At Swords' Points

by Andre Norton

  What he held glinted even in the subdued light, glinted not with the hard glitter of jewels but with the clear tones of fine enamel work. A green and gold dragon lay, tail curled, claws advanced, on his palm. And—it was Tubac's dragon!

  "Please—my lady, where did you obtain this?"

  She bent her head a fraction of an inch to see the piece he was holding out to her.

  "That? Katrina, where did I get this?"

  The gray woman hovered, considered the brooch and then answered in a voice as faded as her dress.

  "It was a gift, Staatsjuffer, upon the occasion of your birthday in 1937. The Graf van der Home had it made for you."

  "Yes. I now remember." She held it to the window light. “It is an unusual conceit, is it not, Mijnheer Anders. Not Eastern, as you might believe at first glance. My grandmother was of a very old family—the Karloffs— royalty—or semi-so—from a tiny forgotten state in the Balkans." She dismissed the importance of a state in the Balkans with the tone of her voice. "This was their crest. There is a portrait of her—which in my youth I was supposed to resemble—showing her wearing just such a brooch. Julius had that copied for me."

  "Do you know where he had it made, Staatsjuffer?" Quinn persisted.

  She glanced at him rapier-wise for the third time. "This is of importance?"

  "It may be, my lady. A man recently disappeared from Maastricht. He left behind him a detailed drawing of this very piece."

  "So." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

  "It was made," she broke her own silence, "by the House of Norreys—of which you have already heard. I believe that it was designed and executed by one of their finest craftsmen. His name I do not know."

  A link—a link between the gentle little Tubac who had walked out into the blue in Maastricht and the House of Norreys. Could Tubac be Wulfanger, the artist Lorens van Norreys believed capable of counterfeiting the Menie knights?

  "Now, Mijnheer," his thoughts were broken by the Freule, "you shall tell me why this bauble is of such interest to you."

  "It might prove to be that the man who made it is also the one who is copying or has copied the counterfeit knight we have found. May I look at it again, my lady?"

  At her nod he picked up the brooch and with it the magnifying glass. The tiny scales of the creature were perfect under the glass, beautiful. He turned it over. And there, almost hidden under the catch was what he was hunting for—the mark which Kane had shown him on the base of the false knight—the signature of Wulfanger. He pointed it out to the Freule.

  "So. Well, I am pleased that I am able to contribute to your search this much. But regard this also, Mijnheer Anders. Does your Wasburg resemble in any manner this man?"

  She handed him the miniature she had taken from her jewel casket.

  The pictured head was that of a young man cleanshaven but wearing long and bushy sideburns. His hair was straight and light brown, already receding a little on the very high forehead. He had the mouth of a stubborn man and his eyes were slightly unfocused. Quinn did not consider himself able to judge character in a pictured face —but he thought that he would not have cared greatly for the original of the painting. And in it he could see no resemblance to Wasburg. For despite the guarded discipline of the Eurasian's face one knew that fire smoldered beneath and there was a certain alertness about him which was missing in the miniatured visage.

  Quinn shook his head. "I can see no resemblance."

  She took the miniature back. "The last Duke was a tedious bore at his best and mule stubborn at his worst. If he left a son and a grandson, I trust for their sakes they resemble their dams. Katrina!"

  The table bearing her bits of paper was moved back into place above her knees. And now Quinn could see what she was doing. On the black tray she was constructing a piece of tapestry—a tapestry of paper—flowers, animals, birds, centered with a hunter, horn lifted to his lips, a white hart in flight before him. All had been cut from old engravings or illustrations. And now they were being fitted together to form a complete picture.

  The Freule pointed to the litter. "This is an art not so well known nowadays—decoupage. But in my youth it was taught. I always wished to be an artist—but I do not have the talent. So now I make pictures from bits and patches of others' work. Just as you are now engaged in decoupage too, Mijnheer Anders—a bit here, a patch there—until you have a finished picture. You are very unlike your brother!"

  Her rapid change of subject made him blink.

  "Yes. But we were really half-brothers."

  She fitted in a long-tailed pheasant, studied the result, and swept it away again impatiently.

  "In decoupage," she continued, "you work with others' pictures but the cutting and patching, the finished result is your own. A little like Me. You accept from others what you need, what you must have, but the completed work is your own. Make your own picture, jongeling, do not attempt to work upon another's!"

  There was dismissal in her voice and Quinn bowed. Then she smiled at him, not the faint grimace she had shown earlier, but with a warmth which lit her face.

  "I shall lay a command upon you, jongeling. One which your Queen Bess would have used in her time. When you have finished this part of your picture you will return to me with the full tale of your adventures. I have little interest in the world as it is today—but your story promises to be exciting. And—since I have contributed a small part to it—I wish to know the ending."

  "I will be back," he promised.

  Even after he had said a formal good-bye and was at the door she called after him once more.

  "See that you do return, Mijnheer Anders. I am an old woman and I do not desire to have one of my few remaining pleasures spoiled because a jongeling was silly enough not to take care—"

  Back in Maastricht Quinn made a phone call and when Dokter Roos answered he was ready with the question he had been impatient to ask for the past hour.

  "Is it in your power, Mijnheer Dokter, to discover whether during the war there was a Nazi garrison or any soldiers on duty near Odocar's Tower?"

  "That will take me an hour or two, Mijnheer Anders.

  But it is easy to find out. You are perhaps planning to visit the Tower?"

  "Sometime. Though I have been told that it is now almost a total ruin."

  "Above ground, yes, that is true. The tower itself is in a most dangerous condition and, I believe, it is now forbidden to tourists. But the dungeons still exist and one can well study the general outline of the keep. The hunting box there was burned to the ground in 1943 and there is nothing left of that but the cellar holes—"

  "Greetings." Maartens came in just as Quinn put down the phone. "You have returned in one piece, I see. How was the Tante Matilda—she did not have you served up in brown gravy?"

  "No. In fact she gave me some news for you."

  Joris' shoulders moved in an exaggerated shiver. "Please! And what crime have I now committed? Or is it that she has read one of my recent news pieces?"

  "She has identified your Tubac—"

  "What!" Maartens jerked up from his back-of-the-neck lounging in the chair.

  "Tubac, by the evidence of that dragon you found, is no other than a certain Wulfanger—a master goldsmith once employed by the House of Norreys. The Freule Matilda has the brooch which was made from that design you found."

  "Master goldsmith—but why—who would want a master goldsmith?"

  Quinn shed his coat and started to the bathroom to wash. He looked at his reflection in the shaving mirror. It was the same commonplace and midistinguished face he had always seen there. But why did he have that odd sensation of not exactly—fear—but—more apprehension? As if he were one of the Freule's cut outs being moved against his will into someone's pattern. Here was Maartens with his mysterious organization, his interest in Tubac. Then there was Kane and his quest for the counterfeiter, and Dokter Roos and his "Jachtmeester." And—there was Stark who had not completed what he had be
gun and left his job as a legacy. Four threads, all tangling about him— Quinn Anders—in one way or another. He sloshed water over his face and tried to think.

  "A master goldsmith," he mumbled through the towel as he came back into the bedroom, "could be forced to counterfeit art treasures for the black market. He would be a good tool in certain hands. Those Vermeers you were hunting down sold well, didn't they?"

  "There seems to be a story in this—" answered Joris slowly.

  "Maybe. Whether you can ever tell it is another matter. But I think that I am getting in almost too deeply, Maartens. And—"

  "With you now it is a matter of whom to trust?" asked the Netherlander. "That you must decide for yourself. I know whose man you are and that sign I do trust—"

  Quinn turned. With his eyes upon Maartens' face he told the story of the Bishop’s Menie in a rush of bald words.

  Joris sat chewing his thumbnail with an air of concentration and Quinn felt as if he were now confronting a calculating machine—that each of his words was falling into place somewhere in the Netherlander's orderly mind. When he was through maybe Maartens would have a neat solution, and the American knew that he wanted such a solution—wanted it badly.

  “A puzzle," was Maartens’ first comment. "But some pieces have already begun to fit together as they should. Yes, I think that you are right about Tubac—he is Wulfanger. But the false knight—such a work of art would require many days to fashion and it must be very exact or the counterfeit would not have been so excellent. If he made the false knight, he must have begun work almost immediately after his disappearance. Or did he make it before he disappeared?

  "There is also the matter of the piece carried by the Nazi who escaped to the western zone—was it one of several he had had? But his story of how he found it sounds probable. A visit to Sternsberg territory is indicated—"

  "But-"

  "But if you go there you will lead Wasburg and maybe others? Yes, that is true. However, there is something you do not know. Odocar's Tower stands close to the border. And one may cross that border without doing so openly."

  "You mean through the St. Pietersberg Caverns?"

  "Just so. And I would suggest that we try it speedily."

  "We?"

  "Do you think," Maartens answered him, "that I am going to allow such a story as this one may be to slip through my fingers?"

  "You may never be able to write it—"

  "That can be decided later. And besides if you go through the caverns you can do so only with one who knows the road or who has—as you say—'the proper connections'!"

  "How long will it take you—"

  "To contact my disreputable acquaintances? Shall we take the trip tomorrow? And you might find your Mijnheer Kane and brief him on today's events. I shall call you when all is ready."

  But Kane was missing. A guarded question of the porter revealed that the American had left for the day and was not expected back until the following evening. Quinn hesitated. He did not want to leave a note. The answer might be Dokter Roos. But a call to the Dokter found him out. So Quinn scrawled his information on a sheet from his notebook, put it in a plain envelope and mailed it. It would be delivered sometime the following day to Kane here at the hotel and would not be tampered with as a note might be.

  He was in bed that night when his phone finally rang.

  "Tomorrow—five-thirty." Maartens' voice sounded thin and tinny. "We may have company. Wasburg is preparing to make the same trip."

  Wasburg, Quinn's head was on the pillow but he had never felt less sleepy in his life—Wasburg bound for the caverns. He was sure that the Eurasian's ultimate destination was Odocar's ruined tower.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE SIGN OF THE BLACK MAN

  It was still only gray-light at the window when Maartens arrived the next morning. He brought with him a bundle of clothing and he himself was wearing the seaman's jersey and the patched dungarees he had favored while on the Polite Policeman.

  "Rouse yourself," he greeted Quinn. "This is no time to laze in bed—"

  Quinn rubbed the smart out of his eyes and indulged in a series of jaw cracking yawns.

  "It can't be time yet—"

  "It is five of the clock and cold enough to frost you white. But we'd better be on the move. In the first place our friend Wasburg is getting ready to go and I don't want him to get to the caverns too long before us—"

  Quinn shed his pajamas on the way to the bathroom. A moment later the bundle of clothing soared in past him, coming apart in the air so worn khaki slacks draped themselves around his shoulders.

  "Put those on. We may have to do some crawling before we are through today."

  When Quinn came out he found the Netherlander prowling about the room as if he were too impatient to sit down. On the bed lay a buckled knapsack.

  "Supplies?" asked the American.

  "Something of the sort."

  Quinn got out a flashlight, the pencil gun, and his small first-aid kit, all of which could be carried on his person. He shivered and chose to pull his raincoat over the darned and spotted jersey Maartens had brought him.

  "Do we go without breakfast?" he asked a little plaintively as they walked through the lobby.

  "I have food in the car—"

  Quinn, still thinking wistfully of hot coffee and warm rolls, followed Maartens to the battered little car which had brought them to Maastricht. But once behind the wheel Joris did not start out of the city. Instead he drove sedately around the block and parked, with the motor running, before the blank front of an old warehouse.

  "What—?" began the American when a sharp dig in his ribs shut him up.

  A taxi came down the street, threading among the bicycles ridden by people on their way to work. It stopped half a block away and its driver went into a building. He emerged a few minutes later with Wasburg. The taxi drove off, passing them. Joris pulled out after it.

  "We'd do better on bikes," commented Quinn. "Cars are so few here that hell catch on that he's being tailed—"

  "Perhaps. On the other hand there is a lot of traffic on the St. Pietersberg road even this early and once we make the highway we shall not be so conspicuous—"

  He stopped almost in mid-word. And Quinn's hands balled into fists. Another car pulled out of a side street and swung in between them and the taxi. A car which showed no desire to catch up or pass Wasburg's. Another tailer—! But who—?

  Joris cut speed, dropped back—a half block, a full block. The taxi and its black follower proceeded in a stately parade.

  "Friend of yours?" Quinn hoped that that was true.

  "No." Joris' answer was curt.

  They were driving through the suburbs of the city now, almost on the road which ran two and a half miles on to St. Pietersberg. Free of the bicycle swarms the taxi picked up speed, but its spurt was matched by the black car. Joris ventured to draw closer. He took his left hand from the wheel and pulled open a pocket on the door. A moment later he held a Luger.

  "Kidnapping ahead?" suggested Quinn.

  "That may be what they plan. I do not like the looks of this at all."

  That, thought Quinn, was a prize understatement. He located the pencil gun and wondered if Joris had any more arms concealed about the car. A machine gun or a couple of grenades would be a help. He wished that he had not lived so sheltered a life and knew a little more about firearms.

  But the black car made no effort to force the taxi off the road and the procession of three continued in the same order across the countryside until Quinn s excitement faded and he felt more the pangs of hunger than before-the-battle jitters.

  As the high rises of the limestone cliffs came into view the black car suddenly slackened speed and Joris had to brake to a standstill to avoid catching up with it. The taxi drew ahead and vanished. The black car was at the side of the road and a man got out to look under the hood.

  Joris made several blistering comments under his breath. There was no place here to get off
the road out of sight of the car ahead. And for him to fake a breakdown also would be entirely too suspicious. He dared not even keep to his present crawling pace for the same reason. But ahead the hood was being snapped down again, the driver got back in and started up at a speed which sent the earth spinning out from the car wheels.

  "Wanted to let the taxi get a good start, but didn't want us to pass them—" deduced Quinn aloud.

  "Right. And there is the entrance to the caverns."

  Before they reached the parking place the taxi passed them, the driver alone in it, bound back to Maastricht. Wasburg must have already entered the caverns. Joris drove in to park beside the now empty black car. Then he went over to the guides' office. He returned scowling and kicking at pebbles.

  "Well?"

  "It is not well at all." The Netherlander opened the car door. "But we can eat while we wait."

  "Wait for what?"

  "Guides! It is the fault of my own thickheadedness." Joris unscrewed the top of a thermos bottle. "Wasburg had a guide who met him and took him right on in. It turns out that one of the men in the black car—there were three of them—was a guide. There isn't another to be had for an hour when the regular crew come on duty. And we are not allowed to enter alone. So well just have to wait! I should have arranged for one yesterday."

  "But how are we going to get across into Belgium if a guide goes with us?" Quinn wanted to know.

  "There are markings on the walls—I know how to find the trail from a point inside. But we have to take a cave runner to get us that far and then we'll have to give him the slip and try it alone. But I do not like the thought of Wasburg in there and those three others after him—"

  Quinn's sandwich suddenly lost all taste and he chewed and swallowed large dry chunks. An hour before they could start—and so much could happen in an hour!

  "If they want to get him they'll have to wait until they are in some distance," Joris continued as if he read the other's thoughts. "The main galleries are too public. But a cave runner who knows his work could get him off into a side pocket where he would never be found—"