"Where is the road?" asked Joris.
"Thanks to my prowling I can answer that! Just let us out of this cellar." Kane was already on the move. "But may I remind you that he has all the guns. Also, Wasburg —why should we trust you? If it hadn't been for your jumping me back there we would have been all right!"
"The Bishop's Menie was to be my father's ransom. You heard what that one said when he thought that the victory was all his. Now it is no longer necessary to ransom my father. And I have a debt to pay—a heavy debt. If you do not care to continue this venture—that is your concern. But I am going on. While I live I shall follow that one!"
“We have a gun." For the first time Quinn spoke. "It's not much good for anything but close quarters."
They all swung toward him—as if, he thought with some of his old shame, they had long since counted him out. But he drew out the pencil weapon and gave it to Kane.
"Oh, one of those! Well, it's better than nothing and they believe us totally unarmed."
Morning was coming. The sky was gray before they had climbed out of the cellar. And by the time Kane had led them into the tangled ruin of a garden they could see , clearly. But at the fringe of trees beyond Quinn stopped.
"I can't keep up," he said. "You go on ahead or you'll miss out. That's only good sense."
"It's not too far from here," Kane encouraged.
"All the more reason for you three to cut on. In this light it won't take them long to get a tree cleared away. And we don't want to lose out again—"
Kane did not argue. He had that much consideration, thought Quinn gratefully as he swished along through a tangle of last year's waist high grass. He stopped twice to rest and listen. And during his second halt he did hear a sound, a dull thud, thud. Not the sound of battle surely.
In spite of his snail's crawl Quinn reached the thin screen of bushes along the road in time for the last fight of all.
A mud-spattered jeep stood almost hub-deep in those two ruts which marked the road. Across the track several yards away lay a tree and chopping at its litter of branches were two men. The third still sat at the wheel of the jeep and in him Quinn recognized Quong. The leader was impatient, shrilling out a stream of orders at the workers.
There was a deep gouge in the fallen trunk, marking an attempt to cut through it. But that must have proved too slow. They were now trying to ax away enough of the branches to bring the jeep in a detour around the obstruction.
From his vantage point the American saw Wasburg materialize across the road, slightly behind the jeep. The Eurasian was as suddenly gone again but telltale movements in the bushes betrayed his progress toward a point level with the driver's seat of the vehicle.
This—Quinn rubbed his leg absently and settled his back against a tree as sturdy as the tower wall—was going to be good. He had a ringside seat for the whole engagement, too.
Quong was still shouting advice, waving his hands to illustrate whatever point he was making in that strange language. And in neither hand was there a gun. He was not fearing attack now.
The wood choppers stopped. One straightened and felt his back. That was Hans Loo. And the ex-guide was annoyed and not hesitant in letting his boss know it.
"If you can do this better and quicker, Mijnheer, then get you down from that fine car of yours and show us how!" he yelled in Dutch.
Apparently Quong decided to do just that, or at least to carry on his supervision from closer quarters. He had one leg out of the jeep when Wasburg struck.
The eagerness of the Eurasian spoiled his attack. His shoulder struck Quong but he knocked the other back into the jeep not out of it. And Quong, with the speed of a striking snake, went on, across the seat, and out the other side. He landed belly down in the road, already sighting under the car at Wasburg's legs with an automatic he must have snatched up from the seat.
Just in time the Eurasian scrambled into the jeep. He launched another dive from that vantage point. But the other had rolled for the ditch. And from momentary safety in its mud he snapped a second shot which turned Wasburg's forward leap into a sprawling fall.
Quinn automatically began to move toward the point where the Eurasian had crashed down.
There was a third shot and someone cried out. Quinn looked down the road. Loo hung over the tree trunk. His companion had vanished—wildly thrashing bushes to the left marked his retreat.
Someone was moving this way in the brush. Quinn picked loose a stone imbedded in the mud. He might just be able to bounce that off a head—
"Take it easy!"
He had hurled the stone but his aim had been spoiled in the last second by that familiar voice. The stone missed Kane by a good foot. The American came up and there was a Luger in his hand now.
"Quong?"
"Went into the ditch—over there. And he shot Wasburg."
"Did he have the chest with him?"
"No."
"Then he can't be too far away. He won't leave that behind if he can help it. Now we play a waiting game—"
"Where's Joris?"
"Down after Kammer. The odds are in our favor now —or they would be if we weren't up against Quong. He's always had the luck of the Devil himself!"
A moan startled them both. Above the rim of the ditch appeared a hand clutching feebly at the dried weeds.
Wasburg was still alive. Quinn crawled forward, evading Kane's restraining grab. He might not be able to fight but he could see what might be done for the wounded. Before he broke cover another shot cracked viciously and earth spurted into the air not six inches from those weakly moving fingers. The hand disappeared. Quinn shifted his worm's progress to the right. Brush grew thicker there and under its cover he thought he could roll unseen into the ditch.
But Quong moved first. He darted across the ruts as if propelled by his own automatic. Within a second he had gone to earth again on the other side of the jeep.
That chest was still in the car, bait to draw him. Bait in a trap because Kane would be waiting for him to move, waiting with a ready Luger. There was no possible way for the fugitive to reach the jeep without exposing himself.
But Wasburg couldn't afford to wait. Quinn traveled snakewise for the entrance he had marked which would certainly bring him into the ditch. The dusky half-light in which they had begun the battle brightened steadily as red streamers cut the sky to signal sunrise. It was going to be a fair day. Too bad this road was so isolated. If there were only a few neighbors ready to call the Belgian equivalent of the state cops—Quinn bit down on his lower lip. He was so tired he might go to sleep right here and now if he didn't keep on the move.
A bird sang in a liquid trill rising up scale. As peaceful a scene—if one didn't mind Loo hanging over the tree there—as one could wish.
"Good!" he encouraged himself. Now roll down— Ugh— water at the bottom! But he'd forgotten what it felt like to be dry anyway. And soaking up another quart or two at this late hour didn't matter.
Wasburg was plastered face down against the wall of the ditch as if he had been about to climb out when that last bullet had warned him. He was still breathing. Quinn tried to turn him over and the Eurasian roused enough to flop on his back. There was a sticky red patch high on the left shoulder of his shirt where his jacket had fallen open.
Quinn tore the cloth away and gave a sigh of relief. Even to his inexperienced eyes the wound did not look fatal. He searched the victim's pockets, found a reasonably clean handkerchief and made a wad to be bound over the hole with tatters of shirt. That would have to do for the present.
Wasburg opened his eyes but he said nothing until Quinn had finished.
"Where is he now?" he asked in a faint whisper.
"On the other side of the road. He's trying to get at the chest. But Kane's just waiting for that. Both of his men are out of it now. He is alone—"
"Mustn't—" A sharp frown line was etched between Wasburg's eyes and they closed in spite of his efforts.
Quinn squatted on the cold
clay. No, Quong must not be allowed to get away. But he would not be. Anyway there was nothing Quinn Anders could do to help— It was a waiting game which would be won by the first who thought of a plan of attack.
"Anders—?"
"Okay here," he answered Kane reassuringly. "Wasburg stopped one—it doesn't seem too bad—"
"Maartens has gone for help."
What help? Quinn wondered. Hadn't the smugglers sworn hands off this little project just last night? Or had Joris decided to try for the police this time?
"Shouldn't be long then," he returned in a louder voice —one which might carry across to the ears of a skulker. He felt cheerful—because he had a firm conviction that the whole game was almost over now. Not only that, but his side held the winning aces. He waited serenely for what was going to happen next.
The sun was rising, its beams shooting through the branches of old, old trees. And that added light was a challenge to Quong. Just as it struck down the road he made his last move. He ran for the jeep and Kane fired.
There came a cry in answer to the roar of the gun. Quinn levered himself up just in time to see Quong duck back into the bushes. But he was positive that the man had been hit.
"Did you get him?"
"Winged—I think. Get his gun—he dropped it—"
Kane moved out on the road. Quinn looked for the gun and found it barrel up in a rut within distance of his reach. He got it.
"You're not going to get away," Kane addressed the trees before him. "The whole district will be out after you. And the smugglers know this country well enough to have you in an hour—"
No one answered that. Kane and Quinn froze—listening. Surely not even an experienced and trained forester could move through that dry tangle without betraying his passage!
A shout carried down wind.
Kane smiled. "Hear that, Quong? The hunt's up! And those boys don't like you—not one httle bit. It seems that you've spoiled some games for the local big shots. Now you're on the run and they're going to have their innings. Myself—I'd rather take my chances with the law. Come out with your hands up and you'll be turned over to the authorities. Stay in and they'll get you. It's up to you!"
No answer—no answer at all. Had he slipped away?
The mournful hoot of an owl—which did not belong to the sunlight—was the only reply. Maartens climbed over the fallen tree and walked up to the jeep.
"Where is he?"
Kane indicated the brush. "Trying to go to earth. He's unarmed and I'm pretty sure I nicked him. He may try for the cave—"
"Which he won't be able to make," the Netherlander returned with satisfaction. "There is a guard there now. The rest are moving in, beating the ground. As soon as they knew he was on the run they were willing to make it permanent."
Maybe Quong heard that or maybe he was simply trying to reach some bolt hole he knew of.
Bent almost double and running so noiselessly that his feet might have been bare, he crossed the road before Kane could shoot. Maartens started after him but the American caught him by the jacket, and brought him up with a force which spun him half around.
"We can't go charging in there—the woods is trapped all through this section. He's heading to the forester's house. But unless he knows the right path he's apt to blow himself up!"
"Alarms won't stop him!" Maartens struggled to free himself.
"Who said anything about alarms—I said traps! There're wires in there that will set off bombs. I traced two of them down yesterday."
And to prove his statement there came a dull explosion. Quinn felt the vibration through the ground under him. Birds wheeled up in a flock over the road and a series of questioning shouts sounded through the woods.
Maartens closed his mouth.
"Guess he didn't know the right path," commented Kane. "Shall we investigate? And you'd better call off those friends of yours before they set off more fireworks!"
Together they went down the road.
"The chest—" Wasburg had pulled himself up.
"Sure." Quinn fought off the vast fatigue which made every movement of his body an almost impossible labor. "I'll get it-"
He was a long time doing that. Or so it seemed. And it was so heavy—he had to use both hands to lower it to the ground before he half fell down beside it.
Wasburg huddled on the edge of the ditch, his eyes dark and wide. He stretched out a scratched bloody hand. And in it was an old, rust-pitted key.
"Open it.”
Quinn forced the key into the lock. Once there it refused to turn.
"Rusty—" he muttered.
But Wasburg paid no attention. "Open it—open it!"
Quinn braced the box between his knees and took both hands to fight the stubborn key. It might break off in the lock—the fool thing was stuck— Then it gave, complaining. But even after it made a complete turn the lid would not yield. Quinn pried with his pocket knife. It came up.
"Count—must be eleven—must be—I" Wasburg's burning eyes were more alive than his shred of voice.
Quinn pulled out a length of oiled silk and then a pad of woven stuff many times folded. Underneath were small compartments—thirteen. Two were empty—the other eleven contained small rolls of wool.
"Eleven—" Quinn counted them while the Eurasian watched avidly.
"See—right ones—" he begged.
Quinn's fingers, black with grime, picked at the wool. Another and another. He set out the figures on the silk while Wasburg brooded over them. Eight—nine—ten-eleven.
The sun touched the silk, brought to radiant hfe the army standing on it.
“Behold—" Wasburg's voice had steadied and gathered volume. His face was alive, too, a sort of fierce exultation breaking the mask he had worn. "Behold the luck of Sternlitz—behold—the Bishop's Menie!"
CHAPTER 18
AT SWORDS' POINTS
Quinn lay flat—softness under his aching bones—watching a complex pattern of light and shadow flicker on the ceiling. At first awakening he had simply enjoyed the sensation of being warm and dry, drowsy and fed. Then he began to be plagued by the thought that he was lazing there when important things waited to be done.
He swept his hands over the cool sheets, frowned at the light patterns, and remembered. There was a snatch of recollection which had to do with a farmhouse and food and dry clothing. And he had certainly been in a car on a country road. But the rest was gone—
Before the house or the car there had been something else— Sunlight shining on a row of small men. The Bishop's Menie!
As if that had activated his physical machinery Quinn sat up in bed.
They had found the Bishop's Menie! He had held the pieces in his hands. That had been no dream!
And now—he looked around the room. He knew those walls and the chair by the window. He was back in his hotel in Maastricht.
And someone occupied the chair, head in the angle between arm and back, feet resting on an upended suitcase. Quinn put his legs out of bed and stretched. It must be almost mid-morning—
"So you've come to?"
Kane sat up, groaned and rubbed his shoulder, ran his hand across a chin which bore more than one day's growth of red stubble.
"How did we get back here?" Quinn reached for his robe.
"By car—over the border. Can't you remember?"
"Not much—"
"You did an excellent job of sleep-walking then. Whew —" He had glanced at his watch. "We got in here at eight last night. It's now nine in the morning. Which makes a good spell of bunk drill for us."
"I'd like to do some catching up on past events," Quinn mumbled through toothpaste. "What happened to Quong?"
"He investigated one of the booby traps. We let the authorities deal with the result. Loo was kaput too. But they collected Kammer and the chap who stood sentry at the tower gate. Only—officially they're smugglers. And we won't be called upon to testify against them. At this point it is better not to admit openly when you remove some of
the enemy—silence is so much more confusing to their home base. And," there was a cold note in Kane's habitual lightness, "a spot of confusion—all spots of confusion— which anyone can cause at that home base right now are to the good as far as we are concerned.
"Quong was a big man in that service. He will vanish for a time without a trace—because I don’t believe that he told even his nearest companions where he was going or why—that is his usual procedure. So he slipped out of sight. Now there will begin to spread some nasty rumors. ‘Did you hear, comrade, that dear Quong was not altogether pleased with his paymasters? That he was dissatisfied when he left on his secret mission?' Those are the words which will trickle into the right ears.
"Perhaps Quong has made a deal with the enemy.' And Quong knows or did know too much. So Quong's paymasters begin to sweat because they never trust each other. And they will set in motion their own intelligence-gathering lines. Maybe they will hear of a mysterious passenger carried to the United States on an army bomber —a passenger held incommunicado. And they will sweat even more—"
"But how can you keep his death quiet entirely?"
"Eventually, of course, someone will report that the so-dear Quong is now underground. But by that time the rumors will seem more believable than the truth. Haven't you heard all the tales of Hitler's escape? And I don't think anyone could possibly identify the body we found yesterday. No, Quong dead may serve us better than he ever served his masters when alive."
"What happened to Wasburg and the Menie?"
"Wasburg is under Maartens' wing. He had a slug dug out of his shoulder and he has probably spent the past hours in bed with the Menie under his pillow. Yesterday he was in no condition to answer questions but we have hopes of learning a little today. Now," Kane scratched at the stubble on his jaw again, "I shall withdraw to make myself beautiful. But I want a promise from you first, m'lad. You are going to stay put right here until I come for you. We don't know who Quong set loose in this town when he left. And the local boys who accounted for your brother must have some contact with his team. I have a fancy to keep you in one piece—at least until we finish this caper—"
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