Wet snow pattered against windowpanes.
Brother Maurice showed them through a doorway and Durell clearly saw his death’s-head face for the first time. The upthrusting light of the lantern made black hollows in which his eyes glittered; the yellow skin on his cheeks was taut.
“Our guest will remain here,” he told Durell as he opened the door to a narrow monk’s cell. “This part of the building is vacant. No one will hear, even if he shouts at the top of his lungs. He might as well be dead and buried.” The monk lowered his voice to a sinister whisper. “These cells were reserved for the insane in the old days.”
There was a narrow plank cot, no mattress, a wooden stool, a table in the corner, a chamber pot, and a crucifix. That was all.
Caske looked appalled. “Why are you doing this? Do you realize the danger you’re putting yourself in? And Mrs. Plettner? I can’t be responsible for what my men may do when they catch you.” He jabbed with his finger. “Or the courts, if you’re lucky enough to be turned over to them. Be sensible! Release me, and I’ll pretend none of this happened. All will be forgiven.”
Durell spoke with contempt. “Lock him up, Brother Maurice.”
“Wait! I—I’m not well.” Caske’s voice broke. “There isn’t even a window.”
The monk told him, “Just be glad I didn’t chain you in the attic with the rats. There’s a place even the brothers won’t go.” .
It was a convincing touch. Durell judged that Caske was ready to do almost anything. He thought he’d try something that had been hatching in the back of his mind. “Let’s talk about Dr. Plettner’s files,” he said.
“I won’t sell them to anyone, I promise.”
“A promise from a man with your morals is worthless,” Durell said bluntly. “Have the files delivered here.”
“Here?”
“Tonight.”
Muncie looked worried. “How will you know whether they’re the real thing? Don’t trust him.”
“Does it look as if I trust him?”
“Mrs. Plettner! Really! I am a businessman,” Caske blustered.
“If you hadn’t pressured Peter, none of this would have happened,” she told him. “You made him a drunk. You made him run away!”
Durell stepped between them. “I’ll release you when you get me those files. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged.
“It’s extortion!” Caske blurted.
“Call it what you like.”
Caske slumped down onto the cot. “I have no choice, then?”
“Not unless you like solitary confinement—you may have had your last glimpse outside these four walls.”
“Don’t say that!”
“I’ll have to be sure your people don’t copy the papers before they deliver them,” Durell said. “The only way is not to give them enough time. It took about twenty minutes to drive here. I’ll give your man thirty.”
“It’s not enough,” Caske objected.
“If they want you back it is.”
Caske shrugged.
Durell said, “Tell him to leave the files by the signpost, but don’t tell him you’re here. Say you’ll be released in Geneva at the Jardin Anglais, after the files have been inspected for authenticity.” Durell cut off Caske’s protest. “I know, you’ll insist on being exchanged directly—and you will be waiting at the sign—-but I can’t let your man know. He might be tempted to bring a dummy file, or none at all. I have to insist.”
“Very well,” Caske said. “But he may bring dummies, anyhow.”
“Not if he thinks your release depends on authenticity. Remember, he’s to think you’ll be held until that has been established.” Durell drew a breath. “He’ll bring the real thing,” he said. Then, to Brother Maurice, “Where’s a phone?”
“This way.” He led them back down the stairs and through twin gothic doors embellished with carvings from the Book of Genesis. “My office,” he said. “I’m abbot now. It’s a long way from French resistance of World War Two days, is it not?”
“How did you end up here?” Muncie asked.
“Ah, she’s a curious one,” he told Durell. Then, to Muncie, “Suffice it to say, I never dare return to France, my dear lady.”
She turned dubious eyes on Durell; he brushed it aside and handed Caske an old-fashioned stand-up telephone.
“You’d better get out of Switzerland, too, after tonight," Caske told the abbot.
A grin crossed the skull-like face. “They are taking me to America, Mr. Caske. Oh? Didn’t you think I’d recognize a man of your stature? I haven’t been buried out here, you know.”
Caske knotted the muscles in his jaw in futile anger. He dialed a number, spoke to someone, and gave him Durell’s instructions. When he had finished and put down the phone, he looked past Durell, and his face went white.
Brother Maurice stood a few feet away, covering them all with a German Luger. . . .
Chapter 12
Durell stared at the black muzzle, then the monk’s tense face, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
Caske spoke first. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“Put your hands up. All of you,” Brother Maurice ordered. “M’sieur Durell, drop your pistol and kick it across the floor to me . . . gently.”
“You’re biting the hand that feeds you,” Durell growled.
“Perhaps it hasn’t fed me well enough. Perhaps I shall eat better on my own.” The thin voice strengthened with anger. “I’ve hidden here for thirty-five years, living like an animal in a cage while the rest of the world went by. At last I have the means of escape. This wealthy man can pay me for his freedom—and there’s the matter of those files you all seem to value so much. . . .”
Durell tried to explain. “You can’t use them; they’re full of scientific data—”
“Perhaps someone else can.” The Luger swung back and forth nervously.
“But it’s not ordinary espionage material—not mere secrets to be put into someone’s intelligence mill for a few new facts. They could swing the balance between life and death for thousands of people,” Durell pleaded.
“Isn’t it always so? And how much is each of those lives worth, do you think? A thousand dollars apiece, perhaps? Could you arrange it for me?”
Durell was overcome with loathing. “You slime . . ."
“Keep your distance, my friend!” There was a charged silence, then the monk said, “Just do as I say. Go back to the cell, the lady first.”
They had no choice but to obey.
The air in the cell was frigid. Durell envisioned a mountain of stone surrounding them like a glacier. Muncie was watching him, her eyes wide. He turned away and tried to take stock—he didn’t need a hysterical woman’s ravings right now. “At least give us a candle,” he told Brother Maurice.
“In the drawer of the table,” the monk said.
Durell found it and got a light from the lantern. Brother Maurice watched every move with his finger on the trigger.
“You will come with me, M’sieur Caske,” the monk said. “Let’s go await the files. Then we can talk money.”
The door thudded shut. There was a rattle as a key was inserted and the lock was turned.
Muncie beat against the door. “What are you going to do with us?”
The thick door muffled a chilling reply. “I don’t have to do anything—time will take care of you for me.”
Durell heard a maligning laugh.
Then, silence. . . .
“It could be worse,” Durell told Muncie.
“Yeah? How?”
He pointed to the floor. “Rat droppings.”
“Ooh!” She shuddered.
“From up there.” He pointed at the ceiling. The aged planks were separated by gaps as wide as a quarter-inch in places. He handed his candle to her and moved the stool to the center of the room.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
“We may be able to get through that ceiling,” he said. He climbed onto the stool and studied it carefully
. “May as well give it a try.” He hit the planks with the heel of his hand. Dust sifted down. They didn’t come loose, but it felt as if they might, given a little more encouragement.
He dragged the table out of the corner, put the stool on top of that, and climbed up. “Steady the table,” he said.
“Sam, I’m not sure I want to get into that ceiling, not if there are rats up there. . . .” She put the candle on the floor; its light made their shadows big on the whitewashed walls.
“It’s the only way out,” he told her, “rats or not.”
“I can’t stand rodents.”
“You probably won’t even see any.”
“Probably!”
He banged the ceiling again, harder.
Muncie said, “I thought your monk friend was supposed to be on our side.”
“Me, too.” He kept hitting the ceiling, hurting his hands.
“The temptation was just too much for him,” she said. “Temptation is something I can understand. I had plenty of temptations, traveling all over with Peter. I could’ve had other men, you know.”
Durell took a breather, looking down at her grave blue eyes. “Why didn’t you?”
“I’ve been asking myself that.”
Something in her face and in the way she spoke almost made him come down and take her in his arms ... but if that was what she wanted, she’d picked the wrong time and place. He had to try to stop Brother Maurice. The moment passed, and he went to work on the ceiling once more, beating until he had to clench his jaw in pain.
“I’ve got a couple of the boards loose,” he announced. “Just a minute, now.” He finished prying the planks loose.
Dust and rat dung spilled into the cell.
He coughed and covered his mouth. Cold air flooded down over him. “Hand me the candle.”
Muncie did as he asked, and he reached overhead and stuck
it on the attic floor, then pulled himself up, shoulders cracking. Muncie got onto the stool, and he lifted her after him.
The attic was an enormous open space where the walls were only shadows in the gloomy distance. Great hand-hewn rafters, stained and split with age, held up the roof; cobwebs hung in clouds. There was no floor, only crossbeams laden with dust and droppings. And there was the furtive rattle of tiny clawed feet. . . .
“Watch your step,” Durell cautioned and moved down the building’s length, the candle out before him.
Rats squeaked.
The stench of dry rot muddied his nostrils.
He wondered with a sense of urgency how much time had passed since Caske had called for the files. He glanced at his watch: almost twenty minutes. Brother Maurice was sure to grab the files and run—he could take Caske along to ransom later. And once he started running, he could become well-nigh impossible to catch—as the French he’d betrayed during the war had found out.
Not that the files contained everything necessary to manufacture X. coli. Information that detailed was only in Dr. Plettner’s head, or perhaps in the laboratory destroyed in the fire. But the files could lead to the brink, needing only the biochemical experts and facilities to brew up the killer strain, perhaps within a few days.
It did not cross Durell’s mind to doubt that the monk would find a buyer. The world was becoming more insanely violent every day.
The sharp grating sound of gnawing rats’ teeth came through the chill air.
They passed a chimney of eroded brick; it was covered with frozen drippings from the roof. Here was a litter of pigeon feathers, bird bones.
Starting at the chimney the attic was floored, but passage was more difficult. There were heaps and stacks of storage, much of it probably forgotten over the ages. The vellum pages of illuminated manuscripts had turned moldy and fallen apart. There were religious paintings emblazoned with gold, icons studded with emeralds and rubies, silver reliquaries, rolled tapestries. And there were ordinary boxes and barrels and mountains of things covered with rugs and sheeting.
“There’s a fortune here,” Muncie said.
“There must be a door somewhere,” he said.
Muncie gripped his arm. “Look!”
He followed her gaze and saw three wooden burial caskets lying just inside the pool of light cast by the candle. “Probably made by the monks for their own,” he said.
“It’s a bit gruesome, don’t you think? To know that your coffin is waiting for you in the attic . . . ?”
“Monks are as much concerned with dying as with living,” he replied.
Abruptly he held the candle higher, looking more closely.
“What is it?” she asked, her tone apprehensive. “What do you see?”
Durell’s brow creased thoughtfully. “Look at the dust on them—one’s got fresh handprints all over it.”
“The rats have been gnawing on it, too—look at the edges.” Muncie shivered.
They stared at each other, then Durell bent down and found where drops of blood had made mud balls in the dust. Still fresh, it smeared with greasy ease between his thumb and forefinger.
Rats’ eyes shone from the near shadows.
Durell looked for Muncie’s face.
“I’m frightened,” she told him. “Please, let’s . . .”
“We can’t—not until we find out. . . ."
“Do you think the monk killed Caske? He wouldn’t have done that, would he?” She shook her head.
“Maybe. No one would know until they paid a ransom whether Caske was dead or alive.” He reached for the lid.
“Are you going to open it?”
“The lid’s loose,” he told her. He took a breath and pulled the lid up. His face went hard.
The man in the casket was Brother Maurice.
Chapter 13
Brother Maurice was not quite dead.
His skull-face was the color of old ivory, and his lips were skinned back as he strove to breathe. Blood stuck to the chest of his robe where a wet, black bullethole gurgled air. “Help me . . . the rats!” he whispered. “They’re coming!” His eyes rolled in terror.
“What happened?” Durell knelt beside the coffin.
“He was . . . too smart.” The dying man plucked at Durell and panted for air. “I took too much . . . for granted. Tried to play . . . how you say? . . . big shot.” He coughed; the bullethole squirted bloody foam. Feebly, he said, “He’s strong . . . and ruthless. . . .”
Durell threw a book at the gleaming eyes creeping out from the darkness. Whether drawn by the smell of fresh blood or a sense of the monk’s helplessness, the rats had gotten bolder.
The cold in the unheated attic stabbed at Durell’s bones.
“Did he get both guns?” he asked. The monk’s eyes rolled back. Durell slapped him. “Did he get both guns!” “Yes . . . no . . . let me think,” he whined.
“You miserable . . . There isn’t time to think. I’ll leave you to the rats!”
“Please . . .!”
“Sam, for heaven’s sakes! Get a doctor,” Muncie pleaded.
“Keep out of this,” he snarled. “Where’s the gun?” he demanded.
Brother Maurice sobbed. “Under . . . cassock . . .”
Feverishly, Durell dug into both pockets. Under? He ran his hand down the bloody neck opening of the man’s garment and brought the snub-nosed .38 out of an inside pocket.
There was a liquid rattle, and the monk’s thin neck arched like a dying bird’s. He struggled for air. “. . . rats . . .” He squealed in horror—and died.
Durell had his revolver; that was all that concerned him. “Come on,” he told Muncie, but she stood transfixed.
“Don’t leave him here,” she asked.
Durell sighed wearily and heaved the corpse over his shoulder. It was light enough—Durell suspected the man wouldn’t have lived to a ripe old age in any case.
Muncie said: “It’s just . . . those rats. I know how he must’ve felt.”
“We didn’t owe him anything,” Durell said and left it at that.
He
felt a draft, and the candle flame sputtered. “There’s a door,” he said, able to see its bare outlines. As they drew nearer, he saw it was narrow, with forged-iron hardware. He hoped it wasn’t locked from the outside.
At that moment, Muncie cried, “Sam! Look at the rats!”
The terror in her voice made his skin crawl. He turned with his burden and saw an arc of glittering eyes pressing closer and closer. There were scores of them. “Get to the door,” he barked. “Get out of here.”
Before he could say anything else, the rodents attacked in a skittering, screeching rage.
Frantically, he kicked and swatted as they bit his legs and clawed at his trousers, trying to climb him like a tree. He heard Muncie scream in mindless terror. “Stay on your feet!” he yelled, swinging around to help her keep them from pulling her down.
The candle had fallen.
Rats swarmed up, rushing to replace those that Durell kicked and threw across the darkness.
Muncie reeled into him, grabbing at one that had scrambled onto her shoulder. Durell knocked it off and then desperately heaved the body of Brother Maurice into the midst of the blood-lusting rat pack.
There was a sudden, awful rushing of feet as they converged on the corpse and began devouring it voraciously with slavering savagery.
They had left Durell and Muncie for the moment. Muncie wobbled on unsteady legs, then fainted. Sam caught her, cradling her in his arms just as the candle flickered out.
He probed for the door, skin prickling at the tumult behind him. Finding it, he rushed through and slammed it behind him. He sank to the floor with his back against the door, Muncie still in his arms. His heart was pounding. He took a few seconds to pull himself together.
There was no light, not even a window.
He got up on unsteady knees and carried Muncie down a long hallway. His hands were freezing. He found a staircase and descended with cautious steps, pausing at the bottom.
The luminous dial of his wristwatch showed that almost thirty minutes had passed since Caske’s call for the files.
Caske would be waiting by the sign.
It would be touch and go whether Durell could get there in time.
There were windows here. He put Muncie on the stone floor beside one and checked her over. As best he could tell, she had no serious injuries. He loosened the upper buttons on her blouse and stung her cheeks with a couple of light slaps. She gave a start.
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