by Andre Norton
The English of that greeting was without accent or color—so neutral as to be foreign because of its very neutrality. He beckoned them in.
Quinn's feet were soundless on a thick dull plum carpet. Here the walls were washed by an odd shade of green, the indirect lighting brighter. Desk, chairs, divan, all in the ultra-modem style, were made of some silver—almost colorless—wood. And on the wall behind the desk hung a single picture, a stark winter scene in which snow drifted across unmistakable ruins of a modern city, and a dead and brittle tree, blackened and twisted occupied one corner. It was an uncomfortable painting, as cold and frightening as that perfect functional room and the man who owned it.
“No trouble?" The question was asked in Dutch of Johan.
The waiter shook his head.
"Excellent. My compliments to the Jonkvrouw."
Johan ducked his head in what might have been a half-salute and left. When the door closed behind him Quinn saw not the glass of the outer panel but a smooth surface which fitted without betraying mark into the wall. He was sealed into this space with his new host.
"Won't you be seated?"
Quinn perforce took the chair the other indicated and found it surprisingly comfortable for all its angular shape.
"Introductions are in order." His host had seated himself behind the desk. Now he put his finger tips together in a gesture which was an exaggerated copy of one which might be employed by a college professor interviewing a prospective student. "You may address me as van t'Zelfde-"
" ‘Of ditto." To conceal his unease Quinn translated. "And of what may you be the ditto, Mijnheer?"
The other laughed. "Of a great many things—and persons, my friend. It all depends upon the one who is making the comparison and whether he may be ranked among my friends or my enemies. And you are Quinn Anders."
"I was Quinn Anders. But I was told an hour or so ago that that name is now a liability instead of an asset.”
Mijnheer van t'Zelfde pursed his lips and shook his head. "The layman does not always understand the finer points of my profession. For the highest of any art the knowledge and touch of a master is required. This matter of identities now—it is a tricky business. But I have practiced it for more years than you have been on this planet. No—our friends were very right to put you in my hands. But, I beg of you, do not accept their solution of your problem as the only one possible or even as the best one.
"You are Quinn Anders, an American student, here to prepare for publication a historical work aheady known to scholars of this country—among others. It is your intention to visit the territory which furnishes the geographical background of that work. An excellent and commendable project. I can find no way to better it—none at all!"
"In the mean time," Quinn pointed out, "I am also supposed to be a currency smuggler in whom the police are interested and I may be questioned concerning the death of-"
"The Doppelganger?" Mijnheer van t'Zelfde showed his teeth in a sudden smile. It was not a pleasant one and the emotion which produced it could not have been one of innocent enjoyment. "Oh, no. The Doppelganger was not a person of great importance. No one will greatly care what became of him. Now attend, my young friend, this is of greatest value to you—"
He dropped his almost bantering tone and was all business.
"You have been the victim of an imposture—one of which you are still ignorant. The Quinn Anders who registered at the de Witt was not you. You came to Dordrecht with other plans in mind. You have been elsewhere these past few days. Do not interrupt me, I beg of you!" His hand went up as Quinn started a question. "You will be provided with all the necessary and proper—er—memories of these days—"
"I remember—you sell memories—" Quinn could not help that.
"Ah, yes, the vulgar speak of me so, I believe. You will listen, please, without further comment. Time is pressing us now.
"When you arrived in Dordrecht your luggage was stolen at the station. There is a witness to this—and a formal complaint is on file at police headquarters. You have been visiting friends on a yacht—a yacht which sails this morning to s'Hertogenbosch—with you on board. Every minute of the time since your arrival can be accounted for by witnesses—witnesses of unimpeachable respectability. You are an innocent victim of an unpleasant impersonation—all of this can be proved. It is essential that you fit these facts in your mind and remember nothing else.
"From s'Hertogenbosch your host shall provide transportation to Maastricht, leave that to him.
"Now in Maastricht," he consulted a small address book he took from his pocket, "you will pay a call upon Dokter Gerhardt Roos. He is hving in retirement but—"
"I know the Dokter somewhat. My father corresponded with him," Quinn broke in. He was having to rearrange ideas in a hurry. Those dry and dullish letters he had read —he could not link them in his mind with a man who would know Mijnheer van t'Zelfde.
"Excellent—perfect! You can now perceive why it is best for you to remain Quinn Anders. There is a cover readymade for your activities!"
"Now," Quinn said firmly, "I have no idea how you have been able to manage all this. But they say that you sell memories. What is the price you are going to put on your services?"
Again he was answered first by that not very humorous smile.
"You have a business sense—most encouraging. I find dealing with practical men a pleasure. So many people are apt to forget the realistic side of this work. I appreciate your readiness in this matter, Mijnheer. You should be witness to some of my problems—sometimes I find them almost, only almost, you understand, impossible to handle. But this is not an affair of cash, Mijnheer Anders. This is something else."
He leaned forward, one eye bright, one eye veiled, his face queerly out of joint—a half-and-half thing. Quinn knew that he was facing a dangerous man—a man not bound by any code of the civilized world, who made his own laws.
"There are ramifications to this little affair of yours, Mijnheer, which I—and the organization with which I am affiliated from time to time—find disturbing. We are not always operating within the law—who can do so nowadays when the law has become a maze of many tangles? On the other hand we have our own rules. And there are some influences—radiating from the east—which we do not consider healthy. Consequently we do our best to annoy and hinder when and where we can. During the war we had an organization which the benefits of peace did not allow to languish. You came to us well recommended. When we investigated you we discovered that you are, in this affair, arrayed on our side. Therefore we give you the service free as to one of our own. We have a system of give and take—it has worked very well—"
"Then what do I give?"
"You—Mijnheer Anders—are going to be bait!"
So that was it!
"The bleating kid to attract the tiger." Something he had once read swam to the fore of his mind.
"Ah, but you are not the helpless kid—say rather that you are a panther's cub wearing the kid's skin—a very different thing!"
"And was Stark bait too?" Quinn asked slowly.
"Captain Stark Anders," returned the Man Who Sells Memories, "found tracks leading away from a kill. Unfortunately he did not attempt to contact help until too late. It was his death which aroused the suspicions of our organization."
Quinn found himself believing that.
"I do not think, Mijnheer Anders, that you have ventured this far without some forewarnings that this course may lead you into trouble. They have now involved you with the police, so you must take to cover from the law-become a hare to two sets of hounds. Am I not right? And what I tell you now is the absolute truth. These you would trace are expert in dealing within the shadows. Your only chance is to make them think you a naive boy, without proper fear—overconfident. Make them treat you with contempt so they will reveal themselves because they do not fear any counterattack from you—"
"What if I do not choose to act as bait?"
Mijnheer van t'Zelfde's expression d
id not change.
"They call you the Man Who Sells Memories," Quinn persisted. "I take it that that means you sell false identities, papers, passports—?"
"This is the truth. I can send you out of here with a new identity. But those who sent the Doppelganger will not be deceived by anything as flimsy and as easy to obtain as a set of false papers. Even if I used the highest—and most expensive—of my skills and provided you with a new face as well, I could not promise that the hounds would not be in cry. Your own identity of an American student is best for you, believe me. Remember, and be warned, my young friend. You shall doubtless meet with these enemies again—whether you will or no. However, one who comes to us through the channels you have taken will not be likely to turn aside from the game—in spite of the difficulties I have just outlined."
Quinn was irritated by the other's serene confidence. He was so sure, this Mr. Of Ditto, that matters were going to go his way. They were all so sure of the rightness of their plans, van Norreys, the Jonkvrouw, and now this dealer in identities. He felt helpless as if he were a puppet they were jerking about among them at their whim. And yet now he did not see any other way out of his present difficulties but to do just as Mijnheer van t'Zelfde suggested. To act the part would demand audacity from him—it would also be an adventure such as Stark would have chosen. And that was a challenge he yearned to meet.
"You win."
Van t’Zelfde became briskly businesslike again. He consulted a watch, frowned, and pressed one of the studs set in a panel flush with the desk top. To Quinn's right a section of the wall opened.
“We have but a little time before you must go, Mijnheer. In there you will find clothes—all else you need. I suggest that you hurry."
Quinn glanced down at himself. His coat was fouled with slime and water, his hands almost black. To go out like this would attract attention. He obeyed orders.
On a chair in the small room beyond he found a pile of clothing. And there was also a bathroom lighted and open. He bathed, shaved and put on the new slacks, a woven sport shirt and a pullover sweater.
At the foot of the couch were his own bags which he had left in the de Witt. A quick glance into their interiors revealed that the contents were intact and that they had been neatly and completely repacked.
He pulled the sweater into place about his waist and surveyed his reflection critically in a long wall mirror. The new casual clothes gave him the appearance of someone on a holiday. He certainly did not look much like a fugitive on the run from the law. The colors were right, also, what he might have chosen himself—dark brown slacks and a sort of oatmeal shade for the sweater. Everything fitted. Mr. Of Ditto was an excellent wardrobe master.
“Perfect!" His host appeared in the doorway. "And now, we still have some moments left in which I may give you some information—"
Quinn settled down again in the chair. Van t'Zelfde talked, pausing now and then as if to study Quinn's reaction and his rate of assimilation.
"For the past three days you have been the guest of Dirk van der Home. He is the only son of Graf van der Home and has been at college in the United States where . you met him about three years ago. He is very charmed with yachting and owns a vessel known as the Beleefd Politie-agent in which he goes cruising with friends. You met him by chance on your arrival in this city and, learning that he intends to travel eastward, you were prevailed upon to join his party for the trip by water. You have been delayed in sailing because of the non-arrival of the fourth member of your company, Joris Maartens. You have been living on board the Beleefd Politie-agent. An unfortunate cold has confined you to quarters there. Mijnheer van der Home, as a result, went to the police with your complaint concerning the theft of your luggage. The cold—ah—"
He snapped his fingers. "Almost I forget the cold." He left the desk and went on into the dressing room-bath, returning in a few seconds with a crumpled handkerchief in his hand.
"It is never well to overlook any details. Here is your cold, Mijnheer Anders."
Quinn accepted the handkerchief gingerly and with bewilderment.
"Hold that to your nose and inhale, Mijnheer. Inhale sharply for three or four breaths. For some days you will then suffer with all the symptoms of a bad cold in the head. Details—always remember details. Small rocks may sink large ships!"
Quinn sniffed up the pungent fumes arising from the damp linen. He hoped van t'Zelfde knew just what he was doing. Germ warfare was more than he had bargained for.
"Good. Now we await van der Home. And I wish you a most pleasant voyage, Mijnheer."
Quinn sniffled tentatively. It might be only imagination at work but he did appear to have a stuffy feeling in the upper regions of his nose. He tried to detect irony in his host's last statement. But maybe that had only been a warning not to expect fireworks until he reached Maastricht.
A low humming sound brought van t'Zelfde's hand again to the bank of stud controls on his desk. The outer door to the hall opened.
"Van der Home has arrived. You will take your luggage and go out that door. The third door to your left also will be open. Go down the stairs and you will find him waiting for you. Good-bye and good luck."
Quinn picked up his cases and slung the new raincoat over his shoulder. He grinned at Mr. Of Ditto.
"During these past hours in your fair city, Mijnheer, I have come to believe that I shall need all I can get of that scarce commodity. Tell me, is the innocent tourist always greeted in so rude a manner?"
This time there was an answering glint of humor in the visible eye of his host.
"Only upon occasions, Mijnheer. And, I beg of you, do not make too quick a judgment of us based on your misfortunes. Some day, some time, you may be able to form another estimate—"
"At least I can give you my thanks and those are real!"
The door closed behind him and he was alone in the corridor. But the third door on the left stood ajar. Quinn suspected that all those doors were controlled by the desk studs.
He took the long flight of stairs slowly. The light here was only a grayish echo of indirect rays. The steps ended at last on a dark pavement stained with oil and grease. Directly facing him was a small covered truck of the type known as a "van." Its motor was running and someone occupied the driver's seat. But that almost formless shadow remained where it was. A second man swung from the back of the van and approached Quinn.
He was tall enough to awaken a touch of envy in the American and was dressed in a high-necked sailor's jersey and a pair of patched and faded slacks. When he came close enough Quinn saw he was young, with a boyish face and a thatch of thick sun-burned blond hair which made him look perhaps younger than he was.
"But this is good, Quinn—" He snatched both bags away from the American and slung them into the van. "In here we go—we must ride as if we are potatoes or fish, or whatever it is that our friend usually delivers. Up—here give me your hand—"
Quinn was hoisted into the van, with the same ease which had sent his bags there before him. He squatted down on a box he found there while his companion fastened the van doors on the inside.
"This is incorrect." The Netherlander shook his head. "This lock should be on the outside. But only a close inspection would show that. And now our charioteer may let go his steeds—" He hunched over and rapped the wall behind the driver's seat.
The engine snorted and they began to move. Quinn braced himself in the swaying, bouncing box where there were no handholds.
This was his second blind trip through the streets of Dordrecht, he thought a bit ruefully. As a tourist he was seeing little of the city, either by water or land. He should be able to lecture entertainingly on modes of modern European travel if and when he ever returned to the peaceful and uncomplicated life of the States. There were questions he wanted to ask his companion but the noisy progress of the van would drown anything but a full-lunged shout.
All things come to an end. The van stopped so suddenly that Quinn lost his balance and fell alm
ost across van der Home's feet.
"Ah—gently. Do not try to soften the dockside with your head. Now, when the door I have loosened, be quick. It is not wise to be seen emerging—"
Quinn was as quick as his stiffened leg would allow, but evidently not swift enough to suit his companion. For van der Home, Quinn's bags again in his grip, shoved the American along with his shoulder after the manner of a sheep dog dealing with an especially stupid and reluctant member of his flock.
There was little chance to see anything of the quayside. Instead they plunged down a ladder into a small skiff. And van der Home's force with the oars sent them through the mist-covered water of very early morning toward a small sailing yacht so white and pure of paint that it might just have issued from the boatyard.
"Welcome aboard the Beleefd Politie-agent," van der Home broke the silence of their short journey.
"The Polite Policeman, now I wonder why anyone should name a ship—"
His companion laughed. "Speculations are idle, Quinn. Is it after all so strange that a man of the law should be said to be courteous? Now up on deck with you—"
Quinn sneezed. His cold was appearing on schedule. He hoped that the rest of Mr. Of Ditto's arrangements were in as good working order.
CHAPTER 7
THE CRUISE OF THE POLITE POLICEMAN
Sunshine fell heavy and warm across Quinn's shoulders. He sniffed the light wind which carried a faint tang of salt and the slight taint of canal water, along with the pleasant suggestion of new growing things. Then he blew his stuffy nose vigorously. Except for Mijnheer van t'Zelfde’s officiousness in the matter of the cold, he was enjoying the present hour more than any he had spent for months.
They had upped anchor and sailed away from St. Maartensgat opposite the great church before the sun was showing, slipping easily by the pocket-sized harbors and ship wharves which lined both sides of the river beyond the fringes of the city proper. Now the south bank was all wilderness, a tangle of reeds, breakwaters, trees— with sometimes the merest scrap of beach. One could forget about the buildings on the north bank and believe that one was free of the twentieth century entirely. And now for the first time in his life Quinn found that thought a relaxing one.