At Swords' Point

by Andre Norton

Unless someone was trying to build a nice tight frame around Quinn Anders. Currency smuggling was a major crime, a very serious offense. And the smuggling of counterfeit currency was probably twice as serious. The charge might involve him so deeply with the police, if those bills were found in his possession, that even the American embassy would be prejudiced against his case. He could very well be kept in custody for days or weeks. Giving some unknown plenty of time — time to do what? Go to Sternsberg and pull the treasure out of a hat? But that was just a little too fanciful!

  He paid his check and went out, turning up his collar against the drive of the rain, and huddling close to the buildings he passed. At the end of the block he came upon a bookshop. It was one of those small cluttered places which no booklover could possibly refrain from visiting and almost automatically Quinn went in.

  The proprietor, a short man wearing a draggle of pipe ashes down the bosom of his black jacket, looked up with real irritation as the American disturbed the musty silence of the book-filled room. But when Quinn merely made his way to the nearest overloaded table and began to poke among the dusty books there, he subsided into his sway-bottomed chair with a sigh of relief.

  The rain continued to beat against the window, and the faint mustiness of disintegrating bindings added a dry, not unpleasant, scent to the atmosphere. Quinn was glad that he read Dutch well enough to be able to browse intelligently, and he was doubly glad of that talent when he came upon a battered volume which he knew he must take with him, for it contained a detailed and complete collection of plates showing armor of the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

  With this treasure in hand, Quinn bearded the reluctant salesman and bargained. As one who wished to rid himself of a nuisance the man at last accepted money, produced a much-creased piece of paper which he wrapped negligently about the purchase, and literally shooed Quinn toward the door. The book under his arm, Quinn trudged wearily back to his hotel.

  He hesitated in the lobby before the table which bore a pile of booklets labeled in red and white letters “Dordrecht.” These proved to be guides to the city, written in English, and he appropriated one of them.

  Back in his own room he tackled the main problem. The paper which had been wrapped about the book of armor had, by all visual evidence, served several times as a covering since it had been originally torn from its parent roll. It was smudged and creased but on neither side had any directions been written on it, nor did it carry any identification that Quinn could see. He smoothed it flat and brought out the spool of scotch tape he carried for the repairing of torn notebook leaves. Using his penknife he cut and taped together a crude but efficient envelope into which he sealed the bills.

  There was a small city directory in the chest drawer. And the address he wanted was well to the front. But it took him a good thirty minutes to copy it out with his left hand —

  “Chief of Police, Dordrecht —” All in the proper Dutch terms.

  The letters were clumsily blocked and maybe a handwriting expert could identify them. But they would have nothing else written by him for comparison.

  Stamps were a problem. They'd be a little hard to find on the spur of the moment, and he didn't want to keep this any longer than he had to. Did he need them? Surely an envelope so addressed would be delivered if found in one of the regular mail pickups! He would just have to take a chance on that.

  He tumbled into bed at last with the satisfaction of knowing that one little mystery had been turned over properly to the law. And if a frame had been tailored for him he had done his best to break out of it. He had studied the guide to Dordrecht, and the next day, as a tourist, he would ramble around, ramble until he could test the efficiency of van Norreys’ introduction.

  It was gray, gloomy, and still inclined to rain the next morning. Quinn chewed his way through a breakfast which did not include orange juice, but which did surprisingly feature cheese, and he re-read the booklet while he ate. Walk Number One would eventually lead him to Voorstraat. And to save time he could cut out the section that dealt with the parks and begin with Noordendijk and the old mill to be viewed there. A mill on a dike — just the proper introduction to Dutch sightseeing.

  So methodically, and as the proper student of history, he followed “First Walk” as outlined by the city fathers for the delight of visitors. Noordendijk led into the ancient section of Dordrecht, the Venice of Holland, where canal water lapped both the front and backs of old stepped-roof houses.

  Quinn finally found his way into Museumstraat and skirted the picture gallery. In spite of his role of tourist he was in no mood to view art just now. The houses made a continuous wall. Once New York must have looked much the same — back in the days when fiery old Pieter Stuyvesant stamped its cobbled streets, buckled shoe and silver-banded peg keeping time to the round oaths with which he peppered the upstart English who had dared to beard him in his own den. In spite of the rain Quinn strolled slowly here, even stopping for a good three minutes to look at Berckeport where another man, as stubborn in his opposition to the enemy as Pieter Stuyvesant, had once burned midnight oil in council — William the Silent. There were the arched gates, the old courts, and history-stained houses.

  But in the end Quinn came into Voorstraat. A furniture dealer occupied number 97, and there was a bookshop at 89. But he kept on until he found Bevroot's. Dutch silver made a pattern on the floor of the window, and beyond the fan of christening spoons and snuffboxes were Delft and porcelain. At the very back was a long-necked, long-armed stick puppet of Indonesian manufacture leering malevolently at a piece of faded but beautifully wrought embroidery. But beyond a selection of necklaces of coral, carnelian, and amber, which must have been once the finery of peasant brides, was a velvet-lined tray on which rested several old watches.

  Quinn went in. But he hesitated just within the door when he found himself faced by a maze of large and small tables, all crowded with porcelain, brass, copper, and glass. There were three lamps burning at spaced intervals down the length of the room, but together they did not give too much light.

  “Mijnheer wishes?”

  The man who came forward was the Bevroot of the picture he had seen — there were the same puckered lips and pettish frown between the eyes.

  “I saw the watches in your window,” Quinn said abruptly — abruptly because suddenly he felt rather silly. “You don't by chance make repairs, do you? I'm a tourist — just got in — and mine has been running fast all morning. I don't know where to have it taken care of—”

  “So?” Bevroot looked neither interested nor completely disinterested. He was a shopkeeper being polite. “I am not in the watch repair business, Mijnheer. Most of those I sell are items of historical interest — not for modern use, you understand. But if you wish to give to me for examination the one you wear — perhaps I can locate the trouble. Though if the repair is of difficulty you must then take it elsewhere —”

  “Of course.” Quinn took off the watch and passed it over to Bevroot who disappeared with it into the back of the shop.

  The American moved slowly around the nearest tables. And the medley he saw displayed there was enough to fascinate anyone. From a tray of small odds and ends he picked up a carnelian seal set in thin old gold. The device it bore — a lion rearing on its hind legs and brandishing a sword between its front paws very martially — Stark would like it.

  Quinn dropped the seal back into the tray and turned abruptly away. When would memory stop playing such tricks on him?

  “Mijnheer!”

  Almost he jumped. Bevroot's approach had been close to noiseless.

  “The adjustment needed was but a slight one, Mijnheer. Now, I believe, you will find that it keeps better time. A fine watch indeed, Mijnheer. Excellent workmanship. It is American made?”

  “Yes. My father gave it to me. What do I owe you for your service, Mijnheer?”

  Bevroot shook his head. “Nothing, Mijnheer. You have but recently come from America?”

  “Yes. This is
my first day in Dordrecht —”

  Bevroot's professional, shopkeeper's smile became almost eager. “You must not miss then, Mijnheer, the best we have to offer.”

  “You have, perhaps, some suggestions for me, Mijnheer?”

  “One only. There is a cafe, Mijnheer. You will not find it listed in the guide books for it is small and difficult for the stranger to find. But if you will go there — perhaps for dinner tonight — you will think it worth the trouble you have taken to visit it. You must also be sure to ask for a canal window table. To sit and sip your coffee and watch water traffic pass by might be amusing. An experience which I do not believe can be offered you in America — as amazing as that country is.”

  “No, that is true, Mijnheer. And the name of this cafe?”

  “It is the Wijze Kater — the Wise Tomcat — Mijnheer. You may reach it thus —”

  On the back of an old envelope he drew a map and carefully went over it twice until he saw that Quinn understood.

  “Under the arch in the building, Mijnheer, and into the court beyond. There is no sign outside, and it is easy to mistake the place —”

  “I do not think that now I shall.”

  “Good! And, Mijnheer, the cook comes from a district near Maastricht in Limburg. Ask for Vla cherry pie — that is a dish of that place. In all Dordrecht, I can promise you this truly, there is no Vla pie such as is served in the Wise Tomcat. The table by the canal and the pie, that you must not forget, Mijnheer.”

  “I won't.” Quinn turned and picked up the seal he had seen. “I would like to buy this, if you please.” When he had paid for the small sum Bevroot asked, he added, “You ship overseas, Mijnheer?”

  “If a customer wishes, Mijnheer. There is then a sum to be added for the postage. As for this — there would be no duty — it is truly an antique. Not of great value — only eighteenth century.”

  “You will send it, please, to a Mijnheer Sam Marusaki, care of the House of Norreys, in New York City.”

  Bevroot noted the address down. Quinn grinned to himself as he left the shop. Cloak-and-dagger was it? Well, he'd chosen a neat way to let Marusaki and van Norreys know that he had taken the first step on the road they had marked out for him.

  Voorstraat was still wet, and there was a nasty cold wind breaking along it. But Quinn went down its full length remembering, as the guide book had so strongly urged, to turn to the left between numbers 133 and 131 so he could catch the proper view of the Voorstraat-haven. The houses were reflected in dull gray canal water as shadowy blocks. He jerked again at his coat collar. Since he could not visit the Wise Tomcat before the dinner hour and he had an empty middle section right then it might be well to discover some other and less discreet eating place.

  He glanced back along the street. Save for another man far down its length it was deserted. Quinn set off at a sharper pace, thinking of coffee, hot, in a large cup, and right away.

  4

  THE WISE TOMCAT

  Gray skies had not only dripped but poured before Quinn found a restaurant, and he was thoroughly damp and out of sorts when he sat down. But the steamy warmth of the place was comforting, and once the the business of giving his order was done, he was able again to take an observant interest in his surroundings. Another newcomer was hesitating in the doorway, and as Quinn's eyes flicked over him the American knew a second of startled question. The angle of those hunched shoulders and the outline made by the turned-up coat collar were familiar. The face remained a thin slice of white — its owner in no hurry to reveal more.

  The waiter who bustled doorward to meet the stranger paid no attention at all to what seemed to be a protest but bowed the man to the only small table yet unoccupied, placed in the full light of the front window. And now the reluctant diner was forced to shed hat and coat.

  For a single wild minute Quinn thought that Marusaki's “Quong, Hong, or Wing” was now sharing the room with him. That thick black hair was straight and so sleek on its possessor’s head that it might have been lacquered over the well-shaped skull. The stranger's nose was sharp, high-bridged, and his eyes had heavy drooping lids which were never fully raised. There was no way of computing his age, he might have been twenty-five or fifty. But his slim body with its lithe, controlled movements led Quinn to believe that the first figure might be closer to the truth. At any rate the man was definitely not Dutch, not, Quinn would have willingly laid a wager on that, European. And he was not Quong, Hong, or Wing either — only those weary eyes and the general contour of the face were similar to the photograph. The American turned his full attention to his food, resolving not to humor his imagination again.

  A conscientious visit to the museum filled up the dragging hours of the afternoon, and at four Quinn splashed back to the hotel, bored and wet. When he asked for his key the head porter also produced a message. A Mijnheer Grosport had called and would call again.

  Grosport. Quinn identified it as one of the names on the list van Noorden had given him at the station. He was one of the people the American had no intention of contacting. But, since he was not staying at the hotel van Noorden had so vehemently recommended, how in the world had Mijnheer Grosport tracked him down and why? This zeal to entertain visitors was so entirely overwhelming that Quinn was led to thoughtfully file Mijnheer Grosport's message in the wastebasket and promise himself that that was going to be the end of that!

  But he was uneasy enough to turn on every light in the room and make a slow and thorough tour of inspection. At the chest of drawers he found what suspicion had led him to expect. The drawers, which he had left evenly closed, were no longer so perfectly in line. And it was the one to which he had attached the bills the day before which now protruded a fraction of an inch.

  Quinn pulled it all the way out. Yes, in the light it would have been possible for the searcher to see the marks the tape had left on the wood. Well, Fido must have arrived — but only to find the cupboard bare. Now what was going to be Fido’s reaction to that?

  Other indications showed him that the rest of the room had been searched too, by someone at least partially skilled in the business. And would that searcher now believe that he, Quinn, carried the bills on his person? It might be well to walk softly from now on, look well into shadows, and take care in crossing dark streets when out in the cool of the evening.

  He went to the window and stood staring through the rain-streaked glass down at the streaming roofs of Dordrecht — at the leaden gray veins which were the canals, at the darkness which was gathering swiftly to add to the murk of the storm. His body stiffened, tense, rigid, his tongue tried to gather moisture in a dry mouth; behind his ear a nerve throbbed.

  Had Stark known this sensation when he recognized danger? Stark had never talked about the past, or the future — only the present — and the surface of his present had always seemed serene and untroubled. That smooth and debonair shell of charm and goodfellowship which Stark had used as his armor had set a barrier between him and his family, too. Now Quinn was in the world of Capt. Stark Anders, and at that moment he would have given anything and everything he possessed to be able to ask, “Is this it, Stark? Is this the way it always is — this feeling of loneliness, of being cut off — of — of fear?”

  That was what cut the deepest — the feeling of being barred from the safety of the regular and familiar world where a man did a day's work at a routine job and went home at night to sleep at ease in a safe bed. Across the barrier — in this other world where you knew that your wits and your strength alone were all you had to depend upon — you knew real and terrifying loneliness. But Stark must have felt that too. Maybe he sent that scrap of menu when he had been caught up in just such a moment of aloneness. And Stark had not won back across the barrier to safety.

  Quinn raised the window. The rain-washed wind was cold, with a faint salty tang to it. It whined above the tooth-edged roof tops. And over that whine he heard the sound of a metallic chime. One, two, three, four, five! It would be all right now to sta
rt for the Wise Tomcat.

  There was a taxi just discharging a passenger outside the hotel, and he was lucky enough to secure it, preferring to ride rather than get lost in the maze of old streets Bevroot had attempted to chart for him. When he got out of the cab at a corner not too far from his destination the flood of homeward bound bicycles had thinned to a trickle through which he was able to dodge while looking for landmarks.

  So he won into a side street, hardly more than a slot, which surely no modern vehicle could possibly negotiate without scraping off doorsteps all along the way.

  This ended in an arch which was part of an old house. Curtained windows were over his head as he walked through into the small court beyond. Two narrow houses made up the sidewalls, and a single one faced the arch. In it lighted windows made beacons, and it bore a sign which creaked with the swing of the wind. Gilt and paint caught the lamplight from the lantern fixture on the neighboring house. Quinn had found the Wise Tomcat.

  Inside, the visitor went up a narrow staircase, set at almost a breakneck angle, to a low-ceiled room where beams provided overhead menaces to the too tall and unwary. About half of the tables set there were occupied by earnest eaters.

  “A table, Mijnheer?”

  Quinn glanced at the young man who had paused before him. And it seemed to him that the waiter's pale face twitched and lines of harassment bracketed his mouth when the American did not answer immediately.

  “I would like one by the canal, if you please,” he answered in English.

  The nervous twitch pulled the other's mouth awry for an instant. But he neither answered nor moved.

  Then Quinn added, “I am an American, and this is my first visit to your city. Mijnheer Bevroot was kind enough to tell me of the Wise Tomcat — he also suggested that I ask for that table —”

  “Very well, Mijnheer.”

  But the waiter's reluctance was very apparent as he led the way across the room to a solitary table placed by a casement window. He pulled out the chair for Quinn, hastily spread an assortment of cutlery, and dropped a menu card.