to the tubby little Master.