by Andre Norton
Maartens’ question was a single word, “How?”
“It lies here.” Wasburg tapped his nails against the stone. “And it leads to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge. But whether it is still clear and usable I do not know —”
“We can try anything once! How do you get it open?” Kane wanted to know.
Quinn shoved along the bench to the end farthest from their explorations. He had begun to wonder about that ledge bench. Why had it been put there in the first place? No one would use it for a bed. And why would the owners want to come here and sit down for any length of time? He slewed around and tried to see how it was fitted to the wall. Surely that was a crack — !
“Look!” In the excitement he forgot about being sick and how miserably he had failed. “This bench — it doesn't fit tight!”
Joris jerked the lamp around, bringing it to bear full upon the ledge.
“Now let's see about that,” said Kane briskly.
Quinn got to his feet to watch.
17
BEHOLD — THE BISHOP'S MENIE!
“Just a minute —” Kane felt along under the edge of the slab. “There seem to be some holds here —”
But Joris had already gone down on his knees at the other end to make the same discovery. He grunted in agreement.
“Suppose we try pulling it forward. Steady now —” ordered the American.
At first nothing happened. But then, as if the inertia of centuries had been bested, the ledge came out from the wall an inch or two.
“A couple of quick pulls should bring it —” suggested Kane.
They gave it a couple of jerks. The resistance gave way, and the stone slab moved so fast that the men fell back to escape the crash with which it met the floor.
“That did it!”
But they didn't need Kane's words. All could see that the removal of that weight from the grooves in the walls had activated a counterweight and that there was now a black hole facing them, a hole through which a man could crawl on hands and knees.
“What's beyond?” Kane demanded of Wasburg.
“How do I know? It is supposed to lead, as I said, to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge —”
“Which means,” Joris observed, “that it must pass under the river bed on the way there.”
Kane rubbed his bristly chin with the palm of his hand.
“Under water — eh? That could mean cave-ins and other fun and games. And how much of it do we have to do on our bellies?”
Joris flashed the light into the darkness.
“Not much — there's a good space on the other side —”
“Well, we don't have any choice left.” Kane glanced up at the Eurasian, and his tone was that of an order. “Suppose you act as guide here.”
Without answering Wasburg picked up one of the crowbars he had been using to dig out the treasure. Then he went down on his hands and knees and crawled through, Joris hard on his heels. Kane passed them the lamp and turned.
“Next, Anders —”
Quinn lowered himself stiffly to the floor and pushed his body through the hole. Then he was being helped to his feet in a narrow passage.
Single file, Wasburg in the lead, they went on. Within three or four yards they were at what might pass for steps — notches cut in the wall into which one could only set toes and fingers.
That downward climb was a nightmare for Quinn. He could use his leg again. But, sweating, his nerves tearing at him, he wondered how long the muscles would continue to work. If he fell here he would carry others down with him. He prayed desperately, his body taut with fear and effort, as they descended what seemed endless miles into the dark maw of a raw rock pit.
When he reached a level passageway again Quinn reeled to the nearest wall and leaned against it limply.
“Can you make it?” Kane's voice came out of the rusty mist which was fast closing about him.
He couldn't, of course, he would slip to the ground right there. He could not force himself to take another step. Only neither could he admit that, he discovered with dull surprise. And he did keep going, one hand on the guiding wall beside him.
The rest of the journey was a mixed dream. Once they stumbled across a section where water ran in sluggish, evil streams down the walls and puddled in rank pools through which they must splash. Luckily there was no more climbing to be done, and Quinn continued to keep his feet after a fashion.
Because he was so occupied with his own battle against the weakness of his body he was only thankful when they paused at last. Before them was a mass of earth and stone walling off the tunnel. He watched as the others picked and dug and felt no thrill when the crowbar prodded through. Nor did he care how long it took them to dig out of the debris a hole through which a man might wriggle.
But when a cold fresh wind suddenly blew full in his face an and he found himself looking up into the night sky he came fully awake.
“The wine cellar —” That was Wasburg. “Two of the Menie were kept here. The luck of Sternlitz was left to guard the last holding — . The rest were hidden, as you saw, in the tower —”
“ Were in the tower was right!” Kane returned. “Quong has them now.”
“Whether he will continue to keep them is another matter —” There was the ice of a terrible driving hate in that answer.
“What chance is there of stopping him?” Joris wanted to know.
Quinn was fast coming alive. He began to take an interest in matters at hand. How could anyone stop Quong?
“There is but one road leading to this place. And earlier it was reported that a tree had blown down across it. Unless that one chooses to go back through the caverns — which for many reasons he may not care to do — he must clear the road — or have his men do it for him. That should require time —” Wasburg talked almost as if he were thinking aloud.
“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. 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 stil
l 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 Belgain 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 or 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 little bit. It seems that you've spoiled some games for the local big shots. No
w 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.