At Swords' Point (5 page)

Quinn bowed. He had not expected a woman. And she was a woman such as he had never seen before. Even though she was seated she appeared tall, and Quinn guessed that she might overtop him by inches when standing. A shapeless dress, not unlike a religious habit, covered her from throat to toes. Her jaw was square, her skin thick and pallid as if it were seldom touched by sunlight or fresh air. A pair of old-fashioned, metal-rimmed glasses with unusually thick lenses enlarged her eyes. Above a forehead, where the roundness of the skull seemed to push through a film of flesh, colorless hair was pulled sharply back into a knot which clung as if carved to the exact middle of her head.

“Mijnheer, you are?” she prodded him sharply.

“I am — Roajact, Mevrouw.”

“Jonkvrouw van Nul,” she corrected him.

“Lady of zero — nothing,” Quinn translated to himself swiftly. But certainly she represented a rather substantial “nothing.”

“Roajact,” she echoed, then sat silent as if fitting that into some logical sequence in her mind. “You wished of us?” Now she sounded impatient, annoyed, as if she could see no reason for his intrusion into the life of the Wise Tomcat. “You are a ‘trader'?”

“Say rather a seeker. I'm not in the black market, if that's what you mean. I'm only on my way to Maastricht to gather certain information.”

“So!” The word was a hiss, almost as if it had issued from Kater's lips. “Well, Mijnheer Roajact, you bring us a word of introduction. So I cannot say ‘no’ —”

Though you'd like to do just that, thought Quinn.

“Almost three months ago now a Capt. Stark Anders of the American Forces was found the victim of a hit-and-run accident in Maastricht —”

“And what may be our connection with the so-unfortunate captain?” She had now the air of a schoolmistress bringing a dull and unwilling pupil to face his lack of preparation.

“None, that I know of. But I want to discover who did have an interest in that affair.”

“The Netherlands Police are not deficient in service, young man. If a criminal is to be apprehended they would be after him. I cannot see that this occurence is any of our concern.”

“Perhaps not. But then who is the ‘man who sells memories'?”

The words echoed through the room. She sat very still, a thick granite statue, an ugly block. Quinn waited, meeting her stare for stare. At last her lips unfolded from a tight crease.

“How much do you know of
him
?”

“Jonkvrouw van Nul, I am not fool enough to answer that. But Capt. Anders knew —”

“We have no quarrel with Americans,” she cut in, much of the rich warmth gone from her voice. “Capt. Anders was not touched by us —”

“I have never accused you of that, Jonkvrouw. What I ask is that you give me some contact in Maastricht who will be willing to part with knowledge which can help me.”

“You are not one of us. You have no right to ask anything of us, Mijnheer.”

“No? I am Roajact — remember?”

Her robed shoulders moved in a ponderous shrug.

“You are not one of us,” she repeated stubbornly. “I am not alone, Mijnheer. I have associates who will not be pleased by your demands — not pleased at all.”

But Quinn remained firm. “I ask it as Roajact,” he repeated.

“I cannot give you an answer now, Mijnheer. It is out of the question. You come well recommended, yes. But credentials can be forged — they have been. How do we know that you are not in some official service? How do we know — ?”

“You can check, Jonkvrouw. You cannot deny that you have methods of doing that. I came honestly by Roajact. Bevroot has seen my passport, he sent me here.”

But she did not soften. “There is too much laxness creeping in. I do not like it.”

Quinn stood up. “Jonkvrouw van Nul, in two days I must leave for Maastricht. Before that time I want from you what I have asked — the name of a contact in that city who can help me find out what lies behind Capt. Anders’ death.”

“What was this Anders to you, Mijnheer, that you must concern yourself with him? If you are not official, why do you pry?”

“He was my brother.”

Again the folds of her robe moved a little, her thick-fingered hands came up from her lap to rest on the papers neatly piled on the desk. Quinn shot his last bolt.

“You say that your organization had no connection with his death. Why then are you so reluctant to supply me with help? I was assured before I came here that I would get your aid — without reservations or questions!”

“You know too much — or too little — and speak about that a little too freely. I repeat this — we have no quarrel with Americans. Capt. Anders would not have been eliminated by us. On the other hand we are not so strong that we care to fight a storm with broom straws. In our business it is sometimes best to keep the eyes and ears closed —”

“Unless there is a safe profit in opening them? In other words, Jonkvrouw, you wish to tell me that my brother was liquidated by those you have no desire to annoy?”

“I have not said so, Mijnheer. I shall discuss your request with my associates. You shall hear from us —”

“And I shall give you two days, Jonkvrouw. I am staying at the Hotel de Witt. If you do not contact me I shall inform those who provided me with my passport.”

But she remained unmoved by his implied threat. And he went out without any word of farewell from her.

“The man who sells memories!” Clearly Stark had uncovered something so important that the mere mention of it was enough to dry up the information channels of the underground van Norreys had considered to be an important aid to him. Well, he would wait the full two days, then he would try to contact Norreys. Or he could by-pass the network and go to Maastricht on his own.

Perhaps by now the police there would have learned
something new about Stark. If they would allow him to see their reports he might be able to guess or to find a clue they had missed. He could at least hunt out the restaurant from which that torn bit of menu card had come. No, if the Jonkvrouw van Nul remained stubborn and voiceless he would try to go the course alone and would make no appeal to van Norreys.

He found his way back through the streets to the de Witt. As he paused inside the door to shake the worst of the wet from his hat the porter hurried up.

“It is the telephone, Mijnheer. Three times already has it rung for Mijnheer. It is with luck they call again even as you arrive —”

“Danke.” Quinn picked up the phone.

Before he could speak the voice at the other end of the wire, muffled and breathlessly indistinct, came through.

“Police — they come for you — tonight.”

There was a click as the line went dead. A little dazed Quinn hung up. This last bit of melodrama was too much — he didn't believe it. But some shred of caution started him toward the sane and safe shelter of his room.

5

DEATH WALKS A WINDOW LEDGE

Quinn slipped into his darkened room and stood quietly just within the door for a long moment, ears, eyes, and nose alert. It was the latter which served him best now. He did not smoke. But on the somewhat musty air of the room there was the scent of tobacco — strong and stale as if from the clothes of a chain smoker. Quinn's fingers found the switch, and the light went on. But the room was empty.

However, it had been searched again. And this time by someone who did not care if that occupation was betrayed. The contents of Quinn's suitcase had been dumped out in the middle of the bed. There were scratches around the lock of the briefcase. The window he had left closed was open.

Quinn found his flashlight, then snapped off the room light. With the beam of the flash he sorted out underwear, a shirt, his traveling kit, the first aid box, and forced them all into the briefcase. If he did have to flit he would travel light.

Then his hands and body froze. There was a sound outside that window. He dropped the briefcase beside the door and flattened himself against the wall, creeping along it behind the chair and round the lamp toward the oblong of pale light.

The pane was being forced up higher, the rasp of sound thundered in the silent room. And now the misshapen shadow of the intruder was a black blot which almost filled the whole sash space. But how had he reached there? There was no fire escape — he couldn't have walked that extremely narrow ledge which ran around the building a few feet below!

Quinn attempted to control his breathing, making his way around the room by inches. Just let that fellow get one leg over the sill and he could jump him! Surely the police wouldn't make that sort of an entrance.

The shadow in the window eased in. This must be a game at which he had had much practice. Quinn hurtled forward in a football tackle. But he had miscalculated. His fingers only tore at rough cloth while the body it clothed wriggled free. The man in the window heaved himself back to escape Quinn's clutch.

There could not have been more than a second before that searing scream of terror came. Quinn's full weight ripped down the window draperies before he could check himself.

He swallowed, fighting down sour nausea, and swayed forward toward the window, still holding tight to the splitting fabric.

In the narrow street below, figures were gathering about a flattened thing. Quinn saw the bright beam of a light catch and hold on it. And the man who held that lamp was in uniform! The police! If they weren't already on his tail they would be now.

Quinn pulled himself erect by will power alone. He even summoned enough control to close the window.

There was that back staircase he had noticed earlier this evening —

He piled guilder pieces on the desk — enough to pay his bill. Then somehow he was out of the room. Under his feet the hall carpet was thick enough to deaden the sound of his running. And the back stairs were close, dark too, as if they had been planned for the aid and comfort of fugitives.

Three flights down there was another hall. Here were two half-open doors with light and the sound of voices behind them. But no one looked out as he fled past. He eased the bolt on the door at the far end. Luckily there was no other lock on it. Then he was in a paved court — the delivery entrance for the hotel.

The rain had stopped, but there were still clouds across the moon. Quinn walked with increasing assurance out into a narrow street, between rows of unlighted houses. There were no electric signs to break the dark, nothing but widely separated street lights. He reached the corner of the block without seeing another person and ducked into a doorway to think.

He was a foreigner in a strange city, with the police on his trail and perhaps others looking for him too. This was a problem to be faced by an experienced man such as Marusaki — not for him to solve. Only he, Quinn Anders, had to find the solution. There was Bevroot. But the antique shop was closed at this hour, and he had no idea where its owner lived. To wander about Dordrecht until Bevroot opened up his place was rank folly.

In an American city Quinn would have taken refuge for the night in an overland bus station or at the railway concourse. But until he knew more about the customs here he could not venture to seek such shelter.

So there remained only the Wise Tomcat. If the staff had been reluctant to aid him before, they would probably slam the door in his face now. He would have to force
himself upon them.

Keeping his pace down to a walk — though his nerves urged him to run — Quinn began to retrace his path of earlier that evening. But Dordrecht as seen from a taxi window and Dordrecht explored on foot at an hour close to midnight were two different cities. Within twenty minutes he was sure he was completely lost.

He had to fight down childish panic then, the panic of a townsman lost in deep woods. The dark walls of the closed houses, their stepped roofs making toothed outlines against the sky, seemed to move closer, as if they were edging at him across the deserted sidewalks. He knew again that eerie oneness with the past which he had felt in the Wise Tomcat. He had strayed into another time and place, old, moldering, dangerous — not to be understood by the alien. This was a city in which men had lived and died, fought, hated, loved, for almost three times as many centuries as his own land had been known. This was one of the oldest cities in Europe — Romans had been posted here. And at night — did the past ever live again?

He stopped short and mentally shook himself, setting his mind to recall Bevroot's instructions. A cast east from that point then brought him luck in the form of a recognizable landmark. Now — he was sure he had it clear.

A quarter of an hour later he came upon the archway which led to the court of the Wise Tomcat. What was he going to do now if the place was locked up? It would depend largely on luck.

And that precious commodity must have been right in his pocket for lights still shone dimly in the windows of the dining room. The door was closed, but Quinn tugged the old bell pull three times. Abruptly the lights above went out. Desperate now, Quinn jerked the pull again.

The door opened.

“We are closed, Mijnheer!” It was the waiter, and he
was already shutting the door again.

Quinn thrust the edge of his briefcase in that crack.

“Not to me!”

His accented Dutch must have identified him. The door remained open. Quinn pushed in, sweeping the waiter before him with a stiff, outheld hand. Once he was in Quinn slammed the door. A faint light filtered down the stairs. It caught and held on something the waiter carried — an ugly-looking Luger.

“Out!” The word hissed. The man had dropped his humble harassed pose. Quinn knew that he now faced a deadly menace.

With his back against the door the American stood firm.

“No. I must see the Jonkvrouw van Nul!”

“Out!” The barrel of the Luger moved, all the rays from the staircase focusing upon it.

Only the knowledge that he had no place else to turn kept Quinn there.

“I will see the Jonkvrouw,” he repeated stubbornly.

He could not see the movement, but he believed that the man's trigger finger had begun to tighten.

“Johan!”

The Luger did not waver.

“Ja, Jonkvrouw?”

“What makes this disturbance?”

The woman was not in the hall. She must have called from her room.

“It is that crazy American. He has come —”

“So? Well then, bring him in, Johan. For craziness in the head there is more than one remedy.”

For the second time that evening Quinn stepped into the room of the mistress of the Wise Tomcat. She still held her granite image pose under the single light on her desk. She might not have moved since he had stood there some hours before. Her face expressed no surprise, and
this time she gave him no greeting but waited, as did Johan, for an explanation.

“I want shelter.” He made that demand with all the boldness he could gather.

Her lips unfolded to shape a single word.

“Why?”

How much or how little of his story should he tell her now? Had she been more cordial earlier he might have spilled the whole of it — out of his need for some reassurance in this shadow world he had entered without knowing or guessing the cost. But now he compromised on half the truth.

“My room was entered tonight, and the thief fell to his death from the window — at least, I think it was the man. The police —”

Her hand came down on the desk top in a flat slap which made the papers piled there skip.

“Johan!”

“Ja, Jonkvrouw?” The Luger disappeared under the waiter's coat. He slipped out into the hall.

“So a thief dies and the police begin to sniff at
your
trail?”

“I think so.”

“You were sent to me by those who have some claim on my help — or you say that you have been so sent —”

“Check with them.” Quinn was defiant. “You will find that I am Roajact.”

“Those who sent you do not step outside the law — though you say that the police are interested in you —”

“Neither am I outside the law by my own choice, Jonkvrouw. In my country we have a term for the situation in which I find myself. It is called a ‘frame.’ “

“That term I have heard, Mijnheer. Its meaning I also know. So you believe that you have had the law invoked against you with intent?”

“There is this, Jonkvrouw. If I am caught by the law now it will take me some time to clear myself. Thus it seems to me that this series of events has been planned by someone for no other purpose than to delay me. Why I do not know.”

“That has reason to it. But why should an enquiry into the death of your brother need to be delayed?”

“There are several reasons I can think of, Jonkvrouw. So that someone may be sent away safely beyond the reach of the law, for example. But you can also guess them for yourself. I was not in my brother's complete confidence, but it is my belief that in Maastricht he sought some information. And when he came too close to the answer he was eliminated.”

“But you tell me, Mijnheer — or so you did earlier tonight — that you are not official.”

“And that is the exact truth, Jonkvrouw. I am interested only in bringing to justice those who dealt with my brother. But in doing this it will be necessary to discover the nature of the information he was seeking when he died.”

“You are very young,” she observed.

“I think my age of little importance in this matter,” he replied stiffly.

To his surprise she chuckled, a sound as rich as the full tones of her voice, though her eyes and mouth betrayed no signs of amusement.

“I am answered fairly, Mijnheer.”

“Jonkvrouw?” Johan stood again inside the door.

“Yes?”

“The police were informed that a currency smuggler was at the de Witt. The information came in the form of an anonymous telephone call early this evening. When they arrived they found on the street the body of the Doppelganger —”

She digested this in silence, then asked, “Who was his
paymaster?”

“It is not said.”

She moved then, squaring around in her chair to more nearly face her subordinate.

“I am displeased, Johan. When I wish information, it must come — in full. You will now discover for whom the Doppelganger was working tonight!”

Johan again disappeared. And now the Jonkvrouw motioned for Quinn to seat himself on one of the chairs near the wall. There was a subtle alternation in the atmosphere. She had been antagonistic and purposefully aloof, now she was reserving judgment. Quinn seated himself and dared to unbutton his raincoat. His eyes, adjusted to the half gloom of the room, saw a black shape move on the wide cushion of the chair just opposite him. Kater was also included in this conference. And for some reason that thought was almost reassuring. Quinn ventured to ask a question.

“Could this — this Doppelganger be working for the police?”

For the second time he heard her chuckle.

“In his life time the Doppelganger had a varied career and served numerous masters. But none of his activities were on the side of the law. Explain to me this matter of currency smuggling.”

Quinn was forced to a quick decision. The entrance of the Doppelganger and his mysterious paymasters had apparently been to his advantage. He believed it the proper time to speak the truth. So now he outlined the events of the past two days from his discovery of the counterfiet bills to his exit from the de Witt.

She heard him out with her usual stone-set calm. When he had completed the tale she nodded twice — with her bulk it was almost the agreement of a seated Buddha.

“Mijnheer, now that is the truth. Do not glare so at me
— have I not approved it? Also I see why you think that someone has been to no small trouble to put about you a ‘frame’ — as you say. And I am impressed —”

Kater arose, stretched, and sat tall, tail curled over his front paws, a graven image of impassive dignity. He was like the Jonkvrouw — both of them possessed the same unshakeable belief in themselves and their powers. Now the woman put out a hand and selected from a box by her elbow a long slender cigar. Acrid smoke curled up. Quinn relaxed. Without another word being spoken he knew his acceptance was complete.

“Indeed,” she repeated between puffs, “I am impressed, Roajact. You have managed your affairs with a surprising amount of good sense — so far —”

“I probably have half the police force at my heels,” he reminded her flatly.

“For the Doppelganger few will mourn. Undoubtedly there are those in authority who will be willing to shake you by the hand for being the accidental instrument of his taking off. It is more to the point to discover who sent him to your window ledge. Yes, Johan?”

Quinn had not heard the door open.

“The Doppelganger took strange pay, his paymaster is unknown, Jonkvrouw. I have spread the word that you would learn it. Perhaps by morning —”

She blew a perfect smoke ring. “Very well, Johan. I do not like this development. Strange paymasters coming among us do not make for good feeling — not at all. Now for you, Mijnheer. Tonight you shall remain here. In the morning — well, we shall see. Johan, give Mijnheer the Captain's room. Sleep sound, Roajact, within the walls of the Wise Tomcat you are safe.”