The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

"Damned me if it wasn't, sir!"

  —and divining the names of cities and countries, and, while blindfolded, naming objects that Madeleine borrowed from audience members.

  "Now," Sandarel said, coming to the edge of the platform, "if I can prevail upon the staff to lower the gas lights, except for the spotlight that is illuminating me now, we will use our remaining time to investigate the spirit world. I assure you that there is nothing to be afraid of, ladies, nothing will occur that the faintest heart among you cannot observe with complete safety. But please remain seated and be very quiet while this demonstration continues. Madame Verlaine, who is a noted medium, will be working through her spirit guide, and any interruption while she is in a trance might prove harmful to her health."

  While the lights were lowered Sandarel gave the audience a brief history of spiritism. "Madame Verlaine has retired for a moment to compose herself for the séance," he told them. "As you know, there is some dispute as to just what it is that happens during a séance. The Spiritualists and the Theosophists believe that the spirits of the departed can talk to us, or even interact in a more physical manner, through the mediumship of certain special people. The Rosicrucians and others believe that the past and future have been revealed to those with the talent through the intercession of ethereal powers ..."

  While he held the audience captivated—or at least captive— with his talk, Madeleine was in the cloak room going through the overcoats of the guests and committing every bit of writing, every scrap of paper, every document she found, to her eidetic memory. For her it was like taking a photograph: she could memorize the appearance of a page of text and then retrieve it later from her memory to actually read it. She found the little leather slipcases holding the owner's visiting cards in many of the coats, so she could bring forth at need the names of many of those present. The scraps of paper she came across were like scraps of their owner's memories: with a little careful weaving and some bold deduction, the information on them could be made to provide seemingly miraculous insights into their lives and frightening glimpses into their future.

  Madeleine left the cloakroom and came around by a connecting hall to the green room behind the stage. To her left was the stage, where she could hear Moriarty holding forth on the history of spiritism and the meaning of everything. The character of Dr. Sandarel, omniscient, didactic, and compelling, was one that Moriarty slipped easily into. He was good for another five minutes of lecture before the audience even noticed that Madame Verlaine had not yet appeared. There was time to do a little investigating. To Madeleine's right were two closed doors. She opened the first one, and found a small room that must have been the dressing room for the musicians. A row of evening clothes were hung up on a rack along one wall, and the few unused remnants of the sixteenth-century court dress the musicians were now costumed in were strewn along a rack next to the other wall. Madeleine retreated from that room and went to the other door. She turned the handle and found it unyielding.

  Reaching down the neck of her dress with two fingers, Madeleine pulled up a cleverly contrived lockpick, which had been hooked over a small chain around her neck. In a few seconds she had the door open and she entered the corridor in front of her, pulling the door closed behind. The wall sconces in the corridor were unlit, and the dark was absolute, unrelieved by any hint of light spilling under a door or through a window.

  Madeleine moved slowly along the corridor her right hand feeling along the wall until she came to a door, which pushed reluctantly open after she twisted the handle. She struck a match. The room was full of shelves, and the shelves were stacked with a variety of small boxes, jars, canisters, and sacks, holding the sort of detritus that isn't immediately useful but shouldn't be thrown away. The match went out, and Madeleine backed out of the room and closed the door. A second room further down the corridor contained chairs without backs, tables without legs, and assorted other furniture in need of repair, the sort of detritus that any castle is liable to build up over the centuries. A third door—was locked.

  With a lighted match in one hand and the lockpick in the other, Madeleine worked at the keyhole. Now time was drawing short, so of course this lock proved difficult. Inanimate objects can be strangely perverse. She blew out the match, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, relaxing and letting her fingers do the work of clearing the wards the way the mummer had taught her. It seemed that the rooms along this corridor were used for storage, and she would learn little of interest in this locked room. But, as the professor often said, there is no such thing as useless information. She kept on working on the lock and an eternity passed, and then another. And then her fingers felt the sweet feel of the wards clearing, and the lock rotated, and the door was unlocked. It had taken perhaps forty seconds.

  Madeleine pushed open the door and lit another match. In its flicker she could make out sacks of grain, or flour, or perhaps sand, stacked against the far wall. Well, what did she expect? She turned to leave and waved the match out. As the light fled she caught, or thought she caught, a flicker of motion in a corner of the room. She held her breath and silently took two steps to the right, so she wouldn't be where the person had last seen her, if it was a person and if he or she didn't wish her well. It probably wasn't a person, she reassured herself. What would a person be doing in this locked room? It was probably a rat. After a long moment of listening and hearing nothing, she crossed her fingers and struck another match.

  It was no rat. It was a woman in a brown dress, lying curled up on the floor, her feet and hands tied with heavy rope and her mouth gagged with some kind of rough cloth gag. The woman twisted her head and blinked at the light.

  Madeleine spotted a candle set firmly on one of the sacks of grain and she lit it quickly before her match went out. Dropping to her knees by the bound woman, she worked at loosening the gag. The knot did not want to come loose, but Madeleine was able to stretch the fabric just enough to force it out of the woman's mouth and down below her chin.

  "Ahhh!" the woman gasped.

  "Hush!" Madeleine whispered. "If they hear us, we are undone!

  "What's happening?" The woman spoke hoarsely, her mouth stiff from the gag. "Who are you?"

  "There's a gathering in the ballroom. I'm Madeleine Verlaine. Who are you? What are you doing here? How long have you been tied up like this?"

  "My name is Jenny Vernet," the woman tried to say. It came out "hennee hernee." Her lips were raw from the coarse fabric of the gag, and her tongue refused to form itself properly to make sounds. "I've been tied up like this since early this afternoon."

  "Jenny Vernet," Madeleine said. "I understand. Sherlock Holmes is outside, determined to rescue you. And it looks like you might need rescuing."

  "Sherlock is here? Oh, thank god! They are going to kill me!" Jenny said. "Sometime late tonight. They were discussing the best way to kill me as though I wasn't there listening."

  "Well!" Madeleine said. She thought quickly. "I guess we'd better get you out of here now. Do you think you can walk if I untie you?"

  "I have no idea," Jenny said. "I don't think there's any feeling in my legs."

  "Oh, dear," Madeleine said. She bent over and went to work on the ropes around Jenny's arms. "Usually I have a small blade with me, sewed into my belt," she said, her nimble fingers pulling on the knot. "But this isn't my dress." The knots were stiff but the ropes were just thick enough so that she could get a fairly good grip. She twisted and pulled, but the knot resisted. She dug in with her fingers and pulled harder. "Blast!"

  Jenny twitched. "What is it?"

  "I just broke a nail," Madeleine whispered. "Oh. I'm sorry."

  "Me too. Wait a second, I think I have it."

  One end of the rope had budged slightly, enlarging the hole. She took the other end and pulled, and the first layer of the knot slid open. Now that it was started, the knot gave way quickly, and in a few seconds Jenny's hands were free. They both now started to work on the ropes around her legs. They were not as well or as tig
htly tied, and fell loose with a few seconds work.

  "Oh, bless you," Jenny said, her hands going to the knot in the gag, which was now around her neck. "Now what?"

  "Now I have to get back to the stage and amaze an audience," Madeleine told her. You'd better come with me and hide in the cloak room while we figure out what to do. The professor will think of something."

  "The professor?"

  "Professor Moriarty. You can trust him. He's here under the guise of Doctor Alexander Sandarel, mystic and clairvoyant. I am his assistant, the noted medium Madame Verlaine. Mind you, I only became a noted medium a few hours ago, but I've been practicing for a couple of weeks now." Madeleine stood up and extended her hand to Jenny. "You'd better try to stand. If you can't walk, I'll carry you the best I can. We'd better get going."

  "Professor Moriarty." Jenny took Madeleine's hand and pulled herself up. "Von Linsz has spoken of him. Indeed, for some time he could speak of little else. He has imprisoned two of Moriarty's acquaintances for fear that they are spies of some sort."

  "We know," Madeleine said. "That's why we're here. Can you walk?"

  Jenny took a step. "Ow!" she said. "It feels like I'm walking on a bed of nails, like those fakirs or whoever in the east." She took another step. "But I can do it. Lead the way!"

  "Here," Madeleine said, "take the candle." She pried the candle loose from its mooring on the sack and handed it to Jenny. They left the room together and Madeleine closed the door and fiddled with the handle. "Hold the candle over here," she said.

  "What are you doing?" Jenny asked.

  "Locking the door behind me," Madeleine told her. "It may confuse them for a few seconds, and we may need the seconds."

  They went down the hallway and came out in the cloak room. "Sandarel" was still orating in the ballroom, and he didn't sound strained and the audience didn't sound restless. Bless the professor and his limitless powers of oratory. Madeleine locked the corridor hall behind her. "I have to go on stage," she said. "Through that door is the green room, but who can tell who'll wander into it in the next little while. In the other door is the dressing room for the musicians. They won't be coming down for a couple of hours yet. Perhaps you'd better wait in there until the professor can decide how best to get you away from here. There is a rack of men's evening wear that you can hide behind if anyone comes in, but I don't think anyone will until the musicians return. Will you be all right?"

  "I'll have to be," Jenny said. She went over to the door. "You have a lot of faith in Professor Moriarty."

  "I do," Madeleine agreed.

  "Good. Then I shall also."

  Jenny disappeared into the dressing room. Madeleine brushed off the front of her dress, which showed signs of kneeling in the dust, took several deep breaths and composed her face into a look of complete tranquility. Then she appeared at the side of the stage and walked slowly and serenely out to join Dr. Sandarel.

  Sandarel paused in mid-sentence. "I see our lovely medium is ready to begin," he said, taking her hand and escorting her forward. "Thank you all for your patience in listening to my poor explication. Now, if the spirits are willing, Madame Verlaine will demonstrate the wonders that we have been discussing." A heavy wooden chair with a high back had been placed in the center of the stage. He sat her in it and she crossed her hands on her lap and closed her eyes. "I will now place Madame Verlaine into a light trance to make her more receptive to the spirits."

  Sandarel leaned over Madeleine and made restful washing motions with his hands. "You've been a while," he whispered. "I was almost at the point of discussing ancient Chaldean astrology. You found something?"

  "Someone," Madeleine replied under her breath. "Jenny Ver-net was tied up in a back room. She says they were going to kill her tonight. We have to get her out of here. She's in the dressing room next to the green room."

  "Ah!" Sandarel said. He stood up and faced the audience. "Madame Verlaine is awaiting the arrival of her spirit guide," he announced. "In a few seconds she will be ready for your questions. You do not have to ask them aloud, if you do not wish to. The spirits will assist Madame Verlaine in her answers." He turned back to Madeleine. "Are you ready, Madame?"

  "I am ready," Madeleine answered in a low, measured voice.

  "Have you located your spirit guide?"

  "She is here."

  "Will she speak through you?"

  "She will."

  Sandarel began to ask another question, but paused when Madame Verlaine's body twitched and her head twisted rapidly from side to side, and her eyes opened and glared out at the world.

  "Hello," Sandarel said. "To whom am I speaking?"

  Madeleine leaned back and her head turned, her motions jerky and surreal like a puppet controlled by a tipsy puppeteer. "In life I was called Mim Ptwa Nim," she said in a high, gravelly voice quite unlike her normal tones.

  Several people in the audience gasped, the rest seemed to be holding their breath.

  "I was a priestess of the Temple of Amon, under the supreme high priest Ankha Shat, during the reign of the illustrious and most high god-king Sebeknofru, ruler of the upper and lower kingdom."

  "That's right, by god! A pharaoh of that name ruled in the twelfth dynasty," someone whispered. Whether there was an Egyptologist in the audience, or Prince Ariste was doing his bit to add to the effect, Moriarty couldn't tell.

  "Have you a message for anyone here?" Sandarel asked.

  "Yes, yes, yes," Mim Ptwa Nim shook her head up and down rapidly. "There are several spirits waiting to get through."

  "Please speak."

  Madeleine closed her eyes and reviewed what she had read in the cloakroom. "A spirit here wishes to communicate with a man named Beske," said the voice of Mim Ptwa Nim, "Herr Beske, are you here?"

  A slim young man stood up toward the back of the room. "You can leave me out of this," he announced loudly. "I don't believe in the spirits."

  "We know," Mim Ptwa Nim said. "Your father's name is Maximilian."

  "How did you—"

  "He died about two years ago."

  "Yes."

  "He has a message for you. He asks you to forgive him."

  "What?"

  "He asks you to forgive him. That is the message."

  The young man sat down, looking startled.

  "There is a message for someone named Olga Tartosky."

  "I am she," cried a lady in the audience.

  "You have a friend—a close friend—named Bert or Bart—"

  "Yes. Bertram. Oh, has something happened to him? Tell me he is not dead."

  Mim Ptwa Nim shook her head rapidly from side to side. "No, no. You have not seen him for a long while. He has been away."

  "Yes, oh yes."

  "He will soon return. Things will work out for you, although you will have some problems at first—"

  While Mim Ptwa Nim continued speaking, Sandarel slowly and unobtrusively backed off stage. Once out of sight, he turned and went to the dressing room concealing Jenny Vernet. "Miss Vernet," he said softly, "are you here?"

  Jenny stepped out from behind an overcoat on the rack. "Professor Moriarty?"

  He nodded. "It is I. Our time is limited. I believe that I have a way to get you out of here. Take off your clothes."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, too," Jenny said, her hand reaching for the top button on her blouse. "All of them?"

  "No. The outer layer should suffice, although I am no expert in female garments. The important things are your skirts and whatever it is that's emphasizing your bosom."

  "My bosom," Jenny said tartly, "isn't emphasized."

  Moriarty looked her over critically as the blouse came off. "Perhaps not," he said, "but you couldn't pass as a man with those underpinnings."

  "As a man?" Jenny asked. "Oh, I see." She loosened her skirt and petticoat and stepped out of them, and then pulled her camisole over her head. "Then the inner layer will have to go too. Help me with the stays on this corset." She turned her back to Moriarty and he
loosened the laces. She squeezed herself out of the confining undergarment and then slipped the camisole back on before turning around.

  Moriarty ran his hand along the rack of evening clothes left behind by the musicians and pulled out a jacket. "Here, try this on."

  "One second." Jenny ripped a long, wide strip from her petticoat, and held one end of it in front of her, at the spot on her camisole that was just between her breasts. "You pull this tight while I turn," she instructed the professor.

  "Ah!" he said. "Very clever." He held the strip of cloth open and taut while she slowly turned and wrapped herself in it.

  "There's a safety pin on the neck of my blouse," she said, holding the cloth strip tight around her. "Would you get it for me?"

  Moriarty complied, and she pinned the cloth in place. "And voilà, I'm a boy!" she said. "Now what?"