At Swords' Point (2 page)

“Then Stark wasn't working on anything when he was killed?”

Quinn picked up one of the clay chips and turned it slowly between thumb and forefinger.

“Officially, no. Or, at least, his section in Washington won't admit it. I flew down there as soon as I got the cable about his death. There's a Col. Thurston, Stark once mentioned. I had to wait three days before I could get an appointment with him. And then all he would say was that Stark was on leave when it happened — “

“But you believe that his death was not an accident?”

“Yes. Well, maybe at first — and after I listened to that colonel I did. But I don't now — I haven't since I read that letter. And this seems to me like proof.” He jerked a thumb toward the knight. “In the first place there's the letter — and I don't think Stark would try to bring me into an army case. On the other hand if he were playing a lone hand at something and — “

“Had a premonition of disaster he would?” van Norreys struck in. “Yes, that might be true. In his work a man comes to trust premonitions. One grows a sort of sixth sense which informs one when the end of the game is approaching. I have seen that happen — several times. I think that I now agree with you on both points — that this exploit he was mixed in was not connected with his regular work and that he had begun to feel the need for assistance. He must have been on the fringe of something big, bigger than he may have first thought it to be. Perhaps at first he had believed that he alone could handle it. He was, I remember, much given to playing the game alone — “

“Yes. He may have gone in too deeply before he realized it. That was like him. But now I am going to learn why somebody knocked him down on a street with a name I can't even pronounce — “

“You are sure he is dead? In his particular calling a man may die several different times — for a score of good and sufficient reasons.”

Quinn shook his head. “I know that. But Washington has confirmed it this time — I had an interview with the head of his department.” His eyes shifted from van Norreys to the top of the desk between them. “This time it
is
true.”

“You have thoughts of taking up where he left off then?” Van Norreys fanned cigarette smoke away from his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And have you considered the fact that your brother had had years of experience in such affairs and yet — “

“Someone met him in Maastricht and may still be waiting there for me?” asked Quinn. “Certainly. I've thought of everything you can suggest along that angle. On the other hand I do have perfect cover, an excellent and true reason for traveling in that section. I have the advantage of knowing about it and its history.” Again he pointed to the knight.

And,
he longed to add,
I am really appealing to you.
But that seemed too presumptuous to tell a stranger.

Van Norreys brought out a map of the Low Countries, the crackling of the stiff paper sounding loudly in the room as he unfolded it.

“Maastricht.” His fingernail stabbed the paper. “And now just where was the old boundary of Sternsberg?”

“Not ten miles away.” Quinn drew the line. “Odocar's Tower may almost be seen from the present border — “

“And what happened to the Sternlitz family?”

“The last duke lost his power after the Franco-Prussian War when the Duchy was absorbed by Belgium. I don't think that he cared very much. He was one of those nineteenth-century explorers — like Stanley and Livingstone and Burton — only his taste was for
China and the Gobi. The only reference to him that Dad was ever able to discover said that he is supposed to have been killed by natives sometime in the ’90s. He left no descendants and was the last male of the line.”

“Which provides us with another neat little problem. To whom would the Bishop's Menie belong if it is ever found? The Nazis did not have it in their catchall at the salt mines — “

The phone interrupted them with a single shrill ring. Van Norreys picked it up, listened for a moment, then drew to him a pad on which he made quick notes while the crackle of a voice on the other end of the line held steady.

“Excellent piece of work, Sam. I am in your debt. Can you run up here in the morning? Since a cracked ankle bone retires me from the lists I shall have to call on you. Something ‘hot'? Yes, most certainly I can translate your crude speech. Hot — my dear fellow, this may prove sizzling! By ten then? That will be most acceptable. Good night.”

He read over his notes, then for the first time since their meeting, he smiled at Quinn.

“I may have good reason to be most grateful to you, Mr. Anders. This is not the first time that the House of Norreys has been consulted concerning the Bishop's Menie. Indeed we even appear to have a small claim to its ownership!

“In the latter part of the eighteenth century the collection was checked and cleaned by my forebears and a certain sum of money loaned to the Duke Ludwig — it being the security. Only half of that loan was repaid when the collection was reclaimed by his son. Perhaps the rest was overlooked for some political favor which does not now appear in the records. So on our books we still hold a mortgage on the collection. And, should it be found, we might just establish ownership — since the Sternlitz
family is gone. In any event — if the Menie is still in existence — I have every intention of looking for it. I want to know where Stark Anders found this, and how, and why it was suggested that I see it — “

“Then you will help me?”

But to Quinn's surprise van Norreys shook his head. “As to that I offer no promises. You are too young — too green — to go trotting off into this with my blessing. I must first consider many things.”

Quinn got to his feet, fighting a vague but nonetheless heavy depression. “I am going anyway, you know.” He picked up the empty briefcase.

“But at least you will not depart tonight,” van Norreys corrected him with a little half-smile which Quinn found irritating, “since our one daily train has long since left. And I will wish to see you again in the morning — you said you have a room at the inn? That is good. Now — with your permission” — he picked up the knight — “this will go into what Mrs. Evans calls the strongroom. Come and see it, if you wish.”

He crossed the room to the far wall. A touch of his hand there sent a full section of bookcase sliding out. Quinn followed him to look into a small room completely lined with rows of drawers set back into the wall. In the center, under a strong light, was a single chair pulled up to a small table covered with dead black material. Arranged on that in a flower spray design was an Arabian Nights’ collection of diamonds and emeralds to which van Norreys paid no attention. He pulled open one of the shallow wall drawers and dropped the knight into its padded interior.

“This whole room is a steel-lined safe,” he informed Quinn. “I do much of my designing here. The knight will be secure.”

“I'll see you in the morning then?”

“At ten-thirty if you will.”

As he said good night Quinn believed that in some way he had spoiled his chances with van Norreys. Maybe because he looked so insignificant to one who remembered Stark. How could he reasonably hope to be even compared to his brother? And how
dared
he even dream that he might succeed in a job where such magnificent courage, self-confidence, and skill had failed?

But nobody had a right to stop him. He had a perfectly good reason for going to Holland. And that determination and will, which in the past had kept him confident through hours of pain and disappointment, began to awake in him again. Van Norreys or not — he was going on the trail of the Bishop's Menie!

2

CONTACT — ROAJACT!

It was ten-thirty the next morning by the first booming chime of the old hall clock when Quinn was ushered into van Norreys' treasure room. But his guide was neither the owner of the house nor Mrs. Evans, for he had been met at the door by a slim and wiry young Oriental. No taller than Quinn, he moved noiselessly through the hall and library with the surefooted ease of a cat — or with the trained control of a born fighting man. But when he spoke it was with very American accent and diction.

“Welcome to the spider's den, chum. Here he is, chief.”

The spray of emeralds and diamonds had been removed from the black square on the table. In its place, spotlighted by a strong, bluish ray, stood the knight. Van Norreys put down the jeweler's glass with which he had been studying it and held out his hand to Quinn.

Once good-mornings had been exchanged Quinn remained silent and waited. He had learned that trick from
his father. Let the other fellow do the talking when you aren't sure of your ground — reserve your fire until you can at least estimate the strength of the opposition. Because van Norreys might well prove to be opposition now.

That moment of quiet was broken first by van Norreys' companion. He had kept his eyes on Quinn, as the other had been aware, ever since he had opened the door to him. Now when he spoke it was with some authority.

“No dice, chief. You're not going to be able to talk him out of anything. Come Hades or high water he's go for broke on this. Look at that stubborn jaw of his!”

To Quinn's surprise van Norreys laughed. “Meet Sam Marusaki,” he said. “And when did you become personnel director, Sam?”

The Japanese-American shrugged. “All right, chief. But it's no use to try and change his mind about this. I'm just giving you fair warning!”

Van Norreys had been studying Quinn's serious face in his turn. Now his hands went up in a curious foreign gesture of surrender.

“Undoubtedly you are right, Sam. So now we have only two hours in which to brief this stubborn young man —”

“Two hours?” Quinn was honestly puzzled.

“You have already booked a seat on the night plane of K.L.M., have you not?”

Quinn was forced to admit that. He had made the reservation only that morning by phone from the inn. How van Norreys had learned of it he didn't know, but he wasn't going to give either of these two the satisfaction of seeing him show surprise.

“Well, well, well,” Marusaki drawled. “Do another revision, chief. He doesn't turn one little hair. Looks as if we hauled in something bigger than we first thought.”

“It is all right, I tell you!” Van Norreys allowed impatience to roughen his voice. “Sending babes and children out like this! I cannot accept the responsibility!”

Marusaki chuckled. “Babes and children, is it? And what deeds were you engaged in at his age, chief? Playing ball in the backlot? I think not!”

“That was a totally different matter. There was a war —”

“On? Sure. And that war isn't over yet. Maybe the lineup on each side is a bit changed these days, but the fighting's still going on — both out in the open and underground. I say take what good fortune provides and be glad to lay your mit on one like this!”

He turned around abruptly, counted down the wall drawers, and pulled one out. From it he took a flat metal box which he placed before van Norreys on the table. At first the Netherlander raised his hand as if to push it away. And, when he saw that, Marusaki ostentatiously consulted his watch.

“One hour and fifty-five minutes to go,” he announced brightly.

“All right!” Van Norreys jerked the box open. “If he plans to go anyway — I can't stop him.”

“I could have told you from the minute I laid eyes on him that you couldn't. It's okay, sonny,” Marusaki said to Quinn. “The chief will give you his blessing. And that is going to be worth more than ten grand to you — when you know how to use it. Let's have that watch you're wearing —”

Quinn's fingers went to the band about his left wrist. But he did not unfasten it. “Why?”

“Listen,” Marusaki returned with the weary patience of one explaining to a small and stubborn child. “You are going overseas, intending to play hunt the button with some very tough guys, people who've forgotten more about such fun and games than we Americans ever learn
in a lifetime. And they play for keeps, too. When you go in for a full nine innings in this game, sonny, you'd better be sure of the strength of the team on your side. That's only common sense. You aren't taking this on with any official pat on the back, are you?”

Quinn shook his head.

“Well then, we can line you up on on a team of sorts. And if you have a grain of sense, you'll praise Allah for that. Give me that watch —”

Quinn, still inwardly skeptical, passed over his father's last gift. Van Norreys took off the back while Marusaki sorted out some very small envelopes in the box. He squinted down at the watch as he finished.

“Standard size, praise be. Here you are, chief.”

Delicately, almost finically, the Netherlander fitted a very thin piece of gold inside the watch cover, then nodded.

“You will tell me, please,” he said to Quinn, “the month of your birth and the day of the week.”

“February and Wednesday. But why — ?”

Van Norreys did not reply. He was busy with the thin plate of gold in which Quinn now saw seven pinpoint holes, six of them making a circle about a single centered one. It was Marusaki who explained.

“This is to be your passport in certain quarters. Have you ever heard of a natal or horoscope jewel?”

When Quinn shook his head, the other continued.

“There is a stone to stand for each of your three initials, another for your birthmonth, one for the guardian angel of that period, one for the saint of the day, and one also for the day of the week on which you entered the world. They must be set in a wheel, the three for your name forming a half circle at the top, the three for angel, saint, and day of the week at the bottom, and the one for your birthmonth in the center. In the old days such a talisman was supposed to render its wearer invulnerable.”

“But why —?”

Marusaki paid no attention to the interruption. “We use these for passports in our organization. If this is shown in the right place it will introduce you to those who will furnish information, aid — or even shelter and escape. How does his work out, chief?”

With tools almost as delicate as hairs van Norreys had been fitting scraps of gems into the minute settings. Now he read off without stopping work, “Quinn — rose quartz. Odocar — opal. Anders — aquamarine. Angel Barchiel —jasper. February — amethyst. St. Andrew — carbuncle. Wednesday — turquoise — Roajact.”

“Roajact,” Marusaki repeated. “That will be your contact word. You can use it to identify yourself, Anders.”

Quinn blinked. This sounded too much like mumbo-jumbo — too cloak-and-dagger to be real. Where and how would he ever have occasion to yell “Roajact!” to bring on a landing of marines or other suitable support?

And the Netherlander might have been reading his mind at that moment. He put down his tool, fastened the back on the watch, and returned it to Quinn, as he said, “This begins to sound as if it were a fictional spy adventure, doesn't it, Mr. Anders? But you will discover as you grow older that real life is infinitely more fantastic than any story writer would dare to picture it. That is an old and trite observation, I know, but neither age nor staleness makes it one whit less truthful. Do you still intend to visit Dordrecht first?”

“Yes.”

“Then — if you are wise — on your first morning there you will visit, in Voorstraat, the antique shop of one Mijnheer Diedrich Bevroot. You will say to him that your watch has been running fast and you wish an adjustment made, that you are a tourist and have dropped into his shop because you chanced to see the number of old
watches displayed in his window. Those three statements will be your first introduction. Bevroot will then offer to examine your watch. After he sees what is in it he will put you in touch with those who may be able to help you with information.”

“It sounds as if it were part of the old underground,” ventured Quinn, still only half-believing in all this.

Van Norreys frowned. “During the war it was part of the underground. And in those days we were desperate men. When a man came to fight by our side we did not ask him what his past had been. So — many queer branches of strange and often illegal businesses made a network for us through which we could gather materials and information we needed. When the war — that part of it— was over, we who had been fighting in the dark came out into the light. Only to realize that peace was not yet ours.

“Then again some of us sought out the ends of the old network. We did not lose touch with those devious routes of information or forget certain shady characters, outside the law, who had channels through which we might be able to save important things some day. This present underground may not be altogether respectable, but it remains in contact with us.

“So we have a web at our service when we wish it. The invader — maybe half the world away — treads on one of our alarm wires. A message flies along, perhaps through half a dozen tongues and over many borders. Then it reaches someone of established position in the community — someone who is able to go to a high government official and say — to be believed — ‘Sir, this and this and this appears to be happening there. It will be wise to investigate.' We provide eyes to watch, ears to hear, feet to move in the dark where the official cannot wisely go —”

“Yes.” Marusaki was putting the box back in its
drawer. “And don't ever forget, sonny, that the other side has nets out just as good or even better than ours. They grab and smash and mow us down where and when they can. This is a war fought in dark alleys and on stretches of barren border — and in comfortable city offices. A war which leaves the fellow who makes the first mistake just as cold and dead as if he had stopped one in Korea. You walk softly — or you don't continue to walk at all! Keep that in your head. Shall I show him the pictures, chief?”

At van Norreys' assent he spread five photographs out fanwise. They appeared to be common snapshots, but in each the face of the person was unusually distinct and clear.

“This is Bevroot.”

Quinn studied the round face, the forehead corrugated with wrinkles, the pouting almost peevish mouth. He was sure he would remember it.

“This is Lawrence Kane. You may not see him. But he is one of my partners — now in Europe.”

“Troubleshooter, all same me!” Sam added with a grin.

A lean American face this time, unmistakable as to its nationality. But there was something about the mouth lines which almost belied the humor in the eyes.

“Corny Smite.”

The third man wore a seaman's highnecked jersey and an officer's peaked cap set at a devil-may-care angle.

The two remaining photographs van Norreys put together. They were front and side views of the same man. He had a thin narrow face, Oriental with a shade of difference — the turn of the eyelids less heavily marked, the nose highbridged and prominent.

“Mark highly explosive in your catalogue,” Sam warned. “This is Quong, Hong or Wing. Beware, beware,” he ended flippantly.

“The first three you trust. This man you will be
extremely careful of —” said van Norreys.

But Marusaki was again consulting his watch. “Time we were hitting the road, chief —”

“What has the Bishop's Menie got to do with all this?” demanded Quinn.

“Maybe nothing, maybe a great deal,” was van Norreys' answer. “The set is a historical treasure — worth a fortune. It would have a ready sale if it were found.”

“And there is a lot of heavy money floating around nowadays,” Marusaki cut in. “Money which would consider the Menie an excellent investment. Certain people in Europe like to pay off their undercover workers in good old U.S. dollars. It is a regular custom of theirs. Also they want to buy supplies in illegal markets. American dollars are worth almost more than their face value there.

“Suppose the Menie could be smuggled over here, sold for its admitted astronomical value to some big boy who made his pile in the black market and who can't rid himself of his profits without tipping off the federal boys? The price he paid would go overseas to just the people we'd hate most to see clutching a sheaf of green stuff in their hot little hands. Yeah, sonny, this treasure hunt may be a main event. That's why the chief is letting you in on the secret of one his passages. Understand?”

Quinn did at last. He tugged self-consciously at the watch band. Marusaki's logical explanation of the possible use of the Menie made sense all right. And just this might have started Stark on the trail which ended so abruptly in Maastricht. But it made him all the more determined that the question of the Bishop's Menie was going to be his to answer.

“You will keep this?” He indicated the knight.

“If you wish. And now, if you are ready, Marusaki will drive you back to New York. Do not forget —”

“Voorstraat, Diedrich Bevroot —”

Marusaki hovered impatiently by the door of the strongroom. “He'll do, chief. Catch ‘em young, bring ‘em up right. That's the trick.”

But van Norreys had still another warning to give. “Your worst enemy,” he said slowly and emphatically, “is overconfidence. You must remember only that you are going to do research for your book, that you have no other purpose in mind.”

And that was good advice, Quinn realized. He must batten down his excitement. He must be only Quinn Anders, the quiet student whom no one had ever noticed — Quinn Anders, the would-be historian with no connection with any wild business of secret underground organizations and information networks. He must have made his decision clear to van Norreys without any audible protestations. For, after a long and searching look, the Netherlander smiled.