“Gott in Himmel!” she said. “Such a long life, und so interesting! Vhen ve go home, maybe you come vith und shpeak to die ladies of mein church? They vould luff to hear all aboudt.”
Humphrey replied that he was grateful for her good opinion, but that his sole desire on earth was either to return to England, where he had been brought to life, or even better to find his way somehow to outer space, where his unwanted body no longer would have any hold on him. “But now,” he said, “there is much more that I must tell you, for it concerns your husband, Master Schimmelhorn, and my sad conscience. It is my fault, not his, that this Princess Philippa, as they call her, fell in love with him—”
From the courtyard, helicopter rotors beat the air, descending, then settled to a steady, slow thrumming. Humphrey broke off, startled.
“Don’dt vorry!” said Mama Schimmelhorn. “If they come up, I hide you right avay. I am nodt vorried aboudt Papa. All der time, he runs avay from home, but alvays I catch him oder he comes back. You chust keep telling me der shtory.”
Humphrey, now seeming much refreshed but still looking a bit uneasy, took up his tale. He described Gustav-Adolf s glorious victory; he told about poor Papa Schimmelhorn’s despondency over his lost virility, and how, out of gratitude, he himself had given him the love potion; he described its cataclysmic effects on the Fräulein-Princess-Priestess.
“And now,” he said, “my conscience will torment me night and day, at least until he’s found. I have heard whispers, Mistress Schimmelhorn, that on this isle there lives a creature, half man, half beast, and old as sin itself. If anything has happened to your husband, never, never shall I forgive myself. Truly I shall remain always saddened and disgraced.”
Mama Schimmelhorn dismissed his talk of danger with a shrug. “If tonight they do nodt find him,” she said, “tomorrow I vill go oudt vith Gustav-Adolf. He iss a clefer cat, und often he has followed Papa. He vill find him. Now tell me more aboudt der luff potion, how it vorks so fast.”
Humphrey obliged her. He told her how Count Cagliostro had brewed the potion for Augustus the Strong, how it worked instantaneously, a mere whiff sufficing, how if Papa Schimmelhorn had added only one drop of the critical ingredient instead of three there probably would have been much less trouble—
“Hah!” exclaimed Mama Schimmelhorn. “Der old goat! It iss a vunder he does nodt add six drops! Und vhat has happened to der potion? It iss all used up?”
“Oh, no,” said Humphrey. “He used up less than half of it. He sealed the rest up in a little tube—the sort that can be crumbled ’twixt one’s fingers instantly.”
“Ach, ja! So he can use again later. Maybe vhen ve get home. How shameful! Vhere iss it now?”
“It has been kept safely in the same secret place as I myself.”
“Then maybe iss bedter I keep it in my purse”—she smiled—“vhere iss efen safer.” Briskly she retrieved the ampule. A calculating gleam was in her eye. “Und does it vork only on vomen?” she enquired.
“It does its dread work on any human being,” Humphrey assured her, “and I doubt not also on cherubim and seraphim if they so much as catch a breath of it. All that’s needed is that they be looking at the person they must love. Never has any other essence been concocted so powerful, so fearsome, so subtly swift.”
Chust vot der doctor ordered, thought Mama Schimmelhorn. Carefully, she folded the ampule into her handkerchief. Carefully, she stowed it in a pocket of her handbag.
“Dear gentle lady,” exclaimed Humphrey, in alarm, “I trust you are not planning to administer this terrible substance to your husband? A man of such ardent spirits—”
She snorted. “To Papa? Nefer! I do nodt need. He luffs me now for more than sixty years. Der only trouble iss like I say—he iss an old goat. Anyhow, predty soon ve put a shtop to all der nonsense vith this Fräulein-Prinzessin Vot’s-her-name, und I take him by der ear, und he comes back vith me to New Hafen vhere I can lock him in der basement und efery Sunday he must sing hymns in church.” She poured herself another cup of tea and schnapps, and Humphrey a third thimbleful of brandied honey. She sat back in her chair. “Und now,” she said, “maybe you tell me more aboudt your life und eferyvhere you haff been all ofer, und all die famous people you haff met.”
She sat there with Gustav-Adolf and his little calico both purring on her lap, and she and Humphrey got on famously. She told him about Mrs. Laubenschneider and how she had protected Gustav-Adolf against shpooks und defils, and all about Papa Schimmelhorn’s many misbehaviors, and she listened while Humphrey told her of the kings and cardinals, archdukes and alchemists he had encountered, all of whom had tried to use his knowledge to further their own greed and their ambition. He and she saw eye to eye on almost everything, and neither of them paid any heed when the helicopter in the courtyard noisily took off again.
Presently, both she and Humphrey were a little tiddly, and he informed her that he had not enjoyed himself so much since Dr. Dee had introduced him, in a private room of a place called the Swan Tavern, to someone named Ben Jonson. He sighed nostalgically and, in a thin and reedy voice, sadly sang “Greensleeves” for her, following it up with two or three sentimental songs by Thomas Campion.
Loyally, Humphrey praised Papa Schimmelhorn as a true friend, a man of infinite benevolence, and many times he expressed the devout hope that no evil had befallen him; and every time, she reassured him. After another hour or two, she pressed a fourth thimbleful on him and, when he protested that it was too much, that he might very well become intoxicated, she chuckled and remarked, “Iss all right, Herr Humphrey—you don’dt haff to drife.” Presently they once more heard helicopter rotors beating out a landing. This time, the rotors not only slowed, they stopped completely. There was silence.
“Vell,” she said, “I vunder if they find?”
Humphrey yawned. Two or three minutes passed. And suddenly there came a knocking at the door.
“Vot iss?” she demanded, quickly whispering goodnight to her little friend and putting him with his chair back into the jar.
“Frau Schimmelhorn,” came Mavronides’s voice. “We have not found His High—that is, Herr Schimmelhorn. We have combed every inch of Little Palaeon. He has vanished into thin air! But Her Highness the Princess Philippa has returned with us, and she has ordered me to bring you to her.”
Quickly, Mama Schimmelhorn tucked Humphrey’s jar back in the compartment, pushed the panel closed. “Okay,” she called out, “I vill come.”
She unbarred the door and joined him.
“She awaits you in the courtyard,” said Mavronides.
In the courtyard, the Princess was very much in evidence, and very much distraught. She stood fiercely apart from the small group of men, all of whom were doing their best to hide behind the manly figure of Dr. Rumpler. Her eyes were flashing; her lips were drawn back frighteningly from her fine teeth. She glared at Mama Schimmelhorn as she walked up.
“So that’s what you have brought me—this old hag!” she almost screamed.
“Don’dt talk to me like dot!” said Mama Schimmelhorn, advancing on her. “I catch you in der belly-button vith der bumbershoot!”
Sarpedon Mavronides uttered a gasp of horror. Little Dr. Nymphenbourg let out a squeak.
The Fräulein whirled tempestuously to confront her business associate. “How can you dare, Gottfried Rumpler? And on the very night when my Prince, my Hero-Prince, has disappeared? How do you dare to bring this—this creature to our castle, our isle?”
She stood there, less than a foot from him, her eyes burning directly into his—and Mama Schimmelhorn, without another word, took two swift steps forward and, holding her breath, with her right hand she snapped the ampule under both their noses.
The Fräulein recoiled. For an interminable instant, she stood there, swaying. Then, clapping hands to forehead, for a moment she rocked wildly ba
ck and forth. “Oh, what has happened?” came her anguished cry. “Or did I dream? Did spiders spin their magic webs across my eyes? I have been enchained! Enchanted! Oh, Gottfried! Oh, dearest Gottfried! It has been a nightmare! I have been mad! Mad! What have I done?”
Dr. Rumpler’s eyes had opened startlingly. It was as though he had never seen his love before. “My own Philippa!” he cried out, reaching for her.
Weeping, she threw herself into his arms.
“Philippa! My dear, dear Philippa! Whatever you have done, it does not matter! Nothing matters except that now we are together!”
“It—it must have been that filthy Gaspar Gansfleisch’s d-d-doing!” she sobbed. “The beast! And now that poor old man—that Herr Schimmelhorn—is lost! Lost! And everyone will say that it’s my fault.”
“He iss nodt poor,” Mama Schimmelhorn said severely. “He has der goot chob at Heinrich Luedesing’s cuckoo-clock factory, und ve safe our money.”
The Fräulein turned to her, eyes streaming. “My dear Frau Schimmelhorn, I owe you an apology for what I must have said. Please understand—I was not myself, not my true Swiss self. I—I’m sure I was bewitched.”
“It iss all right, shveetheart,” Mama Schimmelhorn told her. “I forgiff you. It vas nodt your fault.”
She thought, Ach, der potion vorks! Lidtle Humphrey vill be pleased. She snickered to herself. I should haff safed a lidtle to giff to Papa. Maybe he needs it vhen he finds out he no longer iss a Prince.
Sarpedon Mavronides had watched his Princess open-mouthed, telling himself that the ways of princesses and priestesses were unfathomable, totally beyond the understanding of simple men. Now, suddenly, she summoned him.
“Sarpedon,” she commanded, “by this time some of your footmen should have returned. Take three or four of them, and bring Gaspar Gansfleisch here to me. Oh, he’s going to pay for what he’s done! Bring him in chains if you have to, but get him here. Then I shall decide what shall become of him—whether we’ll throw him to the sharks, or push him through the Door of Sacrifices as Minotaur meat!”
“Philippa!” Gottfried Rumpler exclaimed in horror. “We can’t do that! We Swiss are civilized!”
“Dot’s der shpirit!” put in Mama Schimmelhorn.
The Fräulein embraced her beloved. “From now on, Gottfried, you shall be my conscience. My only, my one true love, I know I safely can entrust such matters to your judgment!” She turned back to Mavronides. “But bring him anyhow,” she said. “I’ll think of something civilized to do to him!”
Mavronides beckoned to some servants who had just entered, and went off with them.
The Fräulein came to Mama Schimmelhorn. “Oh, I’m so glad you understand!” she said. “You have forgiven me—now tell me that we shall be friends!”
She held out both her hands, and Mama Schimmelhorn took one of them and shook it vigorously. “Natürlich,” she replied, “ve girls must shtick togeder. Maybe tomorrow ve haff lea und I vill tell you vot an old goat Papa iss.”
The Fräulein had the grace to blush. “Let us all pray that tomorrow we shall find him, safe and sound,” she said. “It is too late to search any more tonight, but we shall start again at daybreak. We—if we have to, we’ll even look into the Labyrinth, though—Well, I dare say no more!”
“Pooh!” answered Mama Schimmelhorn. “Don’dt vorry. If you knew Papa as vell as I—ha! Efery time he gets avay iss der same thing…”
She went on to regale the Fräulein with several tales of her husband’s disappearances, wanderings, misdeeds, and abject returns, and of his invariably broken promises to reform; and the Fräulein listened to her very sympathetically.
While this was going on, Dr. Nymphenbourg, who had been shifting nervously from foot to foot and pulling at the hairs of his well-combed beard, took Gottfried Rumpler by the elbow and drew him tactfully aside.
“Herr Doktor!” he whispered urgently. “Let me warn you! Have nothing—nothing whatsoever—to do with this woman, this Princess or whatever, in her delusions, she calls herself. She is a classic case—an extreme schizoid-paranoid! She is a danger to you and to herself! I tell you, she should be committed! Confined!”
Gottfried Rumpler looked at him aghast. “What are you saying?” he roared, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him thoroughly. Then, recalling that the Fräulein was within hearing distance, he dropped his voice, but not its intensity. “So it is true!” he hissed. “Psychiatrists are all themselves insane. Talking such nonsense!” He whirled, called Herr Grundtli to him. “Herr Grundtli,” he barked, “we have no further use for Dr. Nymphenbourg. He is too disturbed. The helicopter will take you back to Crete immediately. See that he is placed on the first commercial flight for Athens. Also, see to it that his fee is paid in full, with a modest bonus to ensure his discretion.”
Dr. Nymphenbourg ruffled his feathers, got himself as far out of the Rumpler reach as possible, and muttered something irritated about medical ethics, the seal of the confessional, and his professional reputation.
No one paid him any heed; and Gottfried Rumpler, before he turned back to his Fräulein, whispered one more instruction into Herr Grundtli’s ear. “Listen carefully!” he said. “This is of great urgency. You are to get in touch with Brigitte at once. Tell her that—that I shall no longer be able to visit her. If she weeps, ignore it. Simply say that when she returns to Brussels, the settlement we long ago agreed upon shall be paid to her, with a generous bonus. You understand?”
Herr Grundtli, whose attitude toward the upper brass of Swiss banking was rather like that of Sarpedon Mavronides toward princesses, said that he understood perfectly, and that all would be carried out as ordered.
He herded Dr. Nymphenbourg back into the helicopter, followed by the pilots.
Gottfried Rumpler rejoined the Fräulein and Mama Schimmelhorn, and walked them a safe distance from the machine. It started with a roar; its rotors thrashed the air; it rose and cleared the castle walls just as Mavronides and his footmen reappeared.
They came across the courtyard at a run, followed closely by a servant girl. The Fräulein stared at them.
“Where is he?” she demanded coldly. “Why have you failed to bring Gansfleisch?”
Mavronides came to a halt before her, bowing apologetically, pale and panting. Beside him the footmen almost genuflected; the little servant girl, disheveled from her run, dropped a deep curtsey.
“Your Highness, he wasn’t there. He too has disappeared!”
“Then why didn’t you find him?”
“Highness, we tried! We searched his rooms, and found only great disorder. We searched the battlements. Then we went down to his laboratory—and—and—” He hesitated. “Highness, I don’t know how to tell you this—the—the gold-making machine is also gone!”
“What?” cried the Fräulein.
“It is no longer there,” moaned Mavronides, “and we saw tracks upon the floor and in the hallway. I think they are the tracks of what is called a forklift.”
“You mean,” exclaimed Gottfried Rumpler, “that he has stolen it? This is incredible! Where would he take it? How could he get it away from here?”
“Someone has surely stolen it, Excellency. But it could not have been Meister Gansfleisch by himself. No, this girl here—her name is Sophia—was all alone in the castle while the rest of us were searching for the Prin—for Herr Schimmelhorn. She was working in the kitchens. She says she heard a helicopter come down here in the courtyard while we were away. Though it seemed much louder, she thought only that we had returned, and did not worry. She says it stayed with its engines idling for a long time—as she was paying no attention, she does not know how long. Then it took off again.”
“But who?” The Fräulein’s face was a mask of anger. “Who could it have been?”
“My love,” answered Herr Rumple
r despairingly, “it could have been anyone with whom this wretched Gansfleisch plotted—a foreign government, or terrorists, or even gangsters from America. What is important is that it is gone. They have escaped. We cannot raise a hue and cry—to do so would be to tell the entire world about our secret! We shall learn who it was only when they start to destroy the world’s economies—which we have given them the power to do. My love, all is lost!”
She looked at him, the rage fading from her countenance. She came to him, and took his face between her hands. “No, dear Gottfried!” she declared passionately. “All is not lost—that we must never say! We have each other. We are Swiss bankers, you and I! Never fear, we will—as the Americans say—make out. Besides, tomorrow we may find Herr Schimmelhorn. He is a genius, as you know. Perhaps he will think of something.”
Gottfried Rumpler’s expression cheered up a little. He kissed her tenderly. “Never will we give up!” he told her. “You are right. We will combine our banks! We will become the strongest private bank in Switzerland!”
“And you shall be the father of my sons!” she promised him. “They too will be Swiss bankers!”
“Vell”—Mama Schimmelhorn yawned—“now iss time to go to bed, so don’dt you vorry aboudt der gold-machine. Tomorrow, vith Gustav-Adolf, ve find Papa.”
“Take Frau Schimmelhorn to her rooms, Sophia,” the Fräulein told the servant girl, “and see if there’s anything she needs.” Then, after they had said good night, she turned back to Mavronides. “Sarpedon,” she said, “see that His Excellency’s luggage is taken up to my apartments, and make sure that we are not awakened too early in the morning. You can start searching very well without us, I’m sure. And Sarpedon, when we do find Herr Schimmelhorn, I want you to explain to him. Do it gently and very tactfully, you understand? About the changes that have come about since—since my recovery.”
Gottfried Rumpler looked at her, and—temporarily at least—quite forgot that he and she had just lost a device capable of upsetting all the world’s financial applecarts.
The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack Page 44