John managed to parry the first pass. The next three opened up cuts on his cheek, forearm, and side. He avoided some of Alan’s thrusts by various moves that looked unorthodox even to my uneducated eyes, ducking and twisting and weaving, but he was breathing hard and he kept retreating. Schmidt had finally located another clip and was trying to slide it into the gun. He was swearing. Alan was laughing. That laugh was one of the ugliest sounds I had ever heard. I picked up a poker and tried to get behind Alan. He whipped round and knocked the poker out of my hand before turning back to John and parrying his clumsy thrust with insulting ease.
“Touché,” he yelled and ran John through the right arm.
The blade fell from John’s hand. His back against the wall, he slid slowly down to a sitting position. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, none of them except the last serious, and he was too out of breath to speak. I ran to him and knelt beside him, supporting his sagging body.
“Shoot, Schmidt,” I yelled.
“Allmächtigen Gott im Himmel, curse the verdammt gun,” said Schmidt, at the top of his lungs. He tossed the gun aside; I let out a shriek, which rose to siren pitch as Schmidt picked up the sword John had dropped.
There was still noise somewhere in the background, but none of it penetrated my horrified brain. All I could think was that Schmidt, the self-proclaimed greatest swordsman in Europe, had finally lost his mind. And he wasn’t even drunk.
Struggling to sit up, John gasped, “No, Schmidt, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t—” Schmidt assumed the position—I guess it was the position—and bellowed challenges in various languages, ending with “En garde!” Alan was laughing so hard I thought he would fall over. That annoyed Schmidt. He took a step forward and…
I can’t describe what happened. All I saw was a whirlwind of flashing steel, all I heard was the ring of metal on metal. When it stopped, Alan had fallen back, out of range of Schmidt’s weapon. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth hung open. Schmidt stood planted in the exact same spot, teeth bared and mustache bristling. “Ha!” he shouted. “Have at you!”
It went slower this time. Alan poked his sword at Schmidt and Schmidt knocked it away with contemptuous ease, before poking back at Alan. John started squirming, trying to pull away from my tenderly supportive arms. “Damn it, Vicky, get out of the way! I can’t see.” His voice rose in a howl of delight. “Get him, Schmidt! Let him have it!”
When the two broke apart this time, blood was streaming down Alan’s left arm. With slow dignity Schmidt took a single step forward and went at it again, forcing Alan back. I was vaguely aware of a voice babbling close to my ear. Every sentence ended in an exclamation point.
“The greatest swordsman in Europe! He was, by God, he was! A-to-Z Schmidt, Alphabet Schmidt—Olympic gold medalist, world champion! We were made to watch the films! I ought to have known! But it was almost twenty years ago, and he’s always been good old Schmidt…”
Schmidt’s fat old arm moved with the quick precision of a metronome. Alan was streaming blood from multiple cuts. Schmidt’s revenge, I thought wildly. He’s doing the same thing to Alan that Alan did to John.
This time it was Schmidt who stepped back. His breathing was ragged, but Alan was also gasping for breath, more from disbelief than exertion, I thought.
Schmidt intoned, “Do you yield?”
Melodramatic to the end, Alan cried, “Never!” and attacked.
Two quick passes; then Schmidt dropped to one knee and lunged, arm and sword in a single straight line. The point entered Alan’s chest.
For several long seconds there wasn’t a sound, not even that of exhaled breath. I will never forget the look on Alan’s face. Not pain, not anger—utter disbelief. He fell slowly, first to his knees, then onto his side, pulling the weapon from Schmidt’s hand.
John removed himself from my limp embrace and staggered to his feet. “Schmidt,” he said softly. “Schmidt, I…You…” and then, almost prayerfully, “Christ.”
He knelt by Alan and turned him onto his back. The hilt of the sword swayed gently, like a flower on a stem. Schmidt hadn’t moved. Still on one knee, he said, between gasps, “Vicky, will you please give me a hand?”
“Schmidt, are you hurt?” I hurried to him.
“No. It is…Well, you understand, it is my knee. Just help me up, please.”
I took his hand and pulled. Accompanied by a series of popping noises, Schmidt rose like a wounded whale. “Ach, Gott,” he wheezed, leaning heavily against me. “I have killed him. I did not mean to. God forgive me.”
“He’s not dead,” John said. “But he’s in bad shape. Call for an ambulance.”
“It’s on the way,” said a voice I hadn’t heard for some time.
Sans auburn wig and avec gun, Suzi stood in the door of the library. Behind her I saw several other familiar faces. I don’t know how long they had been there. I wouldn’t have noticed a stampede of buffalo.
“Typical,” I said bitterly. “Where were you when I needed you?”
“I came as soon as I received your message,” Suzi said.
“Swell,” I said. “There’s your thief, Suzi. And there, wounded but undaunted, is the man whom you wrongly suspected.” I flung my arm out. Never one to miss a cue, John got slowly to his feet. I went on with mounting passion, “If you ever bother us again, I’ll make sure your bosses hear how you screwed this one up. You weren’t looking for the perpetrator, you were blinded by your desire to nail John. He might have been killed if it hadn’t been for—”
“Schmidt,” John said, swaying theatrically. “Anton Z. Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe.”
T he lunge, you see, becomes difficult with middle age,” Schmidt explained. “The knee joints do not cooperate so well. Hence a fencer must rely on the strength of his arm and his expertise. He knew that, and did not think I would attempt it.”
The words “middle age” didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Schmidt could have described himself as “a mere youth” and none of his adoring fans would have contradicted him. Especially me.
“Oh, Schmidt,” I said. “I do love you.”
“You have said that before.” Schmidt’s eyes twinkled. “But you can say it as often as you like.” He examined his empty glass. “I believe I will have more beer.”
John beat me to the minibar. I was ahead on points, though, since I had phoned the hotel to order the beer before we left the battlefield.
The word was not inapropos. Alan’s allies had put up a pretty good fight, barricading most of the windows and defending the doors. Loyalty probably had little to do with it; anyone trying to leave the house, with or without a white flag, might have been mowed down. People with guns like to shoot them. They don’t always shoot straight when they are excited, though, and miraculously, no one had been killed.
Our allies, summoned by Schmidt, had waited for my signal before moving in. (Schmidt was in command because he was the only one who knew where I had gone.) They were a motley lot and it’s a wonder they didn’t start fighting among themselves—Suzi and Ashraf and their “assistants,” Feisal and a band of men from the village, and, of course, Saida. Schmidt was the glue that had held them all together. Feisal said he sounded like a French revolutionary stirring up the mob. “Avenge the murder of Ali! Retrieve the stolen treasures of Egypt! Rescue the beautiful American girl and save her lover!” I don’t know where they got all the guns and I had sense enough not to ask. Feisal wouldn’t let Saida have one, so she threw rocks. She claimed to have brained at least two of the enemy.
She and Feisal had come back with us to our now dear and familiar home away from home at the Winter Palace, leaving Ashraf and Suzi to direct the cleanup operations. John flatly refused the assistance of the ambulance personnel. “It’s a nice neat stab,” he said approvingly. “And I need a clean shirt. Alan has frightful taste.”
“That’s one of Alan’s?” I asked.
“Did you suppose I had another wardrob
e hidden away in Luxor?”
His voice wasn’t exactly accusing, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. “What was I supposed to suppose?” I demanded.
“Never mind, darling, I forgive you. I will tell all in due course. In the meantime I could do with a little first aid.”
“And beer,” said Schmidt.
He had his beer, and John and I had something a little stronger. After I had patched John up—a job at which I had become only too adept—and he had selected a shirt in a much more becoming shade of blue, we took turns telling our tales. I have to admit John’s was the most interesting.
“I shall begin at the beginning,” he announced, fondling his glass of Scotch, “and continue until I reach the end. Kindly do not interrupt with questions. An occasional inquiring look will indicate you require elaboration of a particular point.”
Saida chuckled. John raised an eyebrow at her, cleared his throat, and began at the beginning.
“As soon as I read that message from LeBlanc I felt certain Ashraf had arranged the moonlight visit in order to facilitate his meeting with his contact. It was well thought out, really; the place is so huge he could select a safe spot, yet there were enough people wandering around to confuse potential followers. He certainly succeeded in confusing me. After a while I couldn’t tell who was following whom, though I began to realize that far too many of them were following me. When the meeting actually took place I was some distance away. I saw that Ashraf’s contact was a woman, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When she bolted I went after her. My motives were not entirely altruistic, I admit…Vicky, will you stop giving me what you presumably believe to be inquiring looks?”
“I want you to skip the elegant syntax and get on with it. You followed her because you thought she would lead you to the headquarters of the gang.”
“I didn’t mean her to get that far. I was reasonably certain we could shake a confession out of the poor creature and I certainly didn’t intend to get within arm’s reach of the bad boys. She was too quick for me,” John admitted with obvious chagrin. “She knew where she was going and I didn’t. I didn’t catch her up until she had actually reached the house, and when I intercepted her she shrieked like a banshee. They were obviously on the lookout for her. The door burst open and several large unkind men dragged both of us inside. No, Vicky, I did not put up a fight. I do not fight large men armed with knives when I’m outnumbered six to one. They had me trussed up like a turkey, blindfolded and gagged, before I could reason with them, and then they bundled me into a cart, with a sack of some heavy granular substance on top of me, and drove away. The whole business didn’t take more than two minutes.”
He paused for a refreshing sip and I said, “So by the time clever Suzi arrived, you were long gone. Probably by way of the back gate. She’s dead, you know.”
He knew I wasn’t referring to Suzi. “I do know. Alan told me, in lurid detail. She had tried to make a separate deal. I’m sorry. She was a relatively new recruit whose only crime was attempted extortion.
“What with being banged around in the cart and mashed by heavy objects, I wasn’t in top-notch condition when we arrived at our destination. Expecting the worst, as is my habit, I was pleasantly surprised when they unwrapped me quite gently and supplied me with a nice soft chair and a glass of brandy. I recognized the surroundings at once and it dawned on me that the thieves had been using the FEPEA house as a secondary headquarters. The house on the East Bank served them well at the start, but if anything went wrong—which it did—they needed a fall-back location. I was gazing about, trying to find an exit, when Alan made his appearance. I was not surprised to see him. I had already realized he must be involved. Ah. I see from a number of doubtful glances that I must justify that statement.
“You had mentioned seeing me at Luxor Temple. I knew I hadn’t been there, and it occurred to me that perhaps your sense of recognition was based on the resemblance between me and Alan. That got me started thinking. I had hired him in part because of his computer skills. It had become obvious that someone had got into my closed files, the ones that listed my former rivals and associates—”
“Damn it,” I burst out. “You said some time ago that you had severed relations with that lot.”
“I did. In the sense that I had not communicated with any of them until—”
“Berlin. Rome. You didn’t ask the monsignor about missing relics, you bribed him to give you information about current criminal gangs. And every word of that conversation you reported having with Helga was a flat-out fabrication.”
“I thought I made it sound quite convincing,” John said with a complacent smile.
But then he looked directly at me, and now it was his eyes that fell. “I had promised you I would cut off all contacts with my former associates. I lied. I had to. You’d have argued and protested, and those files were too valuable to destroy. I always expect the worst. The worst happened.”
“How true,” Schmidt exclaimed. “The present situation has justified your decision.”
They nodded gravely at each other. “So,” John resumed, “when I spotted Alan at Karnak, flitting about in the moonlight, I wasn’t surprised. He didn’t bother with a disguise, because he wanted to be taken for me. Such proved to be the case. The light was poor and people see what they expect to see.”
“Never mind the lectures on crime,” Feisal said impatiently.
“Oh, I find them fascinating,” Saida exclaimed. “Do go on.”
“Well, the lad was quite full of himself,” John said. “Another sign of an amateur is that he talks too much, which Alan proceeded to do. Psychologically he’s an interesting case. He hates my guts but he wants to be me, only better—or, from another point of view, worse. His role-playing was a way of compensating for his dull existence. Then I entered his life and he realized he didn’t have to play hero. The dashing Cavalier became the Dark Lord, the master of crime. Evil, as someone has said, is more interesting than good.”
“Yes, yes,” said Schmidt eagerly. “Many more visitors to the fantasy conventions come attired as Darth Vader or Saruman or storm troopers than as—”
“Who?” Feisal said in bewilderment.
“The bad guys,” Saida translated. “I’ll explain another time, dear boy.”
“As I was saying,” John remarked loudly, “he told me everything. He started making deals on the side, cooking the books with a skill I couldn’t hope to match. He made copies of my keys, got into locked desk drawers and the safe.”
“So he was the one who searched your flat?”
John’s brow wrinkled. “Must have been. Though I don’t understand why he—”
The phone rang. I picked it up, since no one else seemed inclined to move. The concierge’s voice informed me that someone was at the desk asking for us. “Send him up,” I said and hung up.
“It must be Ashraf,” I informed the others. “That was quick.”
“He has found him,” Feisal exclaimed. “Alhamdullilah!”
“Unless it is Suzi.” Schmidt looked severe. “I will not see her.”
I was curious to hear Suzi’s accusations, excuses, or whatever, but Schmidt’s word was law that evening, and Suzi could wait. I meant to have a long talk with her at some point. In private.
“I’ll get rid of her,” I said, going to the door. The knock had been somewhat tentative. Maybe Suzi was feeling apologetic. When I saw who the caller was, I went on offense. “Suzi sent you, didn’t she? She didn’t have the nerve to come herself.”
The little woman with the big hat said, “Who is Suzi?”
“Oh, come on, you’re one of hers, you have to be. I fingered you some time ago.”
The woman drew herself up to her full five-feet-two-inches. “I have come to see Mr. Tregarth. Don’t tell me he isn’t here, I bribed the concierge to inform me when he returned. This time I will not be put off.”
John had overheard. He came up behind me. “I’m Tregarth. How may I—”
; “I know you are. I have been trying for days to see you. If you don’t let me in, I will sit outside the door and—and do something disruptive.”
She was trying to look fierce, but I have never seen a countenance or a form so unintimidating, or heard a threat so absurd. John passed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile, and waved me back. “Do come in, Miss—Ms.—Mrs.—”
“My card.” She handed it to him and swept into the room. Schmidt rose gallantly to his feet; Saida poked Feisal, who was sunk in happy dreams of Tutankhamon, and he followed suit.
“Oh, yes,” John said. “I remember now. I don’t believe we ever met, though. You dealt solely with my mother…”
His voice trailed off. A series of rapid, strong emotions passed over his face, and then he burst out, “You were the one who broke into the house and searched the attic!”
“Please.” She looked up at him from under the hat. “Please don’t shout at me, it makes me very nervous, and when I am nervous I start shouting back. Just let me explain. I have done wrong and I am here to confess and to make restitution. I don’t know what came over me!”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt, at John. “Madam, do not be alarmed. No one will shout at you while I am here.”
“How kind you are.” She smiled at him. Up at him. She had a dimple. From a chain round her neck, barely visible in the vee of her prim blouse, hung a fat gold ring. The Ring. An exact duplicate of the one Schmidt owned. A hideous foreboding came over me.
“Please have a seat,” said Schmidt the chivalrous. “May I offer you a beer, Miss—Ms.—”
He snatched the card from John’s hand and looked at it. “Ah! It comes back to me now. I know your name. I know all of them!”
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