The Laughter of Dead Kings (25 page)

Alan spun round to face Schmidt, John nodded a gracious greeting, and—driven beyond endurance—I yelled, “Bloody hell, Schmidt, what do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill anybody with a toy gun!”

“It is not a toy,” Schmidt yelled back. He proceeded to prove it.

We were yelling because the long-awaited cacophony had finally burst out—gunfire, crashes, yells, and in the case of Schmidt, a fusillade fired back into the library toward several persons who were about to follow him into the study. They ceased to follow and Schmidt slammed the door shut.

“Also,”
he panted. “Put up your hands, Mr. Whoever-You-May-Be. It is a fair cop.
Guten Abend,
John. Where is Vicky?”

“Here,” I said faintly.

John sauntered to me, bent over, and offered me his hand. “Well, well,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

My appearance distracted and alarmed Schmidt. “Is she hurt? Is she safe?”

For a few vital seconds nobody was looking at Alan. A musical clatter drew our attention back to him. If I had had false teeth I
would have swallowed them when I saw that he was now brandishing one of the swords that had hung over the mantel. The other one lay on the floor near the fireplace.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John said, hauling me to my feet. “Put that down, you damned fool.”

“Yes, drop it,” Schmidt ordered. “Or I will fire.”

“No, you won’t,” Alan said breathlessly. “In the first place you are too much of a gentleman to shoot a man armed only with a sword. In the second place, you emptied the clip just now.”

Schmidt let out a string of
Mittelhochdeutsch
swear words and began searching through his plethora of pockets. John edged toward Alan and came to a sudden stop as the blade whistled past his face.

“Pick up the other one,” Alan said, baring his teeth. “We’ll see who is the better man.”

“You,” John said hastily. “No question. I give up. I can’t fence.”

“I happen to know that you can. Not as well as I, however. Those reenactments at which you chose to sneer honed my skills. Pick it up or I’ll carve my initials in Vicky.”

I would never have supposed that one blade could hold three people at bay. It can, if the other three haven’t so much as a knife, and if it moves as fast as it did when Alan wielded it.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

“Not much choice, really,” John said, his casual tone at odds with his tight mouth and narrowed eyes. “He’s gone over the edge. All those fantasy games…Oops.”

He ducked just in time, and scooped up the fallen sword. I jumped back as Alan swung in my direction. Schmidt wobbled indecisively, still searching his damned pockets.

“Call for help, Schmidt,” I shouted. “Where is everybody?”

From the continuing sounds of battle, it was evident that “every
body” was fully occupied. Alan’s gang was firing back, from all four sides of the house.

“Just hold him off,” I said to John.

His lips moved soundlessly but eloquently. I didn’t blame him for wanting to call me bad names; it had not been one of my more brilliant suggestions. I knew he could fence a little. I’d seen him do it—with an opponent who was fat, drunk, and essentially incompetent. Alan was none of the above and he was in a state of manic exhilaration. I don’t think he cared any longer about the money or the game. All he cared about was inflicting as much damage as possible, with his own hands, on the man he admired and hated and envied most.

John managed to parry the first pass. The next three opened up cuts on his cheek, forearm, and side. He avoided some of Alan’s thrusts by various moves that looked unorthodox even to my uneducated eyes, ducking and twisting and weaving, but he was breathing hard and he kept retreating. Schmidt had finally located another clip and was trying to slide it into the gun. He was swearing. Alan was laughing. That laugh was one of the ugliest sounds I had ever heard. I picked up a poker and tried to get behind Alan. He whipped round and knocked the poker out of my hand before turning back to John and parrying his clumsy thrust with insulting ease.

“Touché,” he yelled and ran John through the right arm.

The blade fell from John’s hand. His back against the wall, he slid slowly down to a sitting position. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, none of them except the last serious, and he was too out of breath to speak. I ran to him and knelt beside him, supporting his sagging body.

“Shoot, Schmidt,” I yelled.

“
Allmächtigen Gott im Himmel
, curse the
verdammt
gun,” said Schmidt, at the top of his lungs. He tossed the gun aside; I let out a
shriek, which rose to siren pitch as Schmidt picked up the sword John had dropped.

There was still noise somewhere in the background, but none of it penetrated my horrified brain. All I could think was that Schmidt, the self-proclaimed greatest swordsman in Europe, had finally lost his mind. And he wasn’t even drunk.

Struggling to sit up, John gasped, “No, Schmidt, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t—” Schmidt assumed the position—I guess it was the position—and bellowed challenges in various languages, ending with
“En garde!”
Alan was laughing so hard I thought he would fall over. That annoyed Schmidt. He took a step forward and…

I can’t describe what happened. All I saw was a whirlwind of flashing steel, all I heard was the ring of metal on metal. When it stopped, Alan had fallen back, out of range of Schmidt’s weapon. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth hung open. Schmidt stood planted in the exact same spot, teeth bared and mustache bristling. “Ha!” he shouted. “Have at you!”

It went slower this time. Alan poked his sword at Schmidt and Schmidt knocked it away with contemptuous ease, before poking back at Alan. John started squirming, trying to pull away from my tenderly supportive arms. “Damn it, Vicky, get out of the way! I can’t see.” His voice rose in a howl of delight. “Get him, Schmidt! Let him have it!”

When the two broke apart this time, blood was streaming down Alan’s left arm. With slow dignity Schmidt took a single step forward and went at it again, forcing Alan back. I was vaguely aware of a voice babbling close to my ear. Every sentence ended in an exclamation point.

“The greatest swordsman in Europe! He was, by God, he was! A-to-Z Schmidt, Alphabet Schmidt—Olympic gold medalist, world
champion! We were made to watch the films! I ought to have known! But it was almost twenty years ago, and he’s always been good old Schmidt…”

Schmidt’s fat old arm moved with the quick precision of a metronome. Alan was streaming blood from multiple cuts. Schmidt’s revenge, I thought wildly. He’s doing the same thing to Alan that Alan did to John.

This time it was Schmidt who stepped back. His breathing was ragged, but Alan was also gasping for breath, more from disbelief than exertion, I thought.

Schmidt intoned, “Do you yield?”

Melodramatic to the end, Alan cried, “Never!” and attacked.

Two quick passes; then Schmidt dropped to one knee and lunged, arm and sword in a single straight line. The point entered Alan’s chest.

For several long seconds there wasn’t a sound, not even that of exhaled breath. I will never forget the look on Alan’s face. Not pain, not anger—utter disbelief. He fell slowly, first to his knees, then onto his side, pulling the weapon from Schmidt’s hand.

John removed himself from my limp embrace and staggered to his feet. “Schmidt,” he said softly. “Schmidt, I…You…” and then, almost prayerfully, “Christ.”

He knelt by Alan and turned him onto his back. The hilt of the sword swayed gently, like a flower on a stem. Schmidt hadn’t moved. Still on one knee, he said, between gasps, “Vicky, will you please give me a hand?”

“Schmidt, are you hurt?” I hurried to him.

“No. It is…Well, you understand, it is my knee. Just help me up, please.”

I took his hand and pulled. Accompanied by a series of popping noises, Schmidt rose like a wounded whale.
“Ach, Gott,”
he wheezed,
leaning heavily against me. “I have killed him. I did not mean to. God forgive me.”

“He’s not dead,” John said. “But he’s in bad shape. Call for an ambulance.”

“It’s on the way,” said a voice I hadn’t heard for some time.

Sans auburn wig and avec gun, Suzi stood in the door of the library. Behind her I saw several other familiar faces. I don’t know how long they had been there. I wouldn’t have noticed a stampede of buffalo.

“Typical,” I said bitterly. “Where were you when I needed you?”

“I came as soon as I received your message,” Suzi said.

“Swell,” I said. “There’s your thief, Suzi. And there, wounded but undaunted, is the man whom you wrongly suspected.” I flung my arm out. Never one to miss a cue, John got slowly to his feet. I went on with mounting passion, “If you ever bother us again, I’ll make sure your bosses hear how you screwed this one up. You weren’t looking for the perpetrator, you were blinded by your desire to nail John. He might have been killed if it hadn’t been for—”

“Schmidt,” John said, swaying theatrically. “Anton Z. Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe.”

T
he lunge, you see, becomes difficult with middle age,” Schmidt explained. “The knee joints do not cooperate so well. Hence a fencer must rely on the strength of his arm and his expertise. He knew that, and did not think I would attempt it.”

The words “middle age” didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Schmidt could have described himself as “a mere youth” and none of his adoring fans would have contradicted him. Especially me.

“Oh, Schmidt,” I said. “I do love you.”

“You have said that before.” Schmidt’s eyes twinkled. “But you can say it as often as you like.” He examined his empty glass. “I believe I will have more beer.”

John beat me to the minibar. I was ahead on points, though, since I had phoned the hotel to order the beer before we left the battlefield.

The word was not inapropos. Alan’s allies had put up a pretty good fight, barricading most of the windows and defending the doors. Loyalty probably had little to do with it; anyone trying to leave the house, with or without a white flag, might have been mowed down. People with guns like to shoot them. They don’t always shoot straight when they are excited, though, and miraculously, no one had been killed.

Our allies, summoned by Schmidt, had waited for my signal before moving in. (Schmidt was in command because he was the only one who knew where I had gone.) They were a motley lot and it’s a wonder they didn’t start fighting among themselves—Suzi and Ashraf and their “assistants,” Feisal and a band of men from the village, and, of course, Saida. Schmidt was the glue that had held them all together. Feisal said he sounded like a French revolutionary stirring up the mob. “Avenge the murder of Ali! Retrieve the stolen treasures of Egypt! Rescue the beautiful American girl and save her lover!” I don’t know where they got all the guns and I had sense enough not to ask. Feisal wouldn’t let Saida have one, so she threw rocks. She claimed to have brained at least two of the enemy.

She and Feisal had come back with us to our now dear and familiar home away from home at the Winter Palace, leaving Ashraf and Suzi to direct the cleanup operations. John flatly refused the assistance of the ambulance personnel. “It’s a nice neat stab,” he said approvingly. “And I need a clean shirt. Alan has frightful taste.”

“That’s one of Alan’s?” I asked.

“Did you suppose I had another wardrobe hidden away in Luxor?”

His voice wasn’t exactly accusing, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. “What was I supposed to suppose?” I demanded.

“Never mind, darling, I forgive you. I will tell all in due course. In the meantime I could do with a little first aid.”

“And beer,” said Schmidt.

He had his beer, and John and I had something a little stronger. After I had patched John up—a job at which I had become only too adept—and he had selected a shirt in a much more becoming shade of blue, we took turns telling our tales. I have to admit John’s was the most interesting.

“I shall begin at the beginning,” he announced, fondling his glass of Scotch, “and continue until I reach the end. Kindly do not interrupt with questions. An occasional inquiring look will indicate you require elaboration of a particular point.”

Saida chuckled. John raised an eyebrow at her, cleared his throat, and began at the beginning.

“As soon as I read that message from LeBlanc I felt certain Ashraf had arranged the moonlight visit in order to facilitate his meeting with his contact. It was well thought out, really; the place is so huge he could select a safe spot, yet there were enough people wandering around to confuse potential followers. He certainly succeeded in confusing me. After a while I couldn’t tell who was following whom, though I began to realize that far too many of them were following me. When the meeting actually took place I was some distance away. I saw that Ashraf’s contact was a woman, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. When she bolted I went after her. My motives were not entirely altruistic, I admit…Vicky, will you stop giving me what you presumably believe to be inquiring looks?”

“I want you to skip the elegant syntax and get on with it. You followed her because you thought she would lead you to the headquarters of the gang.”

“I didn’t mean her to get that far. I was reasonably certain we could shake a confession out of the poor creature and I certainly didn’t intend to get within arm’s reach of the bad boys. She was too quick for me,” John admitted with obvious chagrin. “She knew where she was going and I didn’t. I didn’t catch her up until she had actually reached the house, and when I intercepted her she shrieked like a banshee. They were obviously on the lookout for her. The door burst open and several large unkind men dragged both of us inside. No, Vicky, I did not put up a fight. I do not fight large men armed with knives when I’m outnumbered six to one. They had me trussed up like a turkey, blindfolded and gagged, before I could reason with them, and then they bundled me into a cart, with a sack of some heavy granular substance on top of me, and drove away. The whole business didn’t take more than two minutes.”