At Swords' Point

by Andre Norton

  Keeping his pace down to a walk — though his nerves urged him to run — Quinn began to retrace his path of earlier that evening. But Dordrecht as seen from a taxi window and Dordrecht explored on foot at an hour close to midnight were two different cities. Within twenty minutes he was sure he was completely lost.

  He had to fight down childish panic then, the panic of a townsman lost in deep woods. The dark walls of the closed houses, their stepped roofs making toothed outlines against the sky, seemed to move closer, as if they were edging at him across the deserted sidewalks. He knew again that eerie oneness with the past which he had felt in the Wise Tomcat. He had strayed into another time and place, old, moldering, dangerous — not to be understood by the alien. This was a city in which men had lived and died, fought, hated, loved, for almost three times as many centuries as his own land had been known. This was one of the oldest cities in Europe — Romans had been posted here. And at night — did the past ever live again?

  He stopped short and mentally shook himself, setting his mind to recall Bevroot's instructions. A cast east from that point then brought him luck in the form of a recognizable landmark. Now — he was sure he had it clear.

  A quarter of an hour later he came upon the archway which led to the court of the Wise Tomcat. What was he going to do now if the place was locked up? It would depend largely on luck.

  And that precious commodity must have been right in his pocket for lights still shone dimly in the windows of the dining room. The door was closed, but Quinn tugged the old bell pull three times. Abruptly the lights above went out. Desperate now, Quinn jerked the pull again.

  The door opened.

  “We are closed, Mijnheer!” It was the waiter, and he was already shutting the door again.

  Quinn thrust the edge of his briefcase in that crack.

  “Not to me!”

  His accented Dutch must have identified him. The door remained open. Quinn pushed in, sweeping the waiter before him with a stiff, outheld hand. Once he was in Quinn slammed the door. A faint light filtered down the stairs. It caught and held on something the waiter carried — an ugly-looking Luger.

  “Out!” The word hissed. The man had dropped his humble harassed pose. Quinn knew that he now faced a deadly menace.

  With his back against the door the American stood firm.

  “No. I must see the Jonkvrouw van Nul!”

  “Out!” The barrel of the Luger moved, all the rays from the staircase focusing upon it.

  Only the knowledge that he had no place else to turn kept Quinn there.

  “I will see the Jonkvrouw,” he repeated stubbornly.

  He could not see the movement, but he believed that the man's trigger finger had begun to tighten.

  “Johan!”

  The Luger did not waver.

  “Ja, Jonkvrouw?”

  “What makes this disturbance?”

  The woman was not in the hall. She must have called from her room.

  “It is that crazy American. He has come —”

  “So? Well then, bring him in, Johan. For craziness in the head there is more than one remedy.”

  For the second time that evening Quinn stepped into the room of the mistress of the Wise Tomcat. She still held her granite image pose under the single light on her desk. She might not have moved since he had stood there some hours before. Her face expressed no surprise, and this time she gave him no greeting but waited, as did Johan, for an explanation.

  “I want shelter.” He made that demand with all the boldness he could gather.

  Her lips unfolded to shape a single word.

  “Why?”

  How much or how little of his story should he tell her now? Had she been more cordial earlier he might have spilled the whole of it — out of his need for some reassurance in this shadow world he had entered without knowing or guessing the cost. But now he compromised on half the truth.

  “My room was entered tonight, and the thief fell to his death from the window — at least, I think it was the man. The police —”

  Her hand came down on the desk top in a flat slap which made the papers piled there skip.

  “Johan!”

  “Ja, Jonkvrouw?” The Luger disappeared under the waiter's coat. He slipped out into the hall.

  “So a thief dies and the police begin to sniff at your trail?”

  “I think so.”

  “You were sent to me by those who have some claim on my help — or you say that you have been so sent —”

  “Check with them.” Quinn was defiant. “You will find that I am Roajact.”

  “Those who sent you do not step outside the law — though you say that the police are interested in you —”

  “Neither am I outside the law by my own choice, Jonkvrouw. In my country we have a term for the situation in which I find myself. It is called a ‘frame.’ “

  “That term I have heard, Mijnheer. Its meaning I also know. So you believe that you have had the law invoked against you with intent?”

  “There is this, Jonkvrouw. If I am caught by the law now it will take me some time to clear myself. Thus it seems to me that this series of events has been planned by someone for no other purpose than to delay me. Why I do not know.”

  “That has reason to it. But why should an enquiry into the death of your brother need to be delayed?”

  “There are several reasons I can think of, Jonkvrouw. So that someone may be sent away safely beyond the reach of the law, for example. But you can also guess them for yourself. I was not in my brother's complete confidence, but it is my belief that in Maastricht he sought some information. And when he came too close to the answer he was eliminated.”

  “But you tell me, Mijnheer — or so you did earlier tonight — that you are not official.”

  “And that is the exact truth, Jonkvrouw. I am interested only in bringing to justice those who dealt with my brother. But in doing this it will be necessary to discover the nature of the information he was seeking when he died.”

  “You are very young,” she observed.

  “I think my age of little importance in this matter,” he replied stiffly.

  To his surprise she chuckled, a sound as rich as the full tones of her voice, though her eyes and mouth betrayed no signs of amusement.

  “I am answered fairly, Mijnheer.”

  “Jonkvrouw?” Johan stood again inside the door.

  “Yes?”

  “The police were informed that a currency smuggler was at the de Witt. The information came in the form of an anonymous telephone call early this evening. When they arrived they found on the street the body of the Doppelganger —”

  She digested this in silence, then asked, “Who was his paymaster?”

  “It is not said.”

  She moved then, squaring around in her chair to more nearly face her subordinate.

  “I am displeased, Johan. When I wish information, it must come — in full. You will now discover for whom the Doppelganger was working tonight!”

  Johan again disappeared. And now the Jonkvrouw motioned for Quinn to seat himself on one of the chairs near the wall. There was a subtle alternation in the atmosphere. She had been antagonistic and purposefully aloof, now she was reserving judgment. Quinn seated himself and dared to unbutton his raincoat. His eyes, adjusted to the half gloom of the room, saw a black shape move on the wide cushion of the chair just opposite him. Kater was also included in this conference. And for some reason that thought was almost reassuring. Quinn ventured to ask a question.

  “Could this — this Doppelganger be working for the police?”

  For the second time he heard her chuckle.

  “In his life time the Doppelganger had a varied career and served numerous masters. But none of his activities were on the side of the law. Explain to me this matter of currency smuggling.”

  Quinn was forced to a quick decision. The entrance of the Doppelganger and his mysterious paymasters had apparently been to his advantage. He believed
it the proper time to speak the truth. So now he outlined the events of the past two days from his discovery of the counterfiet bills to his exit from the de Witt.

  She heard him out with her usual stone-set calm. When he had completed the tale she nodded twice — with her bulk it was almost the agreement of a seated Buddha.

  “Mijnheer, now that is the truth. Do not glare so at me — have I not approved it? Also I see why you think that someone has been to no small trouble to put about you a ‘frame’ — as you say. And I am impressed —”

  Kater arose, stretched, and sat tall, tail curled over his front paws, a graven image of impassive dignity. He was like the Jonkvrouw — both of them possessed the same unshakeable belief in themselves and their powers. Now the woman put out a hand and selected from a box by her elbow a long slender cigar. Acrid smoke curled up. Quinn relaxed. Without another word being spoken he knew his acceptance was complete.

  “Indeed,” she repeated between puffs, “I am impressed, Roajact. You have managed your affairs with a surprising amount of good sense — so far —”

  “I probably have half the police force at my heels,” he reminded her flatly.

  “For the Doppelganger few will mourn. Undoubtedly there are those in authority who will be willing to shake you by the hand for being the accidental instrument of his taking off. It is more to the point to discover who sent him to your window ledge. Yes, Johan?”

  Quinn had not heard the door open.

  “The Doppelganger took strange pay, his paymaster is unknown, Jonkvrouw. I have spread the word that you would learn it. Perhaps by morning —”

  She blew a perfect smoke ring. “Very well, Johan. I do not like this development. Strange paymasters coming among us do not make for good feeling — not at all. Now for you, Mijnheer. Tonight you shall remain here. In the morning — well, we shall see. Johan, give Mijnheer the Captain's room. Sleep sound, Roajact, within the walls of the Wise Tomcat you are safe.”

  Quinn offered thanks which she waved aside with the hand which held the cigar. Then he followed Johan up the stairs, past the entrance of the dining room — two more flights — to a short hall from which two doors opened. Johan pulled ajar the one on the left. They stepped into a kind of attic filled with a jumble of broken furniture and dusty boxes. The windows here were boarded up with heavy wooden shutters on the inside.

  But Johan went through this to a closet on the other side where he jerked downward on a wooden clothes peg. A back panel opened — so small and narrow an opening that, though neither was a large man, they had some trouble wriggling through it.

  The room beyond was provided with a cot, a chest of battered drawers, and no windows. Johan jerked a thumb at the cot. Then he was gone without a word and the panel closed behind him.

  By the weak light of a low-watt bulb swinging on a cord from the ceiling Quinn examined his cheerless quarters. They did not improve upon inspection, but he was too tired to quibble. The excitement which had buoyed him up during his escape from the hotel and his passage at arms with the Jonkvrouw was ebbing, and he was very sleepy. He snapped off the light and stretched out on the cot. And almost before he rested there he was asleep.

  It was pitch dark when he awoke with a dull ache behind his eyes and a thick taste in his mouth. He could hear his watch tick when he held it to his ear. He might have been there ten minutes or ten hours. Bemused and logy with sleep he got up on his knees and swept his arms over his head in search of the light cord.

  Lucky chance found it, and he snapped on the light to sit blinking at the chest of drawers. His watch said quarter to ten, and he wound it absently as he tried to sort out his memories of the night before. He was hungry, and he wondered if he were doomed to molder away here while the outer world went about its business. This room had certainly been intended to hide those who had reason to fear the light of day.

  He got to his feet, noting as he walked that no creaking boards betrayed his movements. On the wall by the door panel he found something surprising — a penciled list of names and half obliterated dates.

  “J. Fulmer, 1942. R. W. Wingfield, 1942. Cauldwill, 1942. Ronston-March, 1943. Henderson, 1943. Wolanski, 1943. De Beauclaire, 1943. Wolfe, 1944 —”

  “Former inmates?” he asked of the emptiness about him. But those dates, 1942, 1943, 1944 — the years of the occupation! This must then have been a way station on the underground trail for fleeing men. He'd heard often enough of the Allied fliers who had escaped through the Netherlands, passed from station to station in disguise, at night, at the risk of their guides’ lives. To have sheltered so many this must have been an extra safe place. On impulse he took out his pocket pen and added, “Roajact, 1952.” Ten years after J. Fulmer and yet the same war was still going on!

  Quinn's watch read eleven-thirty, and he was extremely hungry when Johan looked in on him through the secret panel and shoved a small basket across the floor. He shook his head at Quinn's questions and went. The American was left to empty the basket, and despite the grime on his hands, he made a good meal of the cold meat, cheese, and bread it contained, drinking lukewarm coffee from a bottle to wash it down.

  During the rest of the afternoon he was left to doze. He had a feeling that it might be well to catch up on sleep now — he might not have much time later. There was no supper, and Johan did not appear again as the hours dragged by. At eight Quinn found a sliver of meat he had overlooked in the basket and ate it.

  It was close to midnight when the panel moved and Johan beckoned to him. Again they went down to the office of the Jonkvrouw. Kater sat by the proprietress, alert and interested.

  “Sit down!” She indicated a chair. “We have much to do and little time to do it in, Mijnheer. First there comes news — The police believe that a currency smuggler escaped last night from the de Witt. And they have tentatively identified him with one Quinn Anders. Should that Quinn Anders appear where they may lay hands upon him I believe that it would be some time before he could regain his freedom.”

  Quinn was able to nod agreement. After all that was no worse than he had expected.

  “Quinn Anders — if he wishes to remain free — must disappear!”

  “That is something of a problem, is it not, Jonkvrouw van Nul? If I travel I must produce a passport — my funds are mostly in travelers’ checks —”

  She lit one of her cigars. “In every matter of business there are annoying and time-wasting details, Mijnheer. But no difficulty exists which cannot be surmounted by those who have the patience. This is our business now — let us handle it, Mijnheer.”

  Quinn thought of those names on the wall of the hidden room. Yes, false identities might well be an old story to the people of the Wise Tomcat — they had such a business so well established by now that it must move on oiled wheels.

  “You asked me once concerning the Man Who Sells Memories. It is now plain that you are in need of his ministrations yourself. But of that more later. We have also discovered something concerning the Doppelganger's paymaster. He is one of our— you might term it — opposite numbers. For that reason, if no other, it will amuse us to move in your service. Also you are right upon another point, Mijnheer. The center of this web lies somewhere in Limburg —”

  “In Maastricht?”

  She flicked the gray ash from her cigar into a Delft bowl on the desk. “There is more to the Province of Limburg than one city, old and attractive as Maastricht is. However, if one must start somewhere to unroll a coil, it might as well be Maastricht. And you were planning to visit that place in any event, Mijnheer.”

  “How do I get there now? If I go by train —” he began.

  “It shall all be arranged in due course. Quinn Anders, the suspected currency smuggler, must cease to exist. Tonight you will be taken to the Man Who Sells Memories. He will undertake the matter for you. Those who have relied upon his services in the past have never had reason to make complaint of them. Johan will escort you there now.”

  Quinn got to his feet. “
I want to —”He started to thank her.

  But she waved her cigar, a witch's rod of power. “Thanks tend to irritate me, young man. All I wish is that when you return to your own country you will report that Roajact met with proper assistance in his travels. Kater approves of you — an excellent sign.”

  Kater yawned, exposing rows of white needles. The Jonkvrouw van Nul puffed out a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke. And that was the last Quinn saw of either of them.

  6

  THE MAN WHO SELLS MEMORIES

  This time they went down instead of up, passing through the deserted kitchen of the establishment to make their way down a flight of stone steps into a stone paved cellar which had the damp dreariness of a medieval dungeon. Johan's torch gave such a small circle of light that Quinn could only guess at the extent of the chambers where the hollow sound of their footfalls was echoed from green-slimed walls. Beginning to imagine that this was the way to some robber baron's torture chamber the American followed his guide into a last small room loud with the slapping of water against masonry.

  Here half of the floor was a narrow pit filled with a murky liquid which gave off the stench of defiled sea water and tore with a disagreeable sucking sound at its stone boundaries. Floating on this and tied to a stone ring in the wall was a small rowboat. Johan motioned Quinn to step aboard.

  “Pardon, Mijnheer.” The waiter held the light in a steady beam as the American gingerly embarked. “But now it is necessary that I do this.”

  He stepped into the craft with the ease of long practice and whipped a scarf around Quinn's head in a blindfold. His hands then dropped heavily on the American's shoulders forcing him down to lie upon his face in the oozing bottom of the boat.

  “We go where there is scant headroom, Mijnheer. It is best that you lie quiet until I give the word for you to rise again.”

  Quinn had no wish to be brained by obstructions he could not see, so he tried to keep his nose and mouth out of the bad smelling liquid which was soaking the front of his coat and hoped that their journey would not be a long one.