Norton, Andre - Novel 07
Author: At Swords' Points (v1.0)
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

At Sword’s Point

The author wishes to express appreciation to Hanny van Nederpelt-Wemelsfelder and Joop Wemelsfelder for the information concerning Dordrecht and the St. Pietersberg Caverns, and to Mr. F. H. W. van der Laan, Director of the Netherlands National Tourist Office in New York, for his splendid assistance in plotting the cruise of the Polite Policeman and for his furnishing of other necessary background material.

While "Stemsberg," "Odocar's Tower" and the "Chateau des Dames" do not really exist, Dordrecht, Maastricht, and the St. Pietersberg Caverns are very much a part of the Netherlands of today.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 1

ARRIVAL OF A TROJAN HORSE

Quinn Anders shivered as he limped up a moss-greened walk to the square New England house and raised his hand to the polished brass eagle doing bored duty as a knocker. A briefcase swung, a dead weight, from his cramped fingers. He had been holding that tightly since yesterday—or was it more than twenty-four hours now since he had started away on impulse? Now as he waited on the doorstep he began to worry again. Perhaps he'd better just turn and go— Perhaps this was all wild melodrama— Crazy—!

But it was too late to go. A woman stood in the doorway.

"Mr. van Norreys?" Quinn's voice was husky and he had to swallow before he could add, "I've come up from New York to see him on business—"

"Well, now—I don't know. Mr. van Norreys took a bad tumble on the ski slope last week, cracked his ankle bone. He hasn't been working. But if you've come all the way from New York—maybe. Step in and we'll see—"

Quinn blinked owlishly at the light in the hall. "I'm Quinn Anders, brother of Captain Stark Anders. Mr. van Norreys once worked with him in Europe."

She went away and he was left to stare at a wall patterned with old picture paper. Maybe this van Norreys had forgotten Stark, maybe he had been a fool to come. His familiar feeling of inadequacy humbled him again as it did every time he thought of Stark. But his brother had said to come to van Norreys, and in his whole life Stark had never suggested a useless action. So Quinn was going to see him now, even if he had to argue with more than one housekeeper and batter down doors to do so.

But such drastic action was not necessary after all.

He was ushered into a room where the lights were not yet turned on and the dusk was thick. As he hesitated just inside someone spoke.

"If you will be so kind as to snap on the light, sir— The switch you will find on the wall to your left. I am somewhat incapacitated just at present—"

Quinn pressed the switch. He was in a combination study-library and one which was well used. The man who limped toward him, using a cane as a support, was probably no older than Stark, close to thirty. His fair hair stood roughly on end as if he had been digging absent-minded fingers through it, but his eyes were alert, almost wary, and they studied Quinn as if trying to trace in him some resemblance to Stark.

Which he wasn't going to find—if that was what he was looking for.

Quinn faced up to the searching measurement with his disciplined patience. Just beyond van Norreys' shoulder was a wall mirror. Probably as old as the house, for the glass seemed misty. But it was not too misty to reflect Quinn's short, almost thick body, topped with that very ordinary and commonplace face. He was in no conceivable way a counterpart of Stark's dashing person.

Then he realized van Norreys was speaking.

"And how is the Gladiator? That was, you know, our name for him."

"Stark is dead."

There—he had said it at last. Said it to someone who had known Stark well enough to maybe care a little. He had said it aloud for the fifth time since he had received the cable. He could remember perfectly each and every time he had had to make that statement of a fact he had to force himself to believe.

"When and how?"

Quinn set the briefcase on the edge of the desk. Those words had steadied him. He found in the question something he had been searching for for days, recognition that there was trouble, and a suggestion that here he might find assistance.

"I had a cable—almost six weeks ago now." He answered slowly, trying to think back through a stretch of time which seemed very long, very long and mostly a blur. "His body was found on a street in Maastricht. He had apparently been the victim of a hit and run accident.”

"Apparently?" Van Norreys had caught that modifying word instantly.

Quinn sat down on the nearest chair. A little of the strain oozed out of his too taut body and mind.

"Apparently." But he put no more emphasis on the word. He wondered if his voice sounded as colorless to the other as it did in his own ears. "I have come to you because last Monday I received a delayed letter from him. This letter suggested that I see you—"

"You have it with you?"

Quinn shook his head. "I destroyed it at once after reading. But I can repeat it to you word for word. I have" —he pulled the briefcase on his knees again—"what they call a photographic memory."

Van Norreys chose a cigarette from a box by his elbow and lit it after Quinn had refused one. "That is a very useful ability," was his only comment.

Quinn moistened his lips. "This is what Stark said.

'Dear Odo:

Great news! Dordrecht it is then. Though I may be doomed now to go down the river and all around the oaks first.

Have been remembering a lot lately about Dad's old Trojans and all their fun and games. We must plan to pay a visit to their own private stamping ground while you are over here. Are you game to take your big brother's hand and guide him through the maze?

I picked up a souvenir of that siege the other day. Will send it along with this. It may be a little too modern for your refined taste. But sometimes there is more in this type of art than you think. So don't dismiss it hastily.

When you pass through New York you might look up Lorens van Norreys. He is a big shot in the jewel trade now. But we worked together back in '45 and '46 when we were trying to trace and restore Nazi loot. He will be amused by this souvenir. Be sure and show it to him.

Hope to see you by the twenty-fifth. We can make the rest of our plans then.

Yours—

Stark.'

"That," Quinn continued almost hesitatingly, "was a kind of code."

He was trying not to babble. But the sheer relief of being able to make such a statement was tearing down his usual reserve.

"First, he calls me Odo—my middle name is ‘Odocar' after one of Dad's medieval heroes. But practically no one knows it and certainly no one ever calls me that. Stark never did. You know of Dad's work—?"

"Yes. Your father was Dr. Wilson Anders, one of the greatest authorities on the military orders of the Middle Ages. I heard him lecture once at Leyden years ago."

"Well, he was writing a book about the Prince-Bishop Odocar of Sternsberg when he died. And Odocar was one of his favorite heroes. But"—Quinn got back to the main subject—"Stark never called me ‘Odo' in his life!"

"And so to do that would direct your attention more closely than ordinarily to what followed?”

Quinn almost sighed with relief. Van Norreys wasn't going to think that he had lost his mind; this Netherlander grasped the importance of little things right away!

"Then there is that bit about 'down the river and all around the oaks.' It is a family saying we always used to explain our being away longer than we had planned—it really means that we might be unavoidably detained.

"And the Trojans— Dad had no interest in Greece or Homer at all. The stories he told us were about Bishop Odocar and the Crusaders. So ‘the old stamping ground' which Stark writes about must be the Duchy of Sternsberg. But that has been part of Belgium for about a hundred years now. And Stark was never very much interested in Dad's work anyway. He left college back in 1940 to join the army. And when the war was over he remained in the service—"

"As a member of the Military Intelligence—" van Norreys put in. "Yes, I know of that, my friend. Just as I also know that he operated under cover as an officer attached to Special Services."

Van Norreys knew that! Quinn opened the briefcase and took out the paper-wrapped package it contained. He put it down on the desk carefully.

"The one incident of the Siege of Troy which most people remember is the story of the wooden horse." He pulled at the wrappings of the package. "This is Stark's souvenir.''

The paper shredded away from a hideous ceramic figure which certainly possessed four legs and a tail and might, very remotely, be considered to resemble a horse.

"I brought it to you as he suggested."

But now that he was looking again at the monstrosity, Quinn began to doubt his own reasoning. The thing simply couldn't be valuable. But Stark was dead, he had written that letter and had sent this. It must be important —it must!

Van Norreys picked up the horse. "Modern it is." He made a little grimace of distaste. "The Trojan Horse." He turned it upside down. Then he looked up with excitement in both eyes and voice as he said,

"You might fetch me the poker—"

Quinn automatically obeyed. And, as he saw the iron raised over the back of the grotesque figure, he understood. Of course! The Trojan Horse was traditionally a hiding place. It had been important, not for itself, but for what it had carried inside its body.

Van Norreys brought the poker down smartly. Bits of pottery skipped and flew wide. And on the blotter among the ruins lay a small roll of dingy cotton wool. With delicate care van Norreys began to pluck this apart, tuft by tuft.

When he finished they both stared with an emotion approaching awe at the treasure of the Trojan Horse.

For the desk light was reflected from a figure about three and a half inches tall. Quinn sucked in his breath as he stretched his fingers toward it. And then he jerked back his hand, not quite daring to touch.

It was a knight in full armor, with an emblazoned surcoat from shoulder to mid-thigh. And the manikin was posed in a dramatic battle posture, left arm holding high a shield, a bared broadsword in the tiny right fist. Only the helmet was missing and shoulder-length hair blew free as if a wind had whipped it back. The face had been molded with such perfection of feature and expression as to suggest that it had been intended as a portrait of some once famous warrior. The heraldic device on the small shield copied the brilliant enameled and inlaid pattern of the surcoat, and pinpoint gems flashed from sword belt and hilt.

Quinn was still staring, thoroughly entranced, when van Norreys pulled the telephone across the desk.

"New York, if you please." His voice was different, clipped, almost cold. "Connect me with Lexington 4-5757. Yes, thank you."

"The Bishop's Menie." Quinn repeated his thought aloud.

But he was startled at the effect of his words on the other. One of van Norreys' slender hands shot out and clamped about his wrist in a grip which was almost as numbing as that of a trap's steel teeth.

"What do you know of the Bishop's Menie?"

Quinn did not struggle to free himself from that hold.

Instead he recalled to the last flourish of his father's precise script that note he had seen over a year ago.

" 'The Bishop's Menie,'" he recited, " 'consists, or once consisted, of thirteen separate figures varying in height and weight. These represented the twelve faithful followers of the Prince-Bishop Odocar—the thirteenth being that of the Prince-Bishop himself—who participated in the First Crusade. They were made at a much later period to the order of the Prince-Bishop Mangus, later Duke of Sternsberg, and they formed the core of the Sternsberg treasure. At various times in the past they have been the object of search on the part of looters. Napoleon himself is said to have been one of the disappointed hunters. The collection disappeared during the middle of the nineteenth century when Sternsberg was absorbed by Belgium. Since the Stemlitz family is now extinct, all clues to its existence or hiding place are lost. The collection, should it be found intact, would be literally priceless because of its great historic value.' That is what Dad knew about it."

The phone's shrill ring interrupted. Quinn sat rubbing the wrist van Norreys released and listened to a one-sided conversation.

"You, Sam? This is luck, finding you at the house. I have something of the utmost importance. Go down to the record room as soon as you can and take out the book left by my grandfather. Look up any reference to the Bishop's Menie—yes—m-e-n-i-e—that's right. Or, if you find nothing about that, see what we know about the Duchy of Sternsberg or the Sternfitz family." Carefully he spelled out each name. "Then call me back. Thank you very much—I shall be waiting—"

He put up the phone and turned back to Quinn. "Stark speaks of your meeting in Dordrecht. You were, then, planning a trip to Europe?"

"Yes. You see, when Dad died last spring he left his book almost finished. There was some checking of sources to be done and the last two chapters to be put in shape from his notes. That book was Dad's dream. He had a publisher interested, too. I don't know how much Stark told you about our family—"

"Very little. Stark was one of those who seemed to live very much in the here and now. I knew that his father was Dr. Anders and that he did have a younger brother."

"I'm his half-brother really—I'm quite a bit younger than Stark. My mother was Dad's second wife and she died when I was five. Stark was good to me, better than most brothers usually are to little kids who tag along. Dad was kind, and he was the best teacher I ever knew. But he was, well—remote. He lived more in the eleventh and twelfth centuries than he did in this. Stark was impatient at home—we lived in a small college town and it was dull, if you were like Stark. When he went into the army he was really happy. We didn't hear from him very often until I was ill. You see, I had polio and for about two years I was pretty much of an invalid. Stark began writing to me then and he sent home things he picked up overseas—books, prints, once a brace of old dueling pistols—"

Quinn's gaze dropped to the shattered bits of pottery.

And once a Trojan horse which might have meant his life, his imagination prompted. Quinn tried to forget that and concentrate on his story.

"He wrote whenever he could. On some jobs he had to disappear for months at a time, but we understood. He never said very much about what he was doing. I guess you just keep quiet about it when you have a position such as that—"

"You do or you do not continue to keep it," van Norreys returned.

"Well, while I was sick I read a lot and then I started working with Dad, doing some research for him, typing and proofreading. I went ahead of my school classes, too. So I was able to graduate from college last June. But I’m only nineteen and apparently that is too young to start teaching. The army won't take me because I still have a weak leg. So I thought I would try to finish Dad's book. I wrote Stark about my plan for going overseas to check source material and he said that he was due for leave and had a chance to get a car so that we could go around together. I was to meet him in Dordrecht and then we were going to head for Limburg and cross the border there into the Sternsberg territory. Part of the castle which Odocar built is still standing."

"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 Colonel 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, "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 Manchuria 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 and 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 and 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 none the less 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. Now 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 in 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 Meniel

CHAPTER 2

CONTACT-ROAJACT!

It was ten-thirty by the first booming chime of the old hall clock when Quinn was ushered in the next morning 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 this 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 wrong, I tell you!" Van Norreys allowed impatience to roughen his voice. "Sending babes and children out hke 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 o.k., 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 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 and 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 taHsman 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 plate 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 stale-ness 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 ofiicial 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 Smits."

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,” Marusaki 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 of 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.

"I think you shall do—"

“Sure, chief." Marusaki shuffled his feet. "I’ve seen a good many come and go in my time. He's got the stuff!"

But by the time Marusaki drove into the outer reaches of New York in the dusk Quinn wondered about that last statement. They had not talked at all about the future during the past few hours—instead the Norreys man had delivered a steady monologue about his own past. And after only a few minutes of listening Quinn had grasped the purpose behind that flow of reminiscence, all told in a matter-of-fact way. Marusaki was endeavoring to plant during the short hours of their trip some idea of how to work undercover. As soon as he realized that, Quinn asked questions at intervals, questions which were answered at once, sometimes in detail. It was a fast briefing and a superficial one. But Quinn reached his hotel knowing far more about the possibilities of situations which might develop from the action he had pledged himself to take than that morning he had dreamed might exist.

Quinn made his good-bye as casual as Marusaki's and hurried to his room. There was something to do before he picked up his ticket and went to the airport. Before he even took off his hat he did it.

He extracted a page from his father's notes—read it over twice with concentration, tore the paper into small bits and burned it in the ash tray. The flimsy black flakes he flushed away in the bathroom. He now knew all there was to know about the Bishop's Menie and no one else could learn it from him.

There was nothing else which might tie him to the

Stemlitz treasure. He was almost certain of that—now he was going to be sure. Leaf by leaf he flipped through the two notebooks, checking each page whether the script on it was in his own backhand, typewritten, or in his father's fine printing. Nothing. But he did tear out and burn a pencil sketch of Odocar's Tower. He shut the briefcase, made sure of his passport, and gathered up his bags.

All the way out to the airport he thought of the cardinal rule Marusaki had impressed on him that afternoon. If one had to live a role, one lived it every minute of the day and night. If one was to be a pearl dealer from Port Darwin, for example, one thought, lived, slept and ate as a pearl dealer—and was nothing else until the moment came when that role led to one's goal.

In one respect he was very lucky. He did not have to assume another personality at all—and he probably wouldn't be fitted for acting. No, he had already a perfect reason to poke and pry around old cities and ask logical and profitable questions about places and people. He was only a history student interested in an obscure military order which had been in existence for a short time seven hundred years ago.

So as a tourist he enjoyed to the full the excitement of travel by night on the huge "Flying Dutchman," eastward bound to meet the sun. From the moment Quinn took his seat with the rest of the travelers en route for Shannon and Amsterdam he gave himself wholly to the fun of traveling only as one who has been long rooted in one place can.

His seatmate, who had boarded the plane later, barely finding his place before the door closed, seemed totally uninterested in his surroundings and spent the very short night sleeping heavily. His round face with its plastic rimmed glasses was so utterly commonplace that he made no impression on Quinn.

Being spring the night was short, darkness hardly having a chance to close down before they were speeding into the dawn. Quinn aroused as they curved in for their final landing. Below, the green of polder grass was cut by the silver of canals. But most wonderful of all were the squares and rectangles of living color. Sheets of crimson, rose, white, yellow, blue-Perhaps it was Quinn's gasp which awakened his seat-mate. He leaned across, bumping his head sleepily against the pane almost cheek to cheek with the American.

"Those are the bulb fields, Mijnheer." His English carried a thick accent. "These you have not seen before?"

"No."

"We are still to the east flying. See, that starfish below —that is Naarden. Watch the canals, there should be on them flower barges bound for the city. This is the season that the fields are at their peak."

He sat back in his seat and stared frankly at Quinn.

"This is perhaps your first visit to the Nederlands, Mijnheer?"

"Yes."

"Then you have chosen well the proper time in which to come. Den Haag, Marken, Amsterdam, Rotterdam—you have them all before you at their finest. You travel for business or for your pleasure, Mijnheer?"

"Neither,” Quinn returned with what he hoped was just the right amount of enthusiasm. "I am a student over here to do some historical research."

"Ah, a student! Do you then go to Ley den or Utrecht?"

"Not yet. I have some time free for sightseeing first—"

"Goed! You will look about our Nederlands before you must, as your countrymen say, ‘dig into your books.' Well, Nederlands is not now so great as once it was—this poor country. We have lost the Indies. So back here—where there is so little, so very little land—must come hundreds, thousands of people who have lived for generations under another sun. It is a sad business for all. Tighten up the belt—that is what now we must all do. Ah, now we approach Schiphol. Look well around you here, Mijnheer. This airport is the crossroads for half the world today. From here you may go without difficulty to India, to Egypt—to Timbuktu—if you wish."

When they landed Quinn found himself taken in charge by this self-appointed guide. The Netherlander insisted upon escorting him to the customs, somewhat officiously dealing with the currency forms and explaining in detail papers Quinn already understood. But the man did it all with such a manifest desire to be helpful that Quinn concealed his annoyance and bridled impatience. It was when the time for baggage inspection came that Quinn discovered the loss of his briefcase.

Those who had carried the luggage from the plane denied having seen it. And there ensued a period of confusion since Quinn's new friend embarrassed him with the noise of his complaints and the way he made them to every authority or bystander.

Had the briefcase contained anything but irreplaceable notes Quinn would have joyfully said good-bye to it at the end of two minutes of the uproar—and would have slunk out of the office to make off in the first vehicle offering itself for his escape. He had always hated scenes and he was now the center of a very noisy one.

At last the case was discovered in the very center of a mound of bags. Quinn sighed with relief and beckoned to a porter who had been the butt of part of the tirade. He put a guilder piece in the man's hand.

The porter caught up both of Quinn's bags and headed to the other door, the American only too glad to follow him.

"Mijnheer, that other gentleman. He is goed friend with you?"

"Just a fellow traveler on the same plane. I do not even know his name."

"Then, Mijnheer, why does he make the joke? Your bag, Mijnheer, the small bag which he so loudly talks of. It was he who put it so, hidden among the other cases. He makes the joke?"

Quinn did not allow himself to glance back over his shoulder at the doorway through which his "friend" might burst at any moment.

"Perhaps he did. I shall ask him. Thank you for all your trouble."

"Danke, Mijnheer!" The man touched his cap.

Quinn picked up the briefcase. He had an idea that from now on he would be happier if he kept that under his own hand.

CHAPTER 3

SUDDENLY A MAN OF TOO MUCH PROPERTY

During practically every moment of the following hour Quinn wished that he had had the courage at Schiphol to be rude and had fled before his self-appointed guide had joined him at the taxi stand. For by waiting he acquired a companion who stuck closer than scotch tape. It was only when van Noorden, as he belatedly identified himself, saw the American on the train for Dordrecht and the train actually pulled out of the station, that Quinn was free to relax in blessed solitude. He promised himself firmly not to go to the hotel van Noorden had recommended, and certainly he was not going to call upon any of the people whose names and addresses, scrawled across the back of a business card, had been thrust upon him in the last minute before he escaped.

The adventure left him sleepy and cross and he was beginning to believe himself allergic to Holland into the bargain. To cap his discomfort the compartment was filled with other passengers. Having no desire to be saddled with a second van Noorden Quinn burrowed for his notes.

This would be a good time to read again about the disbanding of Bishop Odocar's order. And if he were furiously reading no one would interrupt. He turned the pages of his notebook slowly.

He had flipped them all to the end cover and what he saw there straightened him in his seat and banished drowsiness. The leather binding was turned in to form a pocket, a handy holder for random notes. The last time he had looked at it the only contents had been a map of Sternsberg. But something new had since been added.

It was a yellow envelope, thick, tightly sealed, new. And it had been jammed in behind the map so hurriedly that one corner was badly creased. Quinn shut the notebook without removing it.

So that was why his briefcase had been mislaid at the airport! For it was only there that the envelope could have been planted on him. But why—and what was in it? Had he been alone he would have looked. But somehow he did not want to do that under the eyes of four strangers.

He had to school himself in patience and recall Marusaki's advice. Over and over again that expert had dinned into Quinn's ears that the worst problems he would have to contend with were impatience and boredom—that one must never make events move unless one was very, very sure of all the facts and could foretell part of the immediate future. That one must wait for—as Marusaki had expressed it—what the Gods sent, which was almost always trouble. So Quinn read himself a lecture and restored the notebook to the briefcase which he put under his elbow.

Then he sat quietly, but he saw little or nothing of the countryside passing by his window.

Quinn had been warned that the taxi service in Holland was not the universal convenience that it was at home. But he was able to find a cab at the station which took him to the hotel Stark had suggested—the de Witt.

It was in the small lobby, just before he turned to follow the porter to his room, that he received the second shock of that day. One which jerked him completely out of his desire for bed and sleep. For the clerk handed him a letter.

"Mijnheer Anders, this arrived some time ago with instructions that it be held for you—"

Quinn accepted the envelope. It was smudged with dirt, the print of a shoe heel plain on its back. But the writing sent a thrill of what was almost pain running through him. There was no mistaking those spike capital letters, that twisted "Q."

So it was with a letter from Stark in his hand that Quinn went to his room without clearly seeing any of his surroundings at all. He tipped the porter and was alone at last. And he turned the key in the door before he tore open the letter.

Inside was an irregular bit of tough paper. Apparently it had been torn from a menu. At first he could see nothing on the back at all, but, in the full light of the reading lamp he switched on, he was able to read just four words.

"Man who sells memories."

A man who sells memories! But what and who— Yet this was a message so important that Stark had scribbled it on the only paper near him at the moment.

Quinn dropped into the chair under the lamp and studied that scrap with more care than he had ever given to any historical book or manuscript, determined to print on his mind every fiber of that paper, every curlicue of the list of dishes printed on it. If he ever saw the parent menu again he was going to recognize it.

Then he reached for an ash tray and matches. The bit of paper became a powdery black fluff. But still he was able to close his eyes and see it exactly as it had been.

The envelope was of cheap paper, so smudged and soiled that it looked as if it might have been dropped in the street and trodden upon before it was mailed. Which, Quinn's fingernails made prints on it, might well have happened to it. Suppose Stark had been followed, suppose he had written the note, put it in an envelope and thrown it away. What would be the normal reaction of anyone finding it—especially if Stark had been able to put a stamp on the envelope? Why, the finder would simply pick it up and drop it into the nearest post box. But if Stark had been reduced to such straits he must have been very hard pressed. Perhaps—Quinn's lips became a very thin line-perhaps this had been prepared on the very night of his death. And, if that was so. Stark must have known that he was in danger.

Which made "a man who sells memories" about the most important message Quinn had ever received. He stared blankly at the wall trying to arrange thoughts and suspicions in a logical order. And suddenly he wished that he could lay the whole thing before van Norreys—even tell it to Marusaki. But they were both a sea away and he wasn't going to be able to get rid of responsibility so easily. There remained the introduction van Norreys had given him to the queer half world, the existence of which he had hardly been able to believe back in that sane and comfortable New England house where it had first been described. But suddenly, here and now after Stark's last note, he discovered that he could well accept the reality of even the mumbo-jumbo of Roajact.

He got up and methodically stripped, showered and redressed. Once he glanced longingly at the bed. But he had other things to do now. He was almost ready to leave when he remembered the envelope in the notebook. Might as well start solving all the mysteries in order, he thought with something approaching wry humor as he reached for it.

Quinn had his hat already on his head again as he ripped open that envelope with small regard for its contents. A second later he was gaping in total disbelief at what he held.

It was not true, of course. It couldn't be!

Only it was. He could feel it—he could move them between his fingers, crisp and new and a little inclined to stick to one another.

Ten one thousand dollar bills!

His mind refused to accept the evidence of fingers and eyes. He rumpled them, counted, re-counted.

“Ten thousand dollars!" His lips shaped the words slowly.

Ten one thousand dollar bills, new, as if they had just been issued from the mint! Holding the bills fanwise under the lamp he studied them carefully. So that was it! The slightly fuzzy picture—Quinn grinned without any humor at all now. That was the catch—counterfeit! But, real or counterfeit, they meant trouble for him—bad trouble. He could be tagged as a currency smuggler. Or was he only a messenger boy? Would someone turn up here to claim the package which Mr. van Noorden entrusted to him? Because it must have been van Noorden who planted this on him. Well, if anyone did come, he would be slightly surprised by his reception!

Quinn went to work. It was a good thing, he thought a little more cheerfully, that he had been an ardent student of espionage in fiction all these years. One learned so much from reading.

He wrapped the bills in paper taken from his own supply of unmarked correspondence sheets and, with the aid of tape from his small first aid kit, fastened them to the underside of the bottom drawer in the chest. They could stay there until he decided the best way to get rid of them. He might sent them anonymously to the police. But not just yet. It would be interesting to see if they were to be called for—and who was going to do the calling.

Quinn experienced a sort of elation. He considered that he had handled that rather well. It was a good omen for the start of the whole affair. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was not going to be pushed around. Almost jauntily he picked up his coat and went out.

The clerk in the lobby provided him with the name of a restaurant within a short distance and twenty minutes later he was ordering—and so testing his Dutch—what seemed like a table load of food. It was beginning to rain outside. There was a flurry among the bicycles along the street.

Quinn chewed and thought and honestly enjoyed himself. He had quite a lot to think about. There was van Noorden, and the money, and the note from Stark. As yet he couldn't see any tie between the currency business and the quest for the Bishop's Menie. Unless—of course—

Unless someone was trying to build a nice tight frame around Quinn Anders. Currency smuggling was a major crime, a very serious offense. And the smuggling of counterfeit currency was probably twice as serious. The charge might involve him so deeply with the police, if those bills were found in his possession, that even the American embassy would be prejudiced against his case. He could very well be kept in custody for days or weeks. Giving some unknown plenty of time—time to do what? Go to Sternsberg and pull the treasure out of a hat? But that was just a little too fanciful!

He paid his check and went out, turning up his collar against the drive of the rain, and huddling close to the buildings he passed. At the end of the block he came upon a bookshop. It was one of those small cluttered places which no booklover could possibly refrain from visiting and almost automatically Quinn went in.

The proprietor, a short man wearing a draggle of pipe ashes down the bosom of his black jacket, looked up with real irritation as the American disturbed the musty silence of the book-filled room. But when Quinn merely made his way to the nearest overloaded table and began to poke among the dusty books there, he subsided into his sway-bottomed chair with a sigh of relief.

The rain continued to beat against the window and the faint mustiness of disintegrating bindings added a dry, not unpleasant, scent to the atmosphere. Quinn was glad that he read Dutch well enough to be able to browse intelligently and he was doubly glad of that talent when he came upon a battered volume which he knew he must take with him, for it contained a detailed and complete collection of plates showing armor of the eleventh and twelfth centuries.

With this treasure in hand Quinn bearded the reluctant salesman and bargained. As one who wished to rid himself of a nuisance the man at last accepted money, produced a much-creased piece of paper which he wrapped negligently about the purchase, and literally shooed Quinn toward the door. The book under his arm, Quinn trudged wearily back to his hotel.

He hesitated in the lobby before the table which bore a pile of booklets labeled in red and white letters "Dordrecht." These proved to be guides to the city, written in Enghsh, and he appropriated one of them.

Back in his own room he tackled the main problem. The paper which had been wrapped about the book of armor had, by all visual evidence, served several times as a covering since it had been originally torn from its parent roll. It was smudged and creased but on neither side had any directions been written on it, nor did it carry any identification that Quinn could see. He smoothed it flat and brought out the spool of scotch tape he carried for the repairing of torn notebook leaves. Using his penknife he cut and taped together a crude but efficient envelope into which he sealed the bills.

There was a small city directory in the chest drawer. And the address he wanted was well to the front. But it took him a good thirty minutes to copy it out with his left hand—

"Chief of Police, Dordrecht—" All in the proper Dutch terms.

The letters were clumsily blocked and maybe a handwriting expert could identify them. But they would have nothing else written by him for comparison.

Stamps were a problem. They’d be a little hard to find on the spur of the moment, and he didn't want to keep this any longer than he had to. Did he need them? Surely an envelope so addressed would be delivered if found in one of the regular mail pickups! He would just have to take a chance on that.

He tumbled into bed at last with the satisfaction of knowing that one little mystery had been turned over properly to the law. And if a frame had been tailored for him he had done his best to break out of it. He had studied the guide to Dordrecht and tomorrow, as a tourist, he was going to ramble around, ramble until he could test the efficiency of van Norreys' introduction.

It was gray, gloomy, and still inclined to rain the next morning. Quinn chewed his way through a breakfast which did not include orange juice, but which did surprisingly feature cheese, and re-read the booklet while he ate. Walk Number One would eventually lead him to Voorstraat. And to save time he could cut out the section that dealt with the parks and begin with Noordendijk and the old mill to be viewed there. A mill on a dike—just the proper introduction to Dutch sightseeing.

So methodically, and as the proper student of history, he followed "First Walk" as outlined by the city fathers for the delight of visitors. Noordendijk led into the ancient section of Dordrecht, the Venice of Holland, where canal water lapped both the front and backs of old stepped-roof houses.

Quinn finally found his way into Museumstraat and skirted the picture gallery. In spite of his role of tourist he was in no mood to view art just now. The houses made a continuous wall. Once New York must have looked much the same—back in the days when fiery old Pieter stamped its cobbled streets, buckled shoe and silver-banded peg keeping time to the round oaths with which he peppered the upstart English who had dared to beard him in his own den. In spite of the rain Quinn strolled slowly here, even stopping for a good three minutes to look at Berckeport where another man, as stubborn in his opposition to the enemy as Pieter Stuyvesant, had once burned midnight oil in council—William the Silent. There were the arched gates, the old courts, and history-stained houses.

But in the end Quinn came into Voorstraat. A furniture dealer occupied number 97 and there was a bookshop at 89. But he kept on until he found Bevroot's. Dutch silver made a pattern on the floor of the window and beyond the fan of christening spoons and snuffboxes were Delft and porcelain. At the very back was a long-necked, long-armed stick puppet of Indonesian manufacture leering malevolently at a piece of faded but beautifully wrought embroidery. But beyond a selection of necklaces of coral, carnelian and amber, which must have been once the finery of peasant brides, was a velvet-lined tray on which rested several old watches.

Quinn went in. But he hesitated just within the door when he found himself faced by a maze of large and small tables, all crowded with porcelain, brass, copper, and glass. There were three lamps burning at spaced intervals down the length of the room, but together they did not give too much light.

"Mijnheer wishes?"

The man who came forward was the Bevroot of the picture he had seen—there were the same puckered lips and pettish frown between the eyes.

"I saw the watches in your window," Quinn said abruptly—abruptly because suddenly he felt rather silly. "You don't by any chance make repairs, do you? I'm a tourist—just got in—and mine has been running fast all morning. I don't know where to have it taken care of—"

"So?" Bevroot looked neither interested nor completely disinterested. He was a shopkeeper being polite. "I am not in the watch repair business, Mijnheer. Most of those I sell are items of historical interest—not for modern use, you understand. But if you wish to give to me for examination the one you wear—perhaps I can locate the trouble. Though if the repair is of difficulty you must then take it elsewhere—"

"Of course." Quinn took off the watch and passed it over to Bevroot who disappeared with it into the back of the shop.

The American moved slowly around the nearest tables. And the medley he saw displayed there was enough to fascinate anyone. From a tray of small odds and ends he picked up a carnelian seal set in thin old gold. The device it bore—a lion rearing on its hind legs and brandishing a sword between its front paws very martially—Stark would like.

Quinn dropped the seal back into the tray and turned abruptly away. When would memory stop playing such tricks on him?

"Mijnheer!"

Almost he jumped. Bevroot's approach had been close to noiseless.

"The adjustment needed was but a slight one, Mijnheer.

Now, I believe, you will find that it keeps better time. A fine watch indeed, Mijnheer. Excellent workmanship. It is American made?"

"Yes. My father gave it to me. What do I owe you for your service, Mijnheer?"

Bevroot shook his head. "Nothing, Mijnheer. You have but recently come from America?"

"Yes. This is my first day in Dordrecht—"

Bevroot's professional, shopkeeper's smile became almost eager. "You must not miss then, Mijnheer, the best we have to offer."

"You have, perhaps, some suggestions for me, Mijnheer?"

"One only. There is a cafe, Mijnheer. You will not find it listed in the guide books for it is small and difficult for the stranger to find. But if you will go there—perhaps for dinner tonight—you will think it worth the trouble you have taken to visit it. You must also be sure to ask for a canal window table. To sit and sip your coffee and watch water traffic pass by might be amusing. An experience which I do not believe can be offered you in America— as amazing as that country is."

"No, that is true, Mijnheer. And the name of this cafe?"

"It is the Wijze Kater—the Wise Tomcat—Mijnheer. You may reach it thus—"

On the back of an old envelope he drew a map and carefully went over it twice until he saw that Quinn understood.

"Under the arch in the building, Mijnheer, and into the court beyond. There is no sign outside and it is easy to mistake the place—"

"I do not think that now I shall."

"Goed! And, Mijnheer, the cook comes from a district near Maastricht in Limburg. Ask for Via cherry pie—that is a dish of that place. In all Dordrecht, I can promise you this truly, there is no other Via pie such as is served in the Wise Tomcat. The table by the canal and the pie, that you must not forget, Mijnheer."

"I won't." Quinn turned and picked up the seal he had seen. "I would like to buy this, if you please."

When he had paid the small sum Bevroot asked he added,

"You ship overseas, Mijnheer?"

"If a customer wishes, Mijnheer. There is then a sum to be added for the postage. As for this—there would be no duty—it is truly an antique. Not of great value—only eighteenth century."

"You will send it, please, to a Mijnheer Sam Marusaki, care of the House of Norreys, in New York City."

Bevroot noted the address down. Quinn grinned to himself as he left the shop. Cloak-and-dagger was it? Well, he'd chosen a neat way to let Marusaki and van Norreys know that he had taken the first step on the road they had marked out for him.

Voorstraat was still wet and there was a nasty cold wind breaking along it but Quinn went down its full length remembering, as the guide book had so strongly urged, to turn to the left between numbers 133 and 131 so he could catch the proper view of the Voorstraathaven. The houses were reflected in dull gray canal water as shadowy blocks. He jerked again at his coat collar. Since he could not visit the Wise Tomcat before the dinner hour and he had an empty middle section right now it might be well to discover some other and less discreet eating place.

He glanced back along the street. Save for another man far down its length it was deserted. Quinn set off at a sharper pace, thinking of coffee, hot, in a large cup, and right away.

CHAPTER 4

THE WISE TOMCAT

Gray skies had not only dripped but poured before Quinn found a restaurant and he was thoroughly damp and out of sorts when he sat down. But the steamy warmth of the place was comforting and, once the business of giving his order was done, he was able again to take an observant interest in his surroundings. Another newcomer was hesitating in the doorway and as Quinn's eyes flicked over him the American knew a second of startled question. The angle of those hunched shoulders and the outline made by the turned-up coat collar were familiar. The face remained a thin shce of white—its owner in no hurry to reveal more.

The waiter who bustled doorward to meet the stranger paid no attention at all to what seemed to be a protest but bowed the man to the only small table yet unoccupied, placed in the full light of the front window. And now the reluctant diner was forced to shed hat and coat. For a single wild minute Quinn thought that Marusaki's “Quong, Hong, or Wing" was now sharing the room with him. That thick black hair was straight and so sleek on its possessor's head that it might have been lacquered over the well-shaped skull. The stranger's nose was sharp, high bridged, and his eyes had heavy drooping lids which were never fully raised. There was no way of computing his age, he might have been twenty-five or fifty. But his slim body with its lithe, controlled movements led Quinn to believe that the first figure might be closer to the truth. At any rate the man was definitely not Dutch, nor, Quinn would have willingly laid a wager on that, European. And he was not Quong, Hong, or Wing either—only those weary eyes and the general contour of the face were similar to the photograph. The American turned his full attention to his food, resolving not to humor his imagination again.

A conscientious visit to the museum filled up the dragging hours of the afternoon and at four Quinn splashed back to the hotel, bored and wet. When he asked for his key the head porter also produced a message. A Mijnheer Grosport had called and would call again.

Grosport. Quinn identified it as one of the names on the list van Noorden had given him at the station. He was one of the people the American had no intention of contacting. But, since he was not staying at the hotel van Noorden had so vehemently recommended, how in the world had Mijnheer Grosport tracked him down and why? This zeal to entertain visitors was so entirely overwhelming that Quinn was led to thoughtfully file Mijnheer Grosport's message in the wastebasket and promise himself that that was going to be the end of that!

But he was uneasy enough to turn on every light in the room and make a slow and thorough tour of inspection. At the chest of drawers he found what suspicion had led him to expect. The drawers, which he had left evenly closed, were no longer so perfectly in line. And it was the one to which he had attached the bills yesterday which now protruded a fraction of an inch.

Quinn pulled it all the way out. Yes, in the light it would have been possible for the searcher to see the marks the tape had left on the wood. Well, Fido must have arrived—but only to find the cupboard bare. Now what was going to be Fido's reaction to that?

Other indications showed him that the rest of the room had been searched too, by someone at least partially skilled in the business. And would that searcher now believe that he, Quinn, carried the bills on his person? It might be well to walk softly from now on, look well into shadows and take care in crossing dark streets when out in the cool of the evening.

He went to the window and stood staring through the rain-streaked glass down at the streaming roofs of Dordrecht—at the leaden gray veins which were the canals, at the darkness which was gathering swiftly to add to the murk of the storm. His body stiffened, tense, rigid, his tongue tried to gather moisture in a dry mouth, behind his ear a nerve throbbed.

Had Stark known this sensation when he recognized danger? Stark had never talked about the past, or the future—only the present—and the surface of his present had always seemed serene and untroubled. That smooth and debonair shell of charm and goodfellowship which Stark had used as his armor had set a barrier between him and his family, too. Now Quinn was in the world of Captain Stark Anders and at that moment he would have given anything and everything he possessed to be able to ask,

"Is this it, Stark? Is this the way it always is—this feeling of loneliness, of being cut off—of—of fear?"

That was what cut the deepest—the feeling of being barred from the safety of the regular and familiar world where a man did a day's work at a routine job and went home at night to sleep at ease in a safe bed. Across the barrier—in this other world where you knew that your wits and your strength alone were all you had to depend upon—you knew real and terrifying loneliness. But Stark must have felt that too. Maybe he sent that scrap of menu when he had been caught up in just such a moment of aloneness. And Stark had not won back across the barrier to safety.

Quinn raised the window. The rain-washed wind was cold, with a faint salty tang to it. It whined above the tooth-edged roof tops. And over that whine he heard the sound of a metallic chime. One, two, three, four, five! It would be all right now to start for the Wise Tomcat.

There was a taxi just discharging a passenger outside the hotel and he was lucky enough to secure it, preferring to ride rather than get lost in the maze of old streets Bevroot had attempted to chart for him. When he got out of the cab at a comer not too far from his destination the flood of homeward bound bicycles had thinned to a trickle through which he was able to dodge while looking for landmarks.

So he won into a side street, hardly more than a slit, which surely no modern vehicle could possibly negotiate without scraping off doorsteps all along the way.

This ended in an arch which was part of an old house. Curtained windows were over his head as he walked I through into the small court beyond. Two narrow houses made up the sidewalls and a single one faced the arch. In it lighted windows made beacons and it bore a sign which creaked with the swing of the wind. Gilt and paint caught the lamplight from the lantern fixture on the neighboring house. Quinn had found the Wise Tomcat.

Inside, the visitor went up a narrow staircase, set at almost a breakneck angle, to a low-ceiled room where beams provided overhead menaces to the too tall and unwary. About half of the tables set there were occupied by earnest eaters.

"A table, Mijnheer?"

Quinn glanced at the young man who had paused before him. And it seemed to him that the waiter's pale face twitched and lines of harassment bracketed his mouth when the American did not answer immediately.

"I would like one by the canal, if you please," he answered in English.

The nervous twitch pulled the other's mouth awry for an instant. But he neither answered nor moved. Then Quinn added,

"I am an American and this is my first visit to your city. Mijnheer Bevroot was kind enough to tell me of the Wise Tomcat—he also suggested that I ask for that table—"

"Very well, Mijnheer."

But the waiter's reluctance was very apparent as he led the way across the room to a solitary table placed by a casement window. He pulled out the chair for Quinn, hastily spread an assortment of cutlery and dropped a menu card.

Quinn waved away the last. "Bring me the specialty of the house. And in addition—Mijnheer Bevroot recommended the Via cherry pie—"

The waiter supphed him with a napkin, his eyes only for what he was doing.

"As Mijnheer wishes."

Then he was gone. Quinn looked through the window. This side was sheltered from wind and rain. He could just see the canal below without twisting his head too far—the water must lap the back wall of the Wise Tomcat. A row-boat or two were tied up at a water-washed door there,. bobbing up and down. Such an exit might be convenient; if one were in the black market or had other strange businesses. Did the police patrol the canals?

Quinn picked up the fork at his hand and began to draw patterns on the coarse stuff of the red and white cloth.. Had his gift package reached the chief of police yet? And, if it had, what sort of a flurry had it started in official circles? It might be safer to know, if he had the power to find out.

A tangle of threads—that was what he held now. Maybe the Wise Tomcat could provide him with at least one loose end. There was Grosport and the money, and Stark's message. If he would only be allowed to tackle one at a time.

He looked up. Level, unwinking green eyes were regarding him steadily. An intelhgent black-furred face appeared to hang without support in mid-air just across the table—until one saw the black paws braced on the edge of the board. Opposite him now was an outsize in black tomcats.

"Dag, kater."

The cat graciously replied with a polite and almost soundless mew.

"Mijnheer"—the worried waiter materialized. "Kater—" He turned almost apologetically to the second occupant of the canal window table.

Quinn laughed. "This is perhaps a reserved table, reserved for my friend here?"

The waiter showed a faint shadow of smile. "As you say, Mijnheer. After the manner of his race Kater has very strong opinions concerning his own importance and place in the world. This table he has chosen—"

"Then," Quinn continued in Dutch, "I am his guest. Mijnheer Kater"—he bowed to that pillar of fehne respectability on the other side of the board—"will you perhaps join me in, say, a dish of milk?"

The waiter permitted himself a short laugh which must have been used infrequently it sounded so rusty.

"Milk is more for the jonge kat—the small kitten, Mijnheer. Kater here has a taste for stronger drink."

"Then by all means bring him his regular tipple. And don't keep the gentleman waiting!"

For "Kater" had turned his black mask to the waiter and had mewed on a much louder and more impatient note.

"As the Mijnheer desires."

Quinn began to spoon up the thick soup which had been put before him.

"Not a pleasant night out, Mijnheer," he observed between mouthfuls.

Kater's head swung toward the window in answer and the green jewel eyes studied the murk without with obvious displeasure.

Quinn allowed the best soup he had eaten in years to warm his middle. At least the Wise Tomcat was worth visiting because of its cook, if for no other reason. Though to share a table with Kater was an experience he would not have wished to miss either. Marusaki should join them now. What did the secret agent do when his contact appeared to be a large, perfectly groomed, and extremely well-poised tomcat? Now that was a question for van Norreys himself to answer.

The waiter came back with a Delft ware bowl to set before Kater. And into that he poured a good half of a bottle of beer. Quinn's soup plate was changed for another which gave forth savory smells. And then both he and Kater plunged into the business of refreshment.

Kater was a dainty drinker and a slow one, pausing now and then to gaze out the window or to watch Quinn. He used that shattering feline stare which can discomfit human beings—the stare which suggests that one's hair is uncombed, that there are egg spots on one's tie, and that one is generally behaving in a silly and unmannerly fashion. But Quinn, having dealt with Kater's tribe before, refused to be discommoded by it.

Instead he talked steadily, even with his mouth half full, asking Kater questions and now and then actually winning a mew in answer. At the arrival of the Via pie he had developed the feeling of being caught up in some wild fantasy. The long dark room, which ran the full length of the ancient house from court to canal, with its poor illumination, was certainly lifted bodily out of the sixteenth century. Its walls swallowed sound, noises made in it were muted and far away.

His own table stood slightly apart, almost isolated. And Kater, his black fur melting into the shadows until one did not know where dark began and cat ended, had certainly come straight out of the Middle Ages.

"A witch cat, a familiar," Quinn decided judiciously at last. "That is what you are, my friend. Be glad that you reside here and now in these supposedly enlightened days. In the past you would have made a most unpleasant acquaintance with the Inquisition. You have finished? Good. May I suggest that there is but the merest suspicion of foam clinging to your left-hand upper whisker? Yes, that deals with it."

Kater's red tongue swept left and then right. He removed his paws from the table and sat back on the chair so that only eyes and ears now could be seen above the level of the board.

"An excellent dinner," Quinn complimented the waiter, "and a most interesting table companion. I am indeed indebted to Mijnheer Bevroot for his suggestion that I visit the Wise Tomcat."

He was taking the money for the bill out of his wallet when the waiter asked in a low voice,

"You are a friend of cats, Mijnheer?" I am.

"The Wise Tomcat is very old, Mijnheer. We have had many, many cats to bring us luck. And they have made friends—famous friends. You have perhaps heard of Jerome Bosch, Mijnheer?"

"A little. He was a painter of strange and weird pictures—"

"Once he painted the Kater of his day, Mijnheer. Would you care to see that painting?"

"Most certainly."

Quinn bowed politely in farewell to Kater and followed the waiter. This must be the contact van Norreys had promised him.

They went back down the stairs to a door set flush with the old paneling so that it seemed a part of the centuries-darkened wood. Quinn entered a room half as large as the dining hall above.

It was almost completely dark. Only at the far end a desk lamp made a circle of pale light on a battered commercial desk, the chair drawn up to it and the person sitting there—facing the door and waiting. The door closed behind the American.

"Mijnheer?" The voice which addressed him was low, husky, and possessed a warmth which was in great variance to the body from which it issued.

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 carven 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 and 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 on the black market, if that's what you mean. I'm 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 Captain 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 occurrence 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 Captain Anders knew—"

"We have no quarrel with Americans," she cut in, much of the rich warmth gone from her voice. "Captain 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 Hke 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 Captain 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 little too freely. I repeat this—we have no quarrel with Americans. Captain 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 and 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.

CHAPTER 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 and 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 around 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 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 wails 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 and then:

"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 alteration 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 counterfeit 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 un-shakeable 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."

Quinn offered thanks which she waved aside with the hand which held the cigar. Then he followed Johan up the stairs, past the entrance of the dining room—two more flights—to a short hall from which two doors opened. Johan pulled ajar the one on the left. They stepped into a kind of attic filled with a jumble of broken furniture and dusty boxes. The windows here were boarded up with heavy wooden shutters on the inside.

But Johan went through this to a closet on the other side where he jerked downward on a wooden clothes peg. A back panel opened—so small and narrow an opening that, though neither was a large man, they had some trouble wriggling thiough it.

The room beyond was provided with a cot, a chest of battered drawers, and no windows. Johan jerked a thumb at the cot. Then he was gone without a word and the panel closed behind him.

By the weak light of a low-watt bulb swinging on a cord from the ceiling Quinn examined his cheerless quarters. They did not improve upon inspection but he was too tired to quibble. The excitement which had buoyed him up during his escape from the hotel and his passage at arms with the Jonkvrouw was ebbing and he was very sleepy. He snapped off the light and stretched out on the cot. And almost before he rested there he was asleep.

It was pitch dark when he awoke with a dull ache behind his eyes and a thick taste in his mouth. He could hear his watch tick when he held it to his ear. He might have been there ten minutes or ten hours. Bemused and logy with sleep he got up on his knees and swept his arms over his head in search of the light cord.

Lucky chance found it and he snapped on the light to sit blinking at the chest of drawers. His watch said quarter to ten and he wound it absently as he tried to sort out his memories of the night before. He was hungry and he wondered if he were doomed to molder away here while the outer world went about its business. This room had certainly been intended to hide those who had reason to fear the light of day.

He got to his feet, noting as he walked that no creaking boards betrayed his movements. On the wall by the door panel he found something surprising—a penciled list of names and half obliterated dates.

"J. Fulmer, 1942. R. W. Wingfield, 1942. Cauldwill,

1942. Ronston-March, 1943. Henderson, 1943. Wolanski,

1943. De Beauclaire, 1943. Wolfe, 1944—"

"Former inmates?" he asked of the emptiness about him. But those dates, 1942, 1943, 1944—the years of the occupation! This must then have been a way station on the underground trail for fleeing men. He'd heard often enough of the Allied fliers who had escaped through the Netherlands, passed from station to station in disguise, at night, at the risk of their guides' lives. To have sheltered so many this must have been an extra safe place. On impulse he took out his pocket pen and added, "Roajact, 1952." Ten years after J. Fulmer and yet the same war was still going on!

Quinn's watch read eleven-thirty and he was extremely hungry when Johan looked in on him through the secret panel and shoved a small basket across the floor. He shook his head at Quinn s questions and went. The American was left to empty the basket and, despite the grime on his hands, he made a good meal of the cold meat, cheese and bread it contained, drinking lukewarm coffee from a bottle to wash it down.

During the rest of the afternoon he was left to doze. He had a feeling that it might be well to catch up on sleep now—he might not have much time later. There was no supper and Johan did not appear again as the hours dragged by. At eight Quinn found a sliver of meat he had overlooked in the basket and ate it.

It was close to midnight when the panel moved and Johan beckoned to him. Again they went down to the office of the Jonkvrouw. Kater sat by the proprietress alert and interested.

"Sit down!" She indicated a chair. "We have much to do and little time to do it in, Mijnheer. First there comes news— The police believe that a currency smuggler escaped last night from the de Witt. And they have tentatively identified him with one Quinn Anders. Should that Quinn Anders appear where they may lay hands upon him I believe that it would be some time before he could regain his freedom."

Quinn was able to nod agreement. After all that was no worse than he had expected.

"Quinn Anders—if he wishes to remain free—must disappear!"

"That is something of a problem, is it not, Jonkvrouw van Nul? If I travel I must produce a passport—my funds are mostly in travelers' checks—"

She lit one of her cigars. "In every matter of business there are annoying and time-wasting details, Mijnheer.

But no difficulty exists which cannot be surmounted by those who have the patience. This is our business now-let us handle it, Mijnheer.”

Quinn thought of those names on the wall of the hidden room. Yes, false identities might well be an old story to the people of the Wise Tomcat—they had such a business so well established by now that it must move on oiled wheels.

"You asked me once concerning the Man Who Sells Memories. It is now plain that you are in need of his ministrations yourself. But of that more later. We have also discovered something concerning the Doppelganger's paymaster. He is one of our—you might term it—opposite numbers. For that reason, if no other, it will amuse us to move in your service. Also you are right upon another point, Mijnheer. The center of this web lies somewhere in Limburg—'

"In Maastricht?"

She flicked the gray ash from her cigar into a Delft bowl on the desk. "There is more to the Province of Limburg than one city, old and attractive as Maastricht is. However, if one must start somewhere to unroll a coil, it might as well be Maastricht. And you were planning to visit that place in any event, Mijnheer."

"How do I get there now? If I go by train—" he began.

"It shall all be arranged in due course. Quinn Anders, the suspected currency smuggler, must cease to exist. Tonight you will be taken to the Man Who Sells Memories. He will undertake the matter for you. Those who have relied upon his services in the past have never had reason to make complaint of them. Johan will escort you there now."

Quinn got to his feet. "I want to—" He started to thank her.

But she waved her cigar, a witch's rod of power. "Thanks tend to irritate me, young man. All I wish is that when you return to your own country you will report that Roajact met with proper assistance in his travels. Kater approves of you—an excellent sign."

Kater yawned, exposing rows of white needles. The Jonkvrouw van Nul puffed out a cloud of acrid tobacco smoke. And that was the last Quinn saw of either of them.

CHAPTER 6

THE MAN WHO SELLS MEMORIES

This time they went down instead of up, passing through the deserted kitchen of the establishment to make their way down a flight of stone steps into a stone paved cellar which had the damp dreariness of a medieval dungeon. Johan's torch gave such a small circle of light that Quinn could only guess at the extent of the chambers where the hollow sound of their footfalls was echoed from green slimed walls. Beginning to imagine that this was the way to some robber baron's torture chamber the American followed his guide into a last small room loud with the slapping of water against masonry.

Here half of the floor was a narrow pit filled with a murky liquid which gave off the stench of defiled sea water and tore with a disagreeable sucking sound at its stone boundaries. Floating on this and tied to a stone ring in the wall was a small rowboat. Johan motioned Quinn to step aboard.

“Pardon, Mijnheer." The waiter held the light in a steady beam as the American gingerly embarked. "But now it is necessary that I do this."

He stepped in the craft with the ease of long practice and whipped a scarf around Quinn's head in a blindfold. His hands then dropped heavily on the American's shoulders forcing him down to lie upon his face in the oozing bottom of the boat.

"We go where there is scant headroom, Mijnheer. It is best that you lie quiet until I give the word for you to rise again.

Quinn had no wish to be brained by obstructions he could not see, so he tried to keep his nose and mouth out of the bad smelling liquid which was soaking the front of his coat and hoped that their journey would not be a long one.

There followed a grating sound and then the boat began to move. They were out in the open now. Quinn shivered in the chill of the night air and recognized the taint of canal water. Either his time sense was distorted or they did skulk along at a snail's pace for a long, long period.

At last Johan s oar strokes awoke faint echoes again and Quinn deduced that they were back under some kind of a roof. The boat progressed in a series of bumps. His blindfold was jerked off and he levered himself up on his hands.

The waiter's flash held on green-slimed stone steps. Quinn made the half jump which landed him on them.

Without a word Johan began to climb and Quinn limped after him. The slime and dampness lessened as they were swallowed up in a musty darkness which seemed to devour the faint beam of the flash. Then light flickered on ahead, outlining a doorway. Johan snapped off his torch.

They came out at the head of the stairs into startling contrast. Out of the thirteenth century into nineteen hundred and fifty-odd with a vengeance, was Quinn's startled adjustment. Smooth walls finished in a gray-blue hue made a corridor broken at intervals by closed doors, fronted with frosted glass. Johan turned to shut the door through which they had just entered. Closed, it was frosted glass, modern—like all the rest.

Light glowed from the molding on the walls and it was not as bright as it had appeared from below. But one door farther along now shone with a stronger glint and instinctively Quinn headed toward it.

Almost at once it opened and a man stood on the threshold waiting for them with a detached patience—a patience which lacked any real interest in them as individuals.

He was short and very thin. His skull was totally hairless—the skin polished, yellow-white. His right eye was concealed by a monocle of amber tinted glass.

"Good evening, gentlemen—"

The English of that greeting was without accent or color—so neutral as to be foreign because of its very neutrality. He beckoned them in.

Quinn's feet were soundless on a thick dull plum carpet. Here the walls were washed by an odd shade of green, the indirect lighting brighter. Desk, chairs, divan, all in the ultra-modem style, were made of some silver—almost colorless—wood. And on the wall behind the desk hung a single picture, a stark winter scene in which snow drifted across unmistakable ruins of a modern city, and a dead and brittle tree, blackened and twisted occupied one corner. It was an uncomfortable painting, as cold and frightening as that perfect functional room and the man who owned it.

“No trouble?" The question was asked in Dutch of Johan.

The waiter shook his head.

"Excellent. My compliments to the Jonkvrouw."

Johan ducked his head in what might have been a half-salute and left. When the door closed behind him Quinn saw not the glass of the outer panel but a smooth surface which fitted without betraying mark into the wall. He was sealed into this space with his new host.

"Won't you be seated?"

Quinn perforce took the chair the other indicated and found it surprisingly comfortable for all its angular shape.

"Introductions are in order." His host had seated himself behind the desk. Now he put his finger tips together in a gesture which was an exaggerated copy of one which might be employed by a college professor interviewing a prospective student. "You may address me as van t'Zelfde-"

" ‘Of ditto." To conceal his unease Quinn translated. "And of what may you be the ditto, Mijnheer?"

The other laughed. "Of a great many things—and persons, my friend. It all depends upon the one who is making the comparison and whether he may be ranked among my friends or my enemies. And you are Quinn Anders."

"I was Quinn Anders. But I was told an hour or so ago that that name is now a liability instead of an asset.”

Mijnheer van t'Zelfde pursed his lips and shook his head. "The layman does not always understand the finer points of my profession. For the highest of any art the knowledge and touch of a master is required. This matter of identities now—it is a tricky business. But I have practiced it for more years than you have been on this planet. No—our friends were very right to put you in my hands. But, I beg of you, do not accept their solution of your problem as the only one possible or even as the best one.

"You are Quinn Anders, an American student, here to prepare for publication a historical work aheady known to scholars of this country—among others. It is your intention to visit the territory which furnishes the geographical background of that work. An excellent and commendable project. I can find no way to better it—none at all!"

"In the mean time," Quinn pointed out, "I am also supposed to be a currency smuggler in whom the police are interested and I may be questioned concerning the death of-"

"The Doppelganger?" Mijnheer van t'Zelfde showed his teeth in a sudden smile. It was not a pleasant one and the emotion which produced it could not have been one of innocent enjoyment. "Oh, no. The Doppelganger was not a person of great importance. No one will greatly care what became of him. Now attend, my young friend, this is of greatest value to you—"

He dropped his almost bantering tone and was all business.

"You have been the victim of an imposture—one of which you are still ignorant. The Quinn Anders who registered at the de Witt was not you. You came to Dordrecht with other plans in mind. You have been elsewhere these past few days. Do not interrupt me, I beg of you!" His hand went up as Quinn started a question. "You will be provided with all the necessary and proper—er—memories of these days—"

"I remember—you sell memories—" Quinn could not help that.

"Ah, yes, the vulgar speak of me so, I believe. You will listen, please, without further comment. Time is pressing us now.

"When you arrived in Dordrecht your luggage was stolen at the station. There is a witness to this—and a formal complaint is on file at police headquarters. You have been visiting friends on a yacht—a yacht which sails this morning to s'Hertogenbosch—with you on board. Every minute of the time since your arrival can be accounted for by witnesses—witnesses of unimpeachable respectability. You are an innocent victim of an unpleasant impersonation—all of this can be proved. It is essential that you fit these facts in your mind and remember nothing else.

"From s'Hertogenbosch your host shall provide transportation to Maastricht, leave that to him.

"Now in Maastricht," he consulted a small address book he took from his pocket, "you will pay a call upon Dokter Gerhardt Roos. He is hving in retirement but—"

"I know the Dokter somewhat. My father corresponded with him," Quinn broke in. He was having to rearrange ideas in a hurry. Those dry and dullish letters he had read —he could not link them in his mind with a man who would know Mijnheer van t'Zelfde.

"Excellent—perfect! You can now perceive why it is best for you to remain Quinn Anders. There is a cover readymade for your activities!"

"Now," Quinn said firmly, "I have no idea how you have been able to manage all this. But they say that you sell memories. What is the price you are going to put on your services?"

Again he was answered first by that not very humorous smile.

"You have a business sense—most encouraging. I find dealing with practical men a pleasure. So many people are apt to forget the realistic side of this work. I appreciate your readiness in this matter, Mijnheer. You should be witness to some of my problems—sometimes I find them almost, only almost, you understand, impossible to handle. But this is not an affair of cash, Mijnheer Anders. This is something else."

He leaned forward, one eye bright, one eye veiled, his face queerly out of joint—a half-and-half thing. Quinn knew that he was facing a dangerous man—a man not bound by any code of the civilized world, who made his own laws.

"There are ramifications to this little affair of yours, Mijnheer, which I—and the organization with which I am affiliated from time to time—find disturbing. We are not always operating within the law—who can do so nowadays when the law has become a maze of many tangles? On the other hand we have our own rules. And there are some influences—radiating from the east—which we do not consider healthy. Consequently we do our best to annoy and hinder when and where we can. During the war we had an organization which the benefits of peace did not allow to languish. You came to us well recommended. When we investigated you we discovered that you are, in this affair, arrayed on our side. Therefore we give you the service free as to one of our own. We have a system of give and take—it has worked very well—"

"Then what do I give?"

"You—Mijnheer Anders—are going to be bait!"

So that was it!

"The bleating kid to attract the tiger." Something he had once read swam to the fore of his mind.

"Ah, but you are not the helpless kid—say rather that you are a panther's cub wearing the kid's skin—a very different thing!"

"And was Stark bait too?" Quinn asked slowly.

"Captain Stark Anders," returned the Man Who Sells Memories, "found tracks leading away from a kill. Unfortunately he did not attempt to contact help until too late. It was his death which aroused the suspicions of our organization."

Quinn found himself believing that.

"I do not think, Mijnheer Anders, that you have ventured this far without some forewarnings that this course may lead you into trouble. They have now involved you with the police, so you must take to cover from the law-become a hare to two sets of hounds. Am I not right? And what I tell you now is the absolute truth. These you would trace are expert in dealing within the shadows. Your only chance is to make them think you a naive boy, without proper fear—overconfident. Make them treat you with contempt so they will reveal themselves because they do not fear any counterattack from you—"

"What if I do not choose to act as bait?"

Mijnheer van t'Zelfde's expression did not change.

"They call you the Man Who Sells Memories," Quinn persisted. "I take it that that means you sell false identities, papers, passports—?"

"This is the truth. I can send you out of here with a new identity. But those who sent the Doppelganger will not be deceived by anything as flimsy and as easy to obtain as a set of false papers. Even if I used the highest—and most expensive—of my skills and provided you with a new face as well, I could not promise that the hounds would not be in cry. Your own identity of an American student is best for you, believe me. Remember, and be warned, my young friend. You shall doubtless meet with these enemies again—whether you will or no. However, one who comes to us through the channels you have taken will not be likely to turn aside from the game—in spite of the difficulties I have just outlined."

Quinn was irritated by the other's serene confidence. He was so sure, this Mr. Of Ditto, that matters were going to go his way. They were all so sure of the rightness of their plans, van Norreys, the Jonkvrouw, and now this dealer in identities. He felt helpless as if he were a puppet they were jerking about among them at their whim. And yet now he did not see any other way out of his present difficulties but to do just as Mijnheer van t'Zelfde suggested. To act the part would demand audacity from him—it would also be an adventure such as Stark would have chosen. And that was a challenge he yearned to meet.

"You win."

Van t’Zelfde became briskly businesslike again. He consulted a watch, frowned, and pressed one of the studs set in a panel flush with the desk top. To Quinn's right a section of the wall opened.

“We have but a little time before you must go, Mijnheer. In there you will find clothes—all else you need. I suggest that you hurry."

Quinn glanced down at himself. His coat was fouled with slime and water, his hands almost black. To go out like this would attract attention. He obeyed orders.

On a chair in the small room beyond he found a pile of clothing. And there was also a bathroom lighted and open. He bathed, shaved and put on the new slacks, a woven sport shirt and a pullover sweater.

At the foot of the couch were his own bags which he had left in the de Witt. A quick glance into their interiors revealed that the contents were intact and that they had been neatly and completely repacked.

He pulled the sweater into place about his waist and surveyed his reflection critically in a long wall mirror. The new casual clothes gave him the appearance of someone on a holiday. He certainly did not look much like a fugitive on the run from the law. The colors were right, also, what he might have chosen himself—dark brown slacks and a sort of oatmeal shade for the sweater. Everything fitted. Mr. Of Ditto was an excellent wardrobe master.

“Perfect!" His host appeared in the doorway. "And now, we still have some moments left in which I may give you some information—"

Quinn settled down again in the chair. Van t'Zelfde talked, pausing now and then as if to study Quinn's reaction and his rate of assimilation.

"For the past three days you have been the guest of Dirk van der Home. He is the only son of Graf van der Home and has been at college in the United States where . you met him about three years ago. He is very charmed with yachting and owns a vessel known as the Beleefd Politie-agent in which he goes cruising with friends. You met him by chance on your arrival in this city and, learning that he intends to travel eastward, you were prevailed upon to join his party for the trip by water. You have been delayed in sailing because of the non-arrival of the fourth member of your company, Joris Maartens. You have been living on board the Beleefd Politie-agent. An unfortunate cold has confined you to quarters there. Mijnheer van der Home, as a result, went to the police with your complaint concerning the theft of your luggage. The cold—ah—"

He snapped his fingers. "Almost I forget the cold." He left the desk and went on into the dressing room-bath, returning in a few seconds with a crumpled handkerchief in his hand.

"It is never well to overlook any details. Here is your cold, Mijnheer Anders."

Quinn accepted the handkerchief gingerly and with bewilderment.

"Hold that to your nose and inhale, Mijnheer. Inhale sharply for three or four breaths. For some days you will then suffer with all the symptoms of a bad cold in the head. Details—always remember details. Small rocks may sink large ships!"

Quinn sniffed up the pungent fumes arising from the damp linen. He hoped van t'Zelfde knew just what he was doing. Germ warfare was more than he had bargained for.

"Good. Now we await van der Home. And I wish you a most pleasant voyage, Mijnheer."

Quinn sniffled tentatively. It might be only imagination at work but he did appear to have a stuffy feeling in the upper regions of his nose. He tried to detect irony in his host's last statement. But maybe that had only been a warning not to expect fireworks until he reached Maastricht.

A low humming sound brought van t'Zelfde's hand again to the bank of stud controls on his desk. The outer door to the hall opened.

"Van der Home has arrived. You will take your luggage and go out that door. The third door to your left also will be open. Go down the stairs and you will find him waiting for you. Good-bye and good luck."

Quinn picked up his cases and slung the new raincoat over his shoulder. He grinned at Mr. Of Ditto.

"During these past hours in your fair city, Mijnheer, I have come to believe that I shall need all I can get of that scarce commodity. Tell me, is the innocent tourist always greeted in so rude a manner?"

This time there was an answering glint of humor in the visible eye of his host.

"Only upon occasions, Mijnheer. And, I beg of you, do not make too quick a judgment of us based on your misfortunes. Some day, some time, you may be able to form another estimate—"

"At least I can give you my thanks and those are real!"

The door closed behind him and he was alone in the corridor. But the third door on the left stood ajar. Quinn suspected that all those doors were controlled by the desk studs.

He took the long flight of stairs slowly. The light here was only a grayish echo of indirect rays. The steps ended at last on a dark pavement stained with oil and grease. Directly facing him was a small covered truck of the type known as a "van." Its motor was running and someone occupied the driver's seat. But that almost formless shadow remained where it was. A second man swung from the back of the van and approached Quinn.

He was tall enough to awaken a touch of envy in the American and was dressed in a high-necked sailor's jersey and a pair of patched and faded slacks. When he came close enough Quinn saw he was young, with a boyish face and a thatch of thick sun-burned blond hair which made him look perhaps younger than he was.

"But this is good, Quinn—" He snatched both bags away from the American and slung them into the van. "In here we go—we must ride as if we are potatoes or fish, or whatever it is that our friend usually delivers. Up—here give me your hand—"

Quinn was hoisted into the van, with the same ease which had sent his bags there before him. He squatted down on a box he found there while his companion fastened the van doors on the inside.

"This is incorrect." The Netherlander shook his head. "This lock should be on the outside. But only a close inspection would show that. And now our charioteer may let go his steeds—" He hunched over and rapped the wall behind the driver's seat.

The engine snorted and they began to move. Quinn braced himself in the swaying, bouncing box where there were no handholds.

This was his second blind trip through the streets of Dordrecht, he thought a bit ruefully. As a tourist he was seeing little of the city, either by water or land. He should be able to lecture entertainingly on modes of modern European travel if and when he ever returned to the peaceful and uncomplicated life of the States. There were questions he wanted to ask his companion but the noisy progress of the van would drown anything but a full-lunged shout.

All things come to an end. The van stopped so suddenly that Quinn lost his balance and fell almost across van der Home's feet.

"Ah—gently. Do not try to soften the dockside with your head. Now, when the door I have loosened, be quick. It is not wise to be seen emerging—"

Quinn was as quick as his stiffened leg would allow, but evidently not swift enough to suit his companion. For van der Home, Quinn's bags again in his grip, shoved the American along with his shoulder after the manner of a sheep dog dealing with an especially stupid and reluctant member of his flock.

There was little chance to see anything of the quayside. Instead they plunged down a ladder into a small skiff. And van der Home's force with the oars sent them through the mist-covered water of very early morning toward a small sailing yacht so white and pure of paint that it might just have issued from the boatyard.

"Welcome aboard the Beleefd Politie-agent," van der Home broke the silence of their short journey.

"The Polite Policeman, now I wonder why anyone should name a ship—"

His companion laughed. "Speculations are idle, Quinn. Is it after all so strange that a man of the law should be said to be courteous? Now up on deck with you—"

Quinn sneezed. His cold was appearing on schedule. He hoped that the rest of Mr. Of Ditto's arrangements were in as good working order.

CHAPTER 7

THE CRUISE OF THE POLITE POLICEMAN

Sunshine fell heavy and warm across Quinn's shoulders. He sniffed the light wind which carried a faint tang of salt and the slight taint of canal water, along with the pleasant suggestion of new growing things. Then he blew his stuffy nose vigorously. Except for Mijnheer van t'Zelfde’s officiousness in the matter of the cold, he was enjoying the present hour more than any he had spent for months.

They had upped anchor and sailed away from St. Maartensgat opposite the great church before the sun was showing, slipping easily by the pocket-sized harbors and ship wharves which lined both sides of the river beyond the fringes of the city proper. Now the south bank was all wilderness, a tangle of reeds, breakwaters, trees— with sometimes the merest scrap of beach. One could forget about the buildings on the north bank and believe that one was free of the twentieth century entirely. And now for the first time in his life Quinn found that thought a relaxing one.

Dirk van der Home was their steersman, but he discharged the duties of his office with so little visible effort that he might have been as much of a useless sightseer as his latest guest. In fact the crew of the Polite Policeman, now sprawled at their ease in the sun, showed few signs of ever indulging in hard work.

The thick-shouldered, full-chested, round-faced Baumgarde was frankly and full-voicedly asleep. His tousled white-blond head had been pillowed on Kemp's knees and then pushed to the deck as that enthusiast became fully absorbed in his hobby. For Kemp nursed with loving hands and a full heart a new movie camera. So far he had not actually used this treasure. It was enough just to sit crosslegged and examine minutely all the glory of its workings.

Joris Maartens' pen moved across a tablet in a jerky rhythm. There were long pauses in composition while the writer favored the passing shore with a scowl which even that somewhat monotonous scenery had done nothing to deserve. He was the oldest of the ship's party and there was an angular curved scar across his left forearm. Its white puckered seam showed plainly as his hand moved on the paper. Quinn wondered where he had acquired it.

"The muse, she must be wooed." Dirk's amused voice carried down the deck. "Joris, he is a big man, you must understand. He writes for newspapers and the editors thereof are misguided enough to print his effusions. Now he wishes to try a book—though he will make no money out of that-!"

"No?" Joris looked up. "Am I then such a bad merchant of my wares, sniping-tongue? What Joris Maartens writes shall be read—"

"But will it also be paid for?" Baumgarde's snore became words. He asked the question, however, without opening his eyes.

"Loafer!" Joris nudged the big shoulder with a brown toe which protruded from worn native sandals. "When you are slapping flies to death under those jungle palms of yours, or paddling up your murky rivers—say two-three years from now—you shall be glad to take your mind from your calamities by reading the new Maartens!"

"So? Then you can also come to me in those jungles and see how true men live. There are still wild creatures in those palm groves, I am told. You might try to charm them with your words—"

"And Kemp shall go with you to record your exploits in more enduring fashion," prodded Dirk with just enough cheerful malice in his voice to keep the ball rolling.

Kemp had been sighting the empty camera at a clump of mud-clogged weeds. Now he flashed a grin at them.

"Kemp would be very glad to go anywhere, gentlemen. But where may he go? Here is Baumgarde who once we thought did not have brains enough to climb out of a canal if he fell in—"

"Baumgarde," returned that worthy, his eyes still closed and a peaceful calm making a somewhat heavy mask of his features, "was the clever one all along, my friends. He knew that engineers would be of worth—"

The fingers of Kemp's free hand took a good grip of white-blond hair and jerked up the head on which it grew to bump it down on the scrubbed planking.

"That was not the result of intelligence on your part, rhinoceros. It was only the following of the easiest path. You were born with a head which holds figures and nothing else. Now because of that you are bound overseas while the rest of us must sit on our tails and wonder if there will ever be a future at all!''

There was a sober thread in that statement which was very true. What future was there for his present companions, Quinn suddenly wondered? The Indies were lost. Thousands upon thousands of men who had lived overseas all their lives—and their families before them for generations—had been thrown back upon a crowded mother country where there were not enough jobs, enough living space to go around. Baumgarde was lucky indeed if he had been able to get an appointment in the West Indies which would take him out of the almost hopeless future facing his contemporaries at home.

"We were born, you see," Dirk had turned to Quinn, "a hundred years too late. I was educated to serve in Java. Joris had promise of a post in the Outer Islands—did you not?"

The writer shrugged. "A promise, yes. Far away and long ago was that promise made. I was yet in school then. Came the war and—poof!" He snapped his fingers. "I can tell you," he turned his head to the rest, "we should have set up as pirates. Take a German patrol boat and—"

Kemp gave an exaggerated sigh as if they were now about to hear some argument long worn threadbare. "In De Biesbosch no doubt?"

Dirk added to the needling. "This is how we won the war, my sons!"

For a second Joris' lips quirked as if he tasted something bitter. Then they loosened and he laughed ruefully. "So the old soldier becomes a bore with his reminiscences—"

"Please," for the first time Quinn broke in, "take pity on the ignorance of an outlander—what is De Biesbosch?"

"Ah," Dirk grinned. "He is all yours, comrade Joris. Enlighten his darkness on that subject—but not in stale detail, I beg of you!"

Joris jerked an ink-stained thumb south over the wilderness of mud, reeds, and wild green ground. "There lies De Biesbosch. And it has engulfed in its time better men than this boatload of juvenile minds. It is marsh threaded by a maze of streams. Once it had importance to us—the roads—water roads—which ran through it carried underground contacts on their way to rendezvous with the allies, spies in and out of the country, escaping airmen on their way home, transports of medicine and supplies. We had a fleet of small canoes to make those trips and we went by night. Then there were the 'akes'—houseboats where underground workers lived when necessary—"

"And where were also kept German prisoners," interpolated Kemp, intent upon his camera again. "Werken-dam was the center of one of the main 'crossings.' An interesting period in history—but now past."

"Yes, as dead as the Dodo or the East Indies Company," added Baumgarde sleepily.

But was it "dead"? Quinn thought he would question that.

"However we may be taking to it again." Dirk's tone, light as it was, picked up that thought of his. "Come the Others."

Joris capped his pen. "The next generation may well turn into underground cave dwellers, unless we end by blowing ourselves up," he commented almost cheerfully. "It is a great world—ninety-nine and nine-tenths mud—"

"But still we struggle to gain that last tenth—"

"Optimist and dreamer." Joris scoffed at his host and began to read what he had written.

The water road to s'Hertogenbosch was not a deserted one. Waves set up by motor freighters bound for the Rhine —their short fat funnels, and high living quarters giving them an odd outline—rocked the Polite Policeman. And the yacht glided out of the path of the tugboats pulling almost endless rows of river boats.

Just before they reached Gorinchem they were signaled by one of these. A man wearing the peaked cap of the captain waved a hand vigorously at the yacht and Joris leaped to his feet to return the salute. Quinn had an excellent sight of the captain's face. That devil-may-care cock of the cap, the scar-dimple on the left cheek could never be forgotten. That was Corny Smits, one of the men van Norreys had deemed important for him to recognize.

Dirk looked at his watch. "On time," he commented mildly.

Joris nodded. "As always. And a good run to him!"

Quinn asked no questions. But he was doubly sure now that those he sailed with were linked with the organization represented in Dordrecht by the Jonkvrouw and Mijn-heer van t’Zelfde. He was, the American concluded, in good hands and could allow himself to be borne along without struggling—even as the river was taking them to the town with the tongue-twisting name.

Gorinchem was in sight and Kemp loaded his film-shooting some feet of the trees waving in a thin spring sheen of green from the tops of the ancient bastions above a harbor crowded with small ships.

"Scenic tour," Dirk broke the silence some time later. "If you will turn your eyes to port, my American friend, you will see just beyond that row of poplars an authentic castle—Loevestein."

"It should be of particular interest to a scholar," Joris added his bit, "since it was from there that Hugo Grotius, the founder of international law, made his escape in the seventeenth century—immured in a case of books—"

"Only good use for a hbrary that I ever heard of," was Baumgarde's comment. "Kind of rough traveling I would say—books can't make the easiest of beds."

Quinn dutifully regarded the distant view of Loevestein. His cold germs had stepped up their attack and he was secretly glad he was not required to go ashore for more formal sightseeing.

In time the Polite Policeman took itself through the lock at Andel. They ate and slept. Kemp shook his head over the unrewarding side vistas of dikes with villages perched on them, pieces of flood land choked with fantastic willow growths, and the low red roofs of factories, each overtopped with a towering chimney. Empty and loaded sand barges chugged by them constantly.

Then came a second fortified city with tree-grown walls —Heusden—and again Kemp was busy with film. Another lock gate at Bokhoven brought them into the River Dieze and so to s'Hertogenbosch.

There the party broke up. Kemp and his camera, and a very badly tied bundle of personal effects about which he seemed to care very little, went off with the methodical Baumgarde who had donned before parting both a meticulously tailored suit and the manner of a captain of industry who had been the chairman of the board at least five years. But their farewell to their companions was a casual one.

Quinn was left to suspect that there might have been more to the voyage of the Polite Policeman than he had seen on the surface. The four rather ill-assorted shipmates had those easy manners with each other which come only from shared past campaigns.

Joris Maartens shouldered ashore a battered bag and a briefcase which bore little kinship to the piece of similar luggage which was Quinn's property. But van der Home carried nothing at all but Quinn's bags. They found a car waiting for them on the wharf and the driver saluted Dirk.

"You will like the chateau." Joris kicked aside his briefcase to make room for his feet, now sensibly shod in thick-soled, rather clumsy looking shoes. "Do not hesitate to display to Anders the oubliette, Dirk. Of course it is no longer connected with the moat, but that should not in any way deprive it of its historical value—"

"My father," Dirk supplied, "will undoubtedly look upon you as the rarest find I have yet brought home. He is writing a history of the van der Homes and, to my certain knowledge, is still caught fast in the tangle of the fourteenth century, a time when our forefathers appear to have held extremely odd ideas concerning their rights over the persons and property of less well-armed neighbors. The oubliette does not date back farther than that period, but I cannot help believing that it was in use from time to time. By all means you shall see it. Only we will rescue you when necessary from my revered father s clutches—he never knows when to stop talking when he is riding his hobby—"

"On the other hand," Joris broke in, "the van der Home kitchen is under the command of a cook whose lightness of hand and trueness of taste is surpassed only by her girth. Invitations to the van der Home board are treasured by gourmets."

"I am overwhelmed by my good fortune," Quinn found his voice. "An oubliette and a cook!"

The van der Home chateau was an uneasy mixture of rather drab and formal barracks and manifestly older and even less inviting medieval keep.

“Cozy, isn't it?" asked the heir as they came up the drive to stop before what might once have been a postern gate. "Ugliest pile in the province!" he added with fond pride.

"And the coldest," Joris reminded him. "Be thankful, Anders, that you are not arriving in the depths of winter. As it is you shall be deep-freezed—or is it frozen?—if you pause anywhere in the halls. It is best to pass from room to room at a brisk trot."

Within a few minutes Quinn stood before a dim mirror in a high-ceiled, panel-walled bedroom. He could see the reflection of the two-step dias which held what could be nothing but a bed-of-state, its heavily worked curtains still intact. And he hoped, as he sneezed twice, that those curtains were going to keep out any wandering drafts haunting the room at night. Somewhere along the way in his immediate and hectic past he had lost the capacity for being surprised. He could now accept a state bedroom in his stride and if he should suddenly discover himself at the bottom of the famed oubliette he would not turn a hair. He must have achieved at last the proper detachment necessary for a secret agent.

Of course he had yet to cope with those two faithful standbys of the business, the drugged coffee or the poisoned cigarette, and as far as he knew he was not carrying on his person a two-inch strip of microfilm which was earnestly desired by—say—Gorum of the Thousand Faces.

Quinn laughed, coughed, and called "come in" to the tap on his door.

Dirk surveyed his guest critically. "Well, you're not blue yet. Americans continue to uphold their reputations—you are, as you are so fond of pointing out, tough. Do you feel in the mood to absorb some sustaining nourishment? My father can be pried out of his books by this hour and my mother is in Den Haag with my sister—so we do not wait for the ladies. Ha, Joris—"

The stocky Mijnheer Maartens shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. When they joined him in the hall he plunged away at a pace not far removed from the trot he had earlier suggested.

A flight of stairs, which would have accommodated without crowding ten guardsmen marching abreast, led in polished uncarpeted steps to a massive hallway hung with unattractive displays of maces, swords and shields. There was also a fireplace at one end, large enough to engulf practically an entire tree trunk. And in this blazed a token fire, palm size in comparison with the cavern which held it.

Standing with his hands outstretched to this was a slender man whose dark wine velvet jacket was slightly threadbare and rubbed at the elbows and whose cockatoo crest of hair was pure silver. He turned quickly as they came across the stones of the flooring.

"Goeden Avond, Mijnheeren," he began in a soft voice which held some of the same quiet amusement that often colored his son s tones. And then he frowned as if at his own forgetfulness and switched easily into an English which was almost without accent. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"This is Quinn Anders, Vader," Dirk made introductions. "Quinn, my father, Graf van der Home."

"Now this is a happy meeting, Mr. Anders. And to you, Joris, greetings." He nodded to Maartens. "But, Mr. Anders," the Graf turned back to the American, "you are, my son tells me, the son of Doctor Anders. This is so much a pleasure for me. I have in my library your father's Organization of the Knights of St, John and also his Inquiries into the Military Defenses of the Teutonic Knights. His research into the subject has been rewarding. I, myself, once sent to him a small commentary on the Templars—a van der Home of the thirteenth century became one. I shall show you—"

"Vader!" Dirk touched the worn velvet sleeve lightly. "There is the matter now of food."

The Graf looked at his son in real surprise and then he laughed.

"Jerk the old man from the saddle of his hobby horse, is it? But you are right. There is a time for study and a time for eating. Let us then go to the refreshment!"

The food was served on the upper end of a long gleaming table and it was as superlative as Joris had promised. Quinn expanded happily. He answered the Grafs flow of questions to the best of his ability and found himself out-lining the task of writing which had brought him overseas.

The Graf van der Home laid down fork and knife. "The Sternlitz family! But that is a task which will not be easy for you. They are all gone you know—"

"Yes, since the disappearance of the last Duke. But the book on Odocar is almost finished. My father had access to the papers in the Haggerman collection. I have only to tie up a few loose ends—visit the tower ruins— Because of the war my father had to work only with photographs and drawings, and that does not give a good picture always."

"Wait!" The Graf brought down the palm of his hand on the table with almost enough force to make their dishes jump.

"Hendriks," he spoke over his shoulder to the man who had been serving them, "Go you to the study and bring to me the blue book which is fifth from the left wall on the fourth shelf by the fireplace."

He turned back to Quinn. "It may be that I can offer you some small assistance, for I think I remember that the Sternlitz family is not altogether removed from this life—"

"But I thought that the Duke—" began Quinn.

The Graf nodded almost impatiently. "Yes, the Duke lost himself out in the wilds and he was not married. But in every house there are female connections— Ah, thank you, Hendriks. Ja, this is the proper volume." He began to flip thick yellow pages in haste. "I was right." His voice arose triumphantly. "Tante Matilda—"

"What!" Dirk spilled a little wine from the glass he was raising to his lips. "Not the Freule Matilda, please, Vader.

Would you send this innocent wayfarer on such a pilgrimage?"

“Dirk!" There was real reproof in that. "Your great-aunt is a woman of high intelligence and she is also the custodian of much family history. Her mother was the younger sister of the last Sternlitz Duke. She would perhaps be willing to receive Mijnheer Anders since he is engaged on a serious work of historical interest. The Freule Matilda van t'Oosternberg, Mijnheer, lives now in the Chateau des Dames near Maastricht. I, myself, shall write to her of your mission and she may be willing to receive you—"

Quinn found himself agreeing that above all else he was eager to be received by the formidable Freule Matilda. And he passed the rest of the evening deep in shop talk with the Graf. During the next two days he visited in due turn the famous oubliette and the other unrestored nooks and crannies of the older part of the chateau, accepted with real gratitude at least five letters of introduction, including one to Tante Matilda, enjoyed meals the like of which he had never tasted before, and lost the last of the cold germs he had been an unwilling host to. He had no idea how he was going on from the Chateau van der Home. But on Monday morning he discovered that he was to drive with Joris to Maastricht.

They were waved out of sight by both Dirk and the Graf who had interrupted his writing long enough to grant them that courtesy. And while Maartens' car bore no resemblance to the sleek vehicle which had delivered them to the van der Home's, it bore them away with sturdy competence.

Joris, Quinn found out, was proceeding to the province of Limburg on a journalistic task which he hoped might add luster to his name in newspaper circles, and he was perfectly willing to talk about it.

"You have, perhaps, read even in America of Hans van Meegeren," he began.

"Isn't he the painter who was able to fake Vermeers so perfectly that even the experts were fooled?"

"Just so. From 1936 to 1946 he painted six canvases. And these were Vermeers—or so many experts swore. To the Nazis he sold some. So after the war he was brought to trial for collaboration. Then he told the truth about his work. And to prove what he could do he painted in court another picture—a picture which could not be told from a Vermeer—one which the critics had to admit that they would have accepted as genuine. Now I am going to Maastricht because it is thought that van Meegeren might not have told all that he knew and that there may be other Vermeers which are not that at all."

The rest of the drive was uneventful and Quinn found a room in a hotel which Joris recommended. They arranged to have dinner together and Quinn decided not to make any contacts that day but to spend the rest of it as a tourist.

But his desire for peace and quiet was shaken as he came again into the hotel lobby. A train or plane must have just come in for there was a small crowd of new arrivals there. And on the edge of this group, looking about him with what appeared to be frank interest in foreign surroundings was a tall man. His gray hat and coat were American to the last thread and, as he turned his head, his eyes met Quinn's squarely. There was not a spark of recognition in them. Quinn only hoped that he had been as blank at that moment of meeting. For this was Lawrence Kane—the van Norreys' troubleshooter!

CHAPTER 8

THERE WAS A WISE MAN OF MAASTRICHT

The cafe Joris had selected lay on the edge of the Groote Market. It was not, Quinn gathered, as famous as the Vrijthol, but perhaps better suited to the purse of a struggling newspaperman. However, the American could find no fault with the quality of the food.

"This is not the right season for Maastricht," Joris informed him. "In late February there is the Prins Camaval when the city takes to itself strange dress and there is much excitement. But now—there is nothing except perhaps a pilgrim or two, or some troops on leave from the Occupation Forces across the border—"

But Quinn was no longer listening. Instead he stared down at the menu card he was holding. So this was where Stark had been when he had scribbled that last message! Months ago now—would anyone remember him being here? Quinn fingered the angle of the card's edge. Should he even try asking questions?

"Do many tourists come here?" he asked.

Maartens waved a hand toward a table on the other side of the room. Three British soldiers were sitting there.

"The troops appear to have discovered it. But for others —I do not think it would attract. The tourists go to places which are in the guide books—the Vrijthol or the restaurant of the Hotel Dominicain. Only in carnival time, when every cafe is filled to overflowing, might some wander in here. It is too far removed from most of the points of interest—the church of St. Servatus or the Shrine of the Star of the Sea."

Quinn had not yet made up his mind about asking questions. And before he did, something put it almost out of his mind. He had had his eyes on the door—without really seeing those who passed through it. But now he did notice the man who was just coming in. And for a second he had an odd feeling that he was repeating an experience from the past.

The newcomer hesitated just inside, almost as if he were in two minds about going out again. Then he crossed the room to a table in the far corner. Quinn dared not turn his head to watch him pass. But he moistened suddenly dry lips and said to Maartens,

"The man who is sitting down in the right corner there. Describe him!"

Maartens without change of expression or voice replied in English,

"He is, I would swear to it, Eurasian. Black hair tight on the head, eyes which do not open very wide. But the nose—the nose is not that of an Oriental—it is thin, sharp on the tip. He is young. You have some knowledge of him?''

"Only this—I would take my oath that the same man followed me into a restaurant in Dordrecht. And Dordrecht is too far from Maastricht for me to believe in pure chance for a second such meeting—"

Joris tore off a bit of bread and chewed it slowly. "No, in that you are right. Nor is the trip from that city to this a regular one for only a casual wayfarer. You know nothing else about him?"

"Nothing. But I would like to learn more. However, one can't just go up to a stranger and—"

"Ask bluntly, ‘Sir, please to tell me your name and your business here!' That is very true. Though such an act would save everyone a great deal of trouble—always providing you were answered with the whole truth. But your desire for knowledge need not be denied fulfillment. I shall see what can be done in the matter. Of course, we cannot altogether rule out chance. And since the Netherlands has had to withdraw most of its nationals from the Indies there are many of mixed blood who have returned here—to discover themselves without roots in a land which does not welcome them overmuch. He may be only a harmless drifter whom coincidence has placed twice in the same room with you—"

Quinn laughed. "I would be only too glad to know that is true!"

But Joris did not smile. "On the other hand," he went on with his calm, deliberate speech, "there are various other explanations which are now shooting into my mind, most of which could not be considered pleasant. I would suggest that it is best for you to be a little on your guard. Understand—I am without curiosity concerning your business. But if you do have opponents, it may be that you are now sharing the room with one of them. So, as soon as it is possible, I shall set in motion some questions." He then applied himself seriously to the business of emptying his plate and Quinn followed the example.

But Quinn's attention remained divided. Were his neck hairs really quivering? Was that enigmatic stranger keeping the back of his head under surveillance? His shoulders ached with the desire to turn around and see.

"And how are you progressing on the case of the spurious Vermeer?" he asked Maartens as they lingered over their coffee.

Joris shrugged. "It has become largely a matter of using the feet. I walk, I trot, I crawl painfully, here, there around Maastricht, asking stupid questions to which I get no proper answers. However, it is a job and I shall probably finish it someday. But I have come across during my progress something of much more interest—the case of a mysterious disappearance—" For a moment he lost his habitually stolid and somewhat cynical attitude toward the world and looked almost eager.

"Disappearance?" encouraged Quinn. It had made him think of Stark. Maastricht was after all the town in which Stark's accident had happened.

"Yes—that is what my informant believes it to be. I encountered her this afternoon on my search for a Mijnheer Blanc of Antwerp. Mijnheer Blanc she had no knowledge of—but I heard much from her about a Mijnheer Tubac.

"Until two months or so ago he lived at her house as a boarder. He was an old man, inoffensive, gentle, likable. He came to this city in 1946 recovering from an illness. He had been in the concentration camp at Amersfoort because he had had the supreme misfortune to possess a Jewish grandmother. He lived quietly and was a most respectable and law-abiding citizen. A little shy perhaps, but a man of learning. He had been, the Mevrouw believes, an authority on art from Amsterdam. She thought very highly of him.

"One afternoon he received a letter. When he read it he was overjoyed, elated. He told Mevrouw that it came from an old friend, one he had supposed lost in the war. This friend had only now escaped from one of those countries behind the ‘iron curtain.' The friend was ill and wished very much to see Mijnheer Tubac. He paid his room rent for three weeks in advance, and took with him only a small suitcase, leaving behind him all his other possessions including some books Mevrouw knows that he valued highly. He went away the same day, excited, happy. And he has never returned. Mevrouw began to worry when she did not hear from him at the end of the three weeks. When no news came and the time passed she at last went to the police. A search was started. At the station it was discovered that he had purchased a ticket for Valkenburg in the mountains. Beyond that—they have found exactly nothing. The trail was, of course, very cold. And he has no relatives worrying and spurring on the authorities. It remains a mystery which only Mevrouw still thinks of—"

"But who was Tubac?" Quinn asked. A man who had disappeared about the same time as Stark's death. It began to seem like too much of a coincidence.

"That is the important question. Who was Tubac—or— what did Tubac know? A scrap of the wrong kind of knowledge is a dangerous possession nowadays. I believe that the case of Tubac merits more study. But who will bother? He was an old man, he had no relatives—at least none have been found. He had but a small amount of money. Why should anyone wish to scoop up Tubac?"

"Which makes it all the more interesting when something did happen to him—"

"Natuurlijk—naturally. I am intrigued by the problem of Tubac. He may prove to be of even more interest than a pseudo-Vermeer. So I shall keep him in mind."

As they went out of the cafe Quinn contrived to catch a glimpse of the Eurasian. The man sat at ease, dividing his attention between his plate and a folded newspaper. If he had any interest in Quinn he did not display it. But it was only with the greatest self-control that Quinn walked down the street without turning his head to see if the stranger was following.

Joris' pace became slower and slower as he reached the second block beyond the cafe. And at last he stopped to gaze intently into a shop window—as if he had been arrested by the beauty of the display within. Quinn eyed the collection of dreary prints and the two brightly colored chromos in honest surprise. He had not pictured Joris so much the lover of bad art as to be interested in that trash.

"We have now a tail," the Netherlander said softly. "And also he is an inefficient one—he should be sent back to class and learn again his A B Cs, this clumsy bungler—"

Quinn saw then the reflection mirrored in the somewhat dusty glass. There was a street lamp halfway down the block behind them. And a man hesitated under it for a moment. Even to Quinn's untutored eyes he was making a bad job of pretending that he could not make up his mind about something.

"It is our friend from the restaurant." Joris was better at identifying that white slice of face than the American. "Now we must learn which of us he wishes to follow. I shall return with you to your hotel. If he takes up some position of vantage near there I shall let you know. And if he does—you must simply go quietly to bed and sleep the sleep of the just, allowing that bungler to flatten his feet waiting for you to emerge. Let us now go—"

When they separated some twenty minutes later, Quinn lingered wistfully in the lobby. It was so early that he hated to spend a whole dull evening in his room. But he had promised to await Joris' call there. At last he bought some papers and trudged upstairs. He had not seen Lawrence Kane again and no message had been left for him. Apparently the man from Norreys did not want any contact.

Quinn spent some minutes in telephoning Dokter Ger-hardt Roos and the Dokter seemed genuinely pleased to hear from him. He appointed eleven the next morning for meeting at his house and provided Quinn with careful directions for reaching it.

Quinn then took out the Graf van der Home's letter of introduction to Tante Matilda, added a short note of his own asking to be allowed to call on her at her convenience, and sealed them together for mailing. There, that was his duty done. He started preparing for bed and then the phone rang.

Joris' careful English came across the wire.

"You are the hound to which the tail is now attached. I would advise little night walking and a secure locking of the door—"

"It's already locked. And Fm going to bed—not out."

"A most wise decision. I shall see you in the morning. Perhaps by then I may have learned more about this menace from the East. Goed nacht."

"Goed nacht—" But Maartens had already rung off.

Quinn went over to the two windows which formed a small bay. He looked down into a well stretching five floors below to darkness. There was no ledge, no way of climbing that sheer expanse of wall—unless the climber had suction pads on hands and feet. He crossed the room and tried the door. The lock held firm. But for the first time Quinn wished that he had something more deadly than a penknife in his pocket. He only just stopped himself from putting that under his pillow.

He did not go to sleep early and it was late the next morning when he struggled out of a frustrating dream. He took his time about dressing. If any watcher still hung about outside he was going to add to the waiting time all the minutes he could.

But when he reached the lobby Joris was already there, sitting in a chair frowning at the front page of a newspaper. As Quinn paused to drop his letter into the slot the Netherlander joined him.

"Since duty brought me into your neighborhood I thought that breakfast together might be wise—"

"Glad you could make it. Shall we eat in the hotel?"

"If you wish. Or—this is market day. If you care to walk that far you shall find the scene most interesting to watch," Joris returned in English.

"The market cafe it is then."

Quinn gave a quick glance up and down the street as he stepped out. But as far as he could see there were no suspicious loungers. He crossed to the far corner elbow to elbow with the Netherlander.

"Our tail-?"

"Perhaps his aching feet have driven him to rest," Joris chuckled. "This stone pavement would not ease them. I am told that he lasted until five of the clock this morning and then he went. No one came to take his post. No, there is no need to look behind you now. For the rest of the day there will be others watching for you. I have news for you and this open street is the best place in which to give it.

"Our Eurasian friend is a mystery man. His background is a most peculiar blank into which my sources have not yet been able to penetrate. First—were he a member of various organizations I could hint at, he would have been provided with a background so perfect that one would be able to find out what he ate at his name-day party at the age of two. They are so thorough in such things. Behind him would stretch a nice clear road for any inquirer to follow—follow all to no purpose. But he has no past. So either he is ultra devious or he is an amateur and not a member of the opposite party.

"He landed two weeks ago in Rotterdam, came in on a freighter which had cleared from Malaya. His passport is made out in the name of Wasburg—Wilhelm Wasburg —and he claims to be a Dutch national from Sumatra. Of his business nothing is known so far. He went from Rotterdam to Dordrecht and was there for about a week as if he were waiting for someone—"

Quinn's heart skipped and his stride was only half as long as he had intended.

"Yes, it might have been you for whom he was waiting-'

"But why? No one knew—"

"That you were coming?" Joris laughed. "My American friend, you are indeed an innocent abroad in a forest filled with wolves. A man can learn anything about anyone if he knows the proper sources and has the price! But I have now put some wheels in motion and perhaps by tomorrow —or later—we shall learn more of Mijnheer Wasburg. There are now those to watch him. Though I should not, if I were you, go walking alone at night."

Quinn balled his fists in the pockets of his coat. Stark had walked alone by night. Had there been a Wasburg behind him too during those last dark hours?

"And what do you propose to do with yourself today?" Joris asked, when they were seated in the cafe.

"I have an appointment with Dokter Roos for eleven. He assisted my father in gathering material on the Sternlitz castle."

"Ah, Dokter Roos! He is a scholar-historian of note-though now he has retired from teaching to write his great history of the middle ages. You might—" Joris broke off suddenly and stared frowningly before him. When he spoke again it was about his own plans for the day which were, he said with a sigh, designed to wear him out-being mainly running about from place to place to trace down thin leads on the Vermeer.

"And Tubac—you plan to do some tracing on him, too?" Quinn asked.

"Yes, the problem of Tubac. I am beginning to think that that might have the germ of one of your very excellent police-thrillers—many of which I have read. The quiet little man who lives without making friends or enemies, who does nothing to cause a ripple—until he disappears without a trace for no discoverable reason—"

"He might be the real head of a black market ring, or a counterfeiter or a spy—" supplied Quinn. "The title of art expert is ambiguous enough to cover a great many activities—"

Joris was frowning again. "Art expert was certainly what he claimed to be when he first spoke with Mevrouw—"

"But he wasn't one? Is that what you have discovered already?"

"He said that before the war he had had his own gallery in Amsterdam. Last night I consulted an old directory of that city. There were a number of Tubacs listed as living there in 1939. But none of them dealt in art objects. When I have to myself again a free hour I shall talk—or rather allow myself to be talked to by Mevrouw. She has a ready tongue, saying much which contains little fact— but I may have overlooked some hidden clues in her chatter."

"So Tubac is now the little man who wasn't there?"

Joris looked puzzled and repeated the phrase as if translating it to himself and then he laughed. "A most apt title for him. He was not there in Amsterdam and now he is not here. I find Mijnheer Tubac of engrossing interest. So—but look now at the time! I must make speed to enter my weary round. And a busy morning to you, Anders, among the history tomes. We shall see each other later—"

Quinn was able to use the shop window device several times on his walk to the house of Dokter Roos. But he was never able to spot any tailer and he suspected that if Joris had planted one on him for his protection it would be a man he could not trick into betraying his presence. That made him wonder just what sort of a game Joris was playing. For Quinn was sure that the young newspaper man had some link with Mr. Of Ditto's friends. Maybe he was now being sheltered after a fashion by a wide and powerful organization. And that thought made him laugh a little at his own egoism as he came up to the number he was hunting.

The home of Dokter Roos was a tall house with a suggestion of very ancient times chnging to its dark stone. Perhaps that was caused by the goodly portion of the age-old city wall one could see behind it. But its narrow, gloomy height would make an excellent setting for some weird adventure embodying an alchemist's laboratory. The painfully neat library-study he was ushered into did not fit at all.

From where he stood before one of the dustless bookcases a man as tall and narrow as his house—in proper proportion—turned to greet the American. His voice was an astounding boom which almost shook the piles of papers from work table and desk and his flow of mingled —and mangled—English and Dutch bore Quinn along with him away from all thoughts of undergrounds and tailers.

For the next hour they talked shop—enthusiastically, critically—interrupting each other to spout dates and names. Dokter Roos pulled out books, rummaged for papers to prove his points. Quinn was no longer Stark Anders' brother, he was completely Dr. Anders' son.

They were disturbed at last by the pleasant-faced maid who had admitted Quinn to the house.

"I go now, Dokter—"

"Danke, Ada. We shall manage. Greet for me your sister—my best wishes for her health—''

"Danke, Dokter." A moment later they heard the front door close.

Dokter Roos must have been waiting for that sound. He put aside the paper he held.

"Ada goes to her sister who is ailing. She will be gone for several hours. That is one reason why I asked you to come this morning. It is not altogether on the matter of history that you would consult with me—"

Quinn hesitated. He had been advised to come to Roos, yes. But he was not going to mention the Bishop's Menie. Instead he told the story he had prepared for this time.

"My brother was Stark Anders, an officer in the American Occupation Forces. He was killed here in Maastricht about three months ago. The police say it was by a hit-and-run driver—"

"But that you do not believe?"

"No." Quinn cast about for something to add to that.

Dokter Roos' thin, blue-veined hand flicked up in a motion of protest. "Do not feel that you must tell me your reasons for not accepting the official verdict. It is sufficient that those reasons were powerful enough to bring you into certain channels. You have also had trouble since landing in our country?"

Swiftly Quinn gave a resume of all that had happened to him. Dokter Roos listened quietly with complete attention. The same attention he might have shown for a new historical theory on the validity of which he might be asked to give an opinion.

"A most exciting introduction to a country which is thought to be a very prosaic and, as you say, 'humdrum' nation, Mijnheer Anders. Someone appears to wish to hinder you. I do not like the implications in this case at all. For your father's son and for a fellow seeker after knowledge I shall do all that I can. In the meantime understand that Mijnheer Maartens' reassurances to you are true—you shall be under protection while with us.

"My advice would be to continue to conduct yourself wholly as a student of history. To visit the Freule van t'Oosternberg as the Graf suggested is an excellent move. The last remaining lady of the Sternlitz hne would naturally be approached by anyone writing a history of an order which a member of her House founded. Go openly about your business—if you believe yourself under surveillance take no notice of it. There will be others to handle the matter.

"Now," he took up a half sheet of paper and wrote swiftly in a crabbed backhand, "should you at any time find yourself in difficulties call upon me. If you cannot reach me at home—here is a list of four places where such a message may be left.

"On the other hand, should you at any moment receive a message from the Jachtmeester—the Master of

Hounds—you will know that it is of the greatest importance. We promise you all the aid we can give.

"No—give me no thanks, Mijnheer Anders. These are times when men of good will work with one another lest all of us be wiped away—as one brushes aside a tiresome and annoying fly. Since 1940 we have been forced to attend school again and those lessons we have learned well. I aid you now—maybe in days to come you will be in a position to lend assistance to one of us. Pull together or we shall be pulled apart—that is an execellent motto for these times!"

CHAPTER 9

BULLET BY DAY

Dokter Roos furnished a cold but remarkably good lunch and in the late afternoon Quinn returned to his hotel at a strolling pace. He was not in the least surprised to see Mijnheer Wasburg seated in the window of a cafe overlooking the hotel entrance.

And at the sight of him Quinn's sense of humor broke free. What was the proper etiquette to follow in such a circumstance? Did the pursued politely ignore the hound, or should one favor his watcher with some token of recognition? Not a full salutation, but maybe a slight inclination of the head, or an upraised thumb—something similar to the old V for Victory sign? There should be a gesture equivalent to the ancient formal duelists' salute applicable to such an occasion. Quinn passed the cafe reluctantly. It would have been rather amusing to beard Wasburg—

But inside the hotel he momentarily forgot the Eurasian, for Kane stood near the door talking to one of the staff. As he passed, Quinn caught the words "St. Petersberg." Although van Norreys' man had shown no interest in him so far he would like to know it if Kane were leaving town. While the other American was there Quinn had a sense of security. There was a vouched-for countryman he could appeal to if the worst came to the worst.

He dawdled at the desk waiting for his key and listened. Kane was planning a trip through the St. Pietersberg Caverns—he wanted to rent a car to take him upriver to the entrance. What were the St. Pietersberg Caverns? Quinn made a note to find out as soon as possible. And he couldn't hang around any longer without attracting attention. He left Kane still discussing routes, rates, and timetables and went upstairs.

There he went to work on his notes, re-reading and checking material under the fresh impetus gained from his talk with Dokter Roos. There was that new discovery just brought to light when they repaired the bomb damage at the small chapel across the border—the fighting prior's tomb. The inscription Roos had copied from it would change the dates in chapter five and would certainly suggest a new line of research for chapter twelve. Maybe he should go and see it for himself. And the records of the Company of Archers—. The Dokter promised him a chance to inspect those. Luckily they had been kept in Latin. He couldn't cope with a medieval Flemish dialect. Why, he had learned enough today to give him about a month's work—!

Ideas began to click into place as if he had located a missing bit of a picture puzzle. His pen moved eagerly across the paper. The whole of the next to the last chapter was re-writing itself in his mind. And if Wasburg had stepped into the room at that moment Quinn would have waved him away with impatience.

So when a sharp knock—a knock plainly meant to draw the full and immediate attention of any occupant of the room—sounded an hour later he looked up almost dazedly. Something white was being pushed into the room, making a scratching sound as if rubbed against the pile of the carpet.

Quinn moved. But, stiff from sitting so long, his weak leg twisted and he banged into the wall before he caught at the door knob. His clumsiness must have warned the messenger, for, by the time the American was able to unlock the door, the corridor outside was empty. He limped down it as far as the elevator—to see no one. For all he knew his quarry might have gone to earth behind any one of the closed doors he passed.

He went back to his room and read the note.

"Tonight, 12:15, unlock your door."

And below that single line of angular script was drawn the picture of a tiny riding crop surmounted by the word "Jachtmeester."

A communication from the "Master of Hounds'? But, Quinn decided, it had not been written by a Netherlander. The "12.15"—that was American. And was that a suspicious point or not? He wished that he could get a weapon better than a pocket knife before twelve-fifteen.

There was just one man in Maastricht he thought he could appeal to on that score—Joris. He would do it too.

Now he tore the Jachtmeester's note into strips and made sure they were totally destroyed. Afterward he attempted to go back to work but the past had closed its doors and he could not concentrate. He put on his hat and coat and went out. In the lobby he found the head porter alone.

"I have heard something of the St. Pietersberg Caverns," Quinn began.

The man became enthusiastic. "And you have not yet visited them, Mijnheer? They are one of the great sights of our country! They lie two miles upstream from Maastricht—one may take the steamer from Stadsjark— or it is possible to hire a car and drive there.

"Before the days of the Romans even they were in existence. You will be able to see names written on the walls there—great historic names of the men who visited them. And artists have also made reproductions of famous paintings on the stone. In one of the outer galleries is a copy of The Night Watch.

"But one walks the galleries with care, Mijnheer, entering not without a guide. Men have been lost in there. Once there was a party of monks whose dried bodies were only found many, many years later. It is very easy to become confused in the circles of so many corridors. See how many there are!" He produced a small map and spread it out to display a black network of hues. "These are just the known and mapped passages. But others exist to form a regular labyrinth. It is said that among the secret ones are free passages into Belgium—that during the war these were known and used by the underground.

"It is a strange place indeed, Mijnheer. Shark's teeth, mind you, have been found in the stone and shells also. Once it must have been part of a sea bottom. Would you care to have me arrange a tour for you, Mijnheer?"

“Perhaps later," Quinn replied. "I have some business to attend to before I can do much sightseeing—"

"It is too bad that you must wait. The other American gentleman—he plans to go soon and you might have enjoyed the trip in company. But business is of importance. Only tell me, Mijnheer, when it is your pleasure to go and I shall make the arrangements for you—"

Quinn thanked him but just as he turned away the porter pulled a slip of paper from one of the cubbyholes in the section behind his seat and held it out.

"Mijnheer Anders! Please to excuse—I have almost forgotten this. A message for you."

Another from the Jachtmeester? But the typewritten words bore no resemblance to the other script.

"Meet me—market cafe—six—information—Maartens."

Quinn looked at his watch. It was five after five. And the streets outside were light. He decided against taking a taxi. The sidewalks were crowded with a large section of the population of Maastricht and even Wasburg couldn't do anything with a hundred or more witnesses around.

Quinn was almost in sight of the cafe when he was tempted. He was crossing the mouth of a street so narrow that it was hardly more than an alley which no modern machine could negotiate. But along it was a line of shop fronts, small-paned, with an intriguing hint of the far past about them. And he caught a glimpse of what he was sure was armor in one of them. He still had more than twenty minutes—he could just go and look in the window— He went.

The street was paved with cobbles and there was no sidewalk. Quinn kept close to the old buildings along it. He was right—there was a curiosity shop here. The window seemed to be a jumble of goods in no order at all and he was tempted to plaster his nose to the somewhat dusty panes to see it better. He liked the look of a basket-hilted broad sword which might have been swung valiantly by a Royalist in some Cromwellian scuffle. Hadn't King Charles' exiled followers taken refuge in Holland? This could well be an authentic legacy of that old lost cause. It would look fine back home, up over the mantle crossing the saber Grandfather Nichols used in 1862. Quinn turned to the door of the shop—only to be sent sprawling with force enough to drive most of the breath out of his body in a wild grunt of amazement.

He clawed at the wood, got his balance and looked up. One of the small window panes was starred with a spider web of cracks.

"What—?" He gasped. The man who had pushed him into the shallow protection afforded by the doorway dodged Quinn's grab for his arm. But not before the American had seen him clearly—Wasburg!

"Wait—!" He tried to sprint, but for the second time that day his bad knee let him down. He stumbled and he fought to regain his balance. It was too late anyway. The other had already reached the main street and was gone.

"Mijnheer! Mijnheer! What happens! What happens to my window? What do you, Mijnheer?" The shop owner caught at Quinn's sleeve.

"I'd like a few answers myself," returned Quinn grimly. He touched the broken glass. The old pane was thick, hand blown, but a sliver of it gave way under his examination. And that was on a line with where his head had been —he was sure of it!

But Wasburg had pushed him out of the line of fire! Which must mean that Wasburg was not the sniper—and also that Wasburg wanted him safe. Quinn swallowed twice, hurriedly. The shopkeeper had gone, probably to call the police. The American made a quick decision. He was not going to wait and answer official questions. He wanted to see Maartens—and Kane. No more of this 'I don't know you’ stuff as far as the Norreys' man was concerned. If he, Quinn, was being set up as a target for somebody with lethal intentions he wanted all the help he could get.

Quinn hurried out of the alley and made himself one of a crowd of pedestrians going in the right direction.

This was too public a place, he hoped, for the sniper to put in another appearance.

The American was still breathing hard when he sat down in the cafe to wait for Joris. His middle section felt empty and his mouth was so dry he could hardly give an order for a cup of coffee. On that night in Dordrecht when he had escaped from the hotel he had felt something like this— He rubbed his finger tips across the coarse cloth on the table, but his touch was still on that broken window glass. And his fingers were shaking. Quickly he dropped his hands to his knees, out of sight. He tried to breathe slowly, to fight the pounding of his heart.

This wasn't just a game he was playing. He remembered fleetingly, with a kind of horrified wonder, his mood of the afternoon when he had sighted Wasburg and had wanted to wave to him. Then it had seemed like a game—in spite of the hotel in Dordrecht, almost in spite of Stark, it had been a game. But it wasn't!

The coffee appeared. His eyes focused on the steaming cup. His hands were still shaking and no amount of willpower could stop them. He sat miserably conscious of his weakness, fighting the betrayal of his body. Slowly he won. He had to use both hands to raise the cup to his lips the first time—but he won.

Joris—? Where was the Netherlander? Quinn's watch told him that he had been sitting there even longer than he thought he had. It was a quarter past six. The cafe was filling up with patrons and the waiter had brushed past his table impatiently several times. Quinn summoned the man.

"I was to meet my friend here. But perhaps he could not come and has left a message for me. My name is Anders—"

"If the Mijnheer will allow me but a moment to in-quire—.”

Quinn pushed aside the coffee cup and kept his eyes on the entrance to the cafe. The street outside was growing dusky. If Maartens did not come he would take a taxi—

“Mijnheer, I am most sorry to report that there has been no message left for you. If you wish to call your friend there is a telephone in the hallway to the left—"

"Danke."

As long as he was here he might as well eat. He pulled at the menu card, very sure that whatever he ordered was going to be sawdust and wood in his dry mouth. Was this the fear the fox knew when the hounds were on its trail and it was cut off from the safety of the den? The streets he would be forced to cross before he could wind back to the hotel arranged themselves in a pattern in his mind. And there were an unhealthy number of deep doorways and alley openings all along that short journey. He should get up and go right now—before it grew any darker. But could he?

He wasn't Stark. And he was learning that he could not play his brother's role. He was only a wader who had ventured from firm rock out into the river bed and was now plunged into a pot hole. He wasn't Stark!

"Anders!''

Quinn looked up. Maartens slid into the seat across the table.

"I was shot at—" The American blurted it out.

"I know."

"The Mijnheeren desire?" That was the hovering waiter right on the job.

Quinn could not have answered. He did not even hear the order Maartens gave glibly enough.

"You're late!" Quinn accused the Netherlander.

Maartens snorted. "Since this—" he pushed over the note Quinn had received—"was not written by me it is a wonder that I arrived at all!"

"You didn't send me this?"

"No. And you certainly are a trusting innocent!"

"Please—" Quinn began to realize just how stupid he had been.

"So that lesson has been learned? Good. Now we shall get to business."

"But how did you already know that I had been shot at?" persisted the American.

"I told you that there would be those who would keep an eye on you. The only trouble was—"

"That they were watching the wrong man!" Quinn guessed. His self-confidence was beginning to return.

"Yes. It was Wasburg who saved you."

"But who fired the shot?"

"A new player. He is now under investigation. Luckily you kept your head and left before the police arrived. It would not do to become involved with the law just now. They take, as you can imagine, a very strict view of any activity employing guns—"

Kept his head! Quinn knew a prickle of shame at that. It had been more an exhibition of sheer funk—his swift disappearance from the scene.

"I went to the hotel. The porter told me you had left but gave me this note which he said you had dropped. Then I called my contact and had the story from him. He said you were here. And I shall see you back to the hotel— we will take no more chances—"

Quinn managed a weak smile. "I have no desire to take any. But I'd give a lot to know who wants to perforate me and why. I thought Wasburg was the one I had to look out for—"

"Yes. Wasburg is now another sort of problem altogether. Do you recognize this?"

Joris held out a small piece of tracing paper. Quinn spread it flat on the white cloth so the Hues showed as clearly as possible. It was a copy of an elaborate coat of arms. And he knew that pattern of lions and arrows very well.

"These are the arms of the Sternlitz family."

That was true enough. But there was something else, a slight alteration on that shield. He traced the mark with his finger nail and the explanation clicked into place in his mind.

"But there is something else to be learned from this?" Joris prompted shrewdly.

"This—see here," Quinn's nail retraced its path. "I don t know whether you know anything about heraldry?"

Joris shook his head.

"Well, originally all arms were devised to be read— they were to serve as a man's signature. There are alterations of each family shield to place its bearer in the line of inheritance—as the heir, the second son, third, fourth, etc., as a cadet of the house, as the eldest daughter and heiress—each had their own separate insignia on the complete arms. In the feudal days a gentle born man could translate his opponent's or neighbor's shield and be able to place him properly in society—even when he couldn't read or write his own name. Nowadays this identification is a more or less forgotten art except with the College of Heralds or a few antiquarians."

"And I take it that this representation of the Sternlitz arms is not a common one?"

"No. This is a copy of the arms as they would be borne, not by the Duke—were he alive—but by his eldest son and heir. A distinction few would know now."

"His son and heir," repeated Joris thoughtfully. "That is very, very interesting."

"May I ask where you got this?" Quinn folded the paper in its original creases.

"Wasburg was visited today. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—he was not at home. His visitor was a little bored and decided to investigate the room. There is a most ingenious false bottom in Mijnheer Wasburg's suitcase—an excellent piece of work. In it were several documents which my friend did not have time to photograph —he was thoughtfully warned that Wasburg was about to receive another visitor. And there was also a small sheet of paper which he saw first and traced. The arms of the eldest son and heir—hmmm—"

"The last Duke of Sternsberg was the last male of the Sternlitz line in direct descent/' Quinn returned. "He was never married and he had no son or heir—"

"When did he die and where?"

Quinn shrugged. "There is no answer to either of those questions. He was an explorer, very much interested in mapping the old silk road across the Gobi. There is a rumor that he was killed by nomads somewhere in Inner Mongolia. At any rate he never came back to civilization."

"So—he vanished into thin air in Inner Mongolia—and when did this event occur?"

"Sometime in the 1890's—that was all unknown territory then. He was in his late forties—I couldn't tell without checking dates again. But he was unmarried when he disappeared."

"Around sixty years ago, eh? He could have had a son and a grandson by now. Wasburg is Eurasian—"

But Quinn had already thought of that. A new factor in the game. If the Sternlitz family still existed—even with an unknown heir—then what about the ownership of the Bishop's Menie? He should pass this along to van Norreys at the first opportunity. Now he did have a good reason for forcing a meeting with Kane!

"We haven't asked you any questions, Anders," Joris continued in his usual level tone, "but the time may be coming when each of us will have to show a few cards. I am now guessing that you have more than a historian's interest in the Sternlitz family and that more than a quest for dates and names brought you abroad. Do you know of anything which would make the Sternlitz clan of value to our friends in the northeast?"

"Yes." Quinn went no farther than that one bare word of assent.

"I thought so when I heard they were willing to try murder," Joris said almost to himself. "Before I give you any more assistance I am going to ask you one more thing —what are your credentials?"

Quinn tugged off his watch. He looked from it to the cafe clock.

"Running a little fast—"

Maartens took it out of his hand. "Is that so? I have some knowledge of watches. Let me look—" He opened the back of the case and gave the Roajact plate a single glance. Then it was closed and back in Quinn's hand almost in one motion.

"Any assistance we can render is yours," the Netherlander said. "You are—?"

"Roajact."

"That word will be enough to use for identification if you need it. I shall ask you nothing more. But my service and yours have always worked together when it was necessary."

"We need more information on Wasburg. If he is of the Sternlitz family it will have a great deal of bearing on my business here."

"Before I came here I had asked for a more exact report on that one's background. But there seems to be nothing we can uncover before the moment he disembarked at Rotterdam. To try to get behind the veil will take time. But I have something for you—"

He delivered it by shaking hands on the threshold of the hotel. Quinn's fingers curled around a small cold rod. Before he could ask, Joris explained.

"A souvenir of the past. Made by American ingenuity for the use of the underground. It can fire two shots but must be used at very short range. However it is easy to conceal and—within its limits—deadly. Goed nacht," he raised his voice slightly.

But he remained where he was until Quinn entered the building. And the American did not stop to inspect Maartens' gift until he was in his room.

The weapon was not unfamiliar. Stark had told him of it. He was holding a slender tube, fashioned to resemble a fountain pen or pencil—it even possessed a pocket clip. But, Quinn knew, depress that clip just in the right manner and you had a gun. A small, and as Joris had pointed out, deadly weapon to be used at close quarters. And he would have it tonight when his watch touched 12:15!

CHAPTER 10

ENTRANCE OF A FALSE KNIGHT

Quinn's eyes had adjusted to the dark so that now he could pick out the larger pieces of furniture. He sat quietly on the bed, the small rod which might mean safety clutched in damp fingers, his attention on the door which he had just unlocked. He was straining ears as well as eyes but it was a long time before he caught that faint click. Then he gathered his feet under him—ready to spring if need be.

The door opened only far enough to allow a shadow to slide through.

"Anders?" the questioning whisper had no identity.

"Here. Who are you?"

For an instant a face was illumined, the invader must have turned his own flash on himself. Lawrence Kane stood there. Quinn relaxed and put the pen gun into his pocket.

"You’ve played it smart, Anders. It's better that no one here knows we have any connection. But I must show you this-" "

Quinn heard a noise as if something metal had been put down on the small desk. Then again the beam of light flashed out to catch and hold on a figure.

A knight, helmeted, a battle ax half raised as if in desperate defense stood there.

"Another of the Menie!"

"No!" The answer was sharp. "It is only a copy!"

"What! But why—when—there is no record of any replicas of the Menie—"

"It is of modern make—at least it was done within the past twenty years. Van Norreys has checked it thoroughly. It is a copy of one of the real pieces all right and made by an artist. And it is not a copy of the one we already have. Look here—"

Kane's hand came into the line of light. He picked up the knight, turned it upside down and produced a jewelers' glass which he held over a point in the base.

Quinn leaned forward and looked. With the aid of the magnifying glass he could see what the other meant—a very tiny but perfect outline of a leaf.

"That is the signature of an artist van Norreys knows. The man was employed before the war by the House of Norreys both as a designer and to copy famous pieces of jewelry for their owners who wished to wear less precious replicas and keep the real thing in a safe. He has even copied crown jewels in his time. But this is his trademark and while he was employed by the House he did not do it!"

"Where did this turn up?"

Kane laughed. "A collector sent it to Lor ens. He wanted it checked—thought that some of the tiny gems in the shield seemed loose. When van Norreys tried to get its history out of him he became very, very evasive. And he shut his mouth altogether when Lorens proved to him it was a fake. Van Norreys couldn't pressure him into spilling what he knows—though the boss is still working on him. And-"

"But why a fake?"

"We think that this proves we're on to a very slick game. Because if one of these has been made, why not five—ten more? It takes time to do such fine work, yes. But that would pay—even if it took several years. Suppose a certain number of collectors—or just wealthy individuals who want to sink money into a negotiable object—are approached quietly and offered a piece such as this for cash at a price considerably under what it might be worth on the open market if it were authentic. The story of the Sternsberg collection is known—it would be hard for anyone to prove ownership of the pieces if they were found. And this could be sold as a bit of secret war loot. Any number of plausible stories could be told to a buyer who didn't care to probe too deeply anyway. The collector gets a fake and the seller gets good American cash all in an under-the-counter transaction which will be hard to trace and which the buyer can't protest about even if he discovers the truth later. It's an excellent way to do a little milking for the dollars our friends over the curtain want so badly!"

"But if this is a copy—then the copyist must have had the original to work from."

"Right. So van Norreys is beginning to do a httle detective work in the States to see if there have been others unloaded there. Our dealers in the rare and strange might have more than one that they are faking.”

"What about the man who made this?"

"The House of Norreys closed in 1940 when the old Jonkheer van Norreys foresaw the invasion of the Netherlands. He pensioned off most of his master workmen then. Lorens knew this man, he's been trying to trace him. But the fellow lived in Rotterdam and you know what happened in the bombing there. We can't find any trace of him at all. He was of mixed Dutch and Austrian descent— a master goldsmith and artist. His name was Wulfanger."

"You're here on his trail?"

"That and other things." Kane's tone did not encourage further questions.

"As to the ownership of the Stemsberg treasure," Quinn put in, "there might be a claimant for that after all." In a few sentences he told of Wasburg and the hidden crest they had found.

Kane listened without interruption. "Since Wasburg does not appear to be the one thirsting for your blood, you might try to contact him. At least this Maartens may be able to turn up something on his back trail. If you do make contact or learn anything I want to know about it. By the way, as fellow Americans, it will appear odd if we continue to be totally oblivious of each other while staying in the same hotel. Tomorrow—or rather today—we'd better stage a casual meeting of some kind."

Quinn nodded, and then realizing that he could not be seen in the dark, said,

"I'll be at the mail desk at eight. You could bump into me there—"

"Good. I'll see you then—"

He scooped up the false knight as the light snapped off. A moment later the door opened and closed. Quinn locked it, and in spite of the excitement of the night he went directly to sleep.

The next morning the meeting by the mail desk was carried out as planned. He traded a few inane remarks with Kane under the eye and ear of the head porter. Then they separated as Quinn started off on his own to investigate the records of the Company of Archers.

But as he set out for that building he saw in the cafe across the street the thin dark face of Wasburg. And, driven by a sudden burst of impatience and a desire to bring matters to a head, Quinn turned in there, walked directly to Wasburg's table and sat down before the other could move.

"I believe I have still to thank you—" he began.

"The Mijnheer is mistaken. I have no knowledge of him." The cool answer accused Quinn of impertinence.

"As you wish, Mijnheer—or should I say 'Your Grace'?"

For the first time those drooping eyelids were raised and Quinn found himself staring into a pair of remarkably blue and piercing eyes.

"Mijnheer is mistaken. I have no knowledge of him," Wasburg repeated in the same emotionless tone. He drew out his wallet and selected a bill, glancing over his shoulder as if to summon the waiter. Quinn arose.

"Have it your own way. But you may be making a mistake, Wasburg. There are others in this game and it might be well to join forces—''

It seemed to Quinn that for a moment Wasburg hesitated, as if he were actually considering the idea. Then the Eurasian's head moved in an almost imperceptible shake of negation.

"Mijnheer, there is in English a saying of the people, *He travels swiftly who goes alone.'"

Quinn lost patience. That cool voice made him feel about seven years old and a backward seven at that. He went. If Wasburg wanted to spend the day trailing him, he was welcome to the job. But he didn't think that the Eurasian was going to learn very much.

The records of the Company of Archers were intriguing and the Keeper of those records, an amateur antiquarian of some note, was very cordial when he had read Dokter Roos' note of introduction. Quinn spent all the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon delving into old parchments and coming up with fat nuggets to be transferred to his notebook. He looked up rather dazedly, black lines of Latin still printing themselves before his strained eyes, when the Keeper came apologetically to the table where he was working.

"Mijnheer Anders, you will please excuse me. But it is now four of the clock and by the rules of the organization I must close up the record room and return the keys to the safe. I am most sorry to disturb you—"

Quinn arose hastily. "It is I who should apologize, Mijnheer. I have tried your good nature by my thoughtlessness. But what you have shown me is truly such a feast that I have been greedy—"

"Mijnheer Anders, I assure you, nothing gives me greater gratification than to be able in some small part to assist you with your labors of scholarship. You come again tomorrow, perhaps?"

"I hope to. And now, Mijnheer, will you give me the pleasure of your company for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine—?"

The little man flushed with real pleasure and Quinn lingered while he locked up the records and turned in his keys, then accompanied him to a pleasant little cafe not far away. As they went he called attention to the points of interest both near and far and drew out of Quinn the unbelievable fact that the American had not yet made a proper survey of the antiquities of the city.

"But, Mijnheer, you must indeed visit the church of St. Servatus. It was built in 560 and is one of the oldest in northern Europe, You know that this was a Roman garrison town even before the rise of Christianity. There are Roman names scrawled on the walls in St. Pietersberg—"

"The caverns. I want to go and see them."

"But, of course! The caverns—they are magnificent, Mijnheer. During the late war a great many of our national treasures were hidden there. But you must not attempt a visit alone—without a guide, Mijnheer. Men have wandered in there to their death, lost in the maze of many passages."

"Yes, so I was warned. I also heard that there was a way through them into Belgium—"

His companion chuckled. "Smugglers, ja, we have smuggler tales about those hidden ways. There is something about the payment of customs duties which irks even the most law abiding people. So smugglers are not always thought black criminals. Ja—the smugglers—I have heard many, many stories about their secret guide marks on the walls—which if one knew just what to look for would bring one across the border without any guard being the wiser."

He talked on, about the caverns, about the Prins Carnaval which it was a pity Quinn had missed, about the coming trial of the archers which Quinn certainly must not miss.

"The wooden parrot, that is the target, Mijnheer. It is fastened on the tower of the church and the aspirants for the honor of being ‘King' must shoot at it. He who wins three years in succession is proclaimed 'Emperor' and is freed from all dues and imposts. That has not happened in my time—"

"Maybe skill with the bow is now a lost art."

"There you may be right, Mijnheer. Although last year we had two marksmen who were able to knock paint from the parrot's tail. And," he leaned across the table to become confidential, "this I will say to you, Mijnheer, during the war our bows were in use. They had the advantage of killing in silence. Also it alarmed the enemy to find a sentry gone without trace from his post, or to have an off-duty soldier vanish into thin air. One such was discovered once with an arrow through him. Then did we have wild rumors of the old bowmen having returned to patrol their city. Most exciting days those, Mijnheer."

It was past five before Quinn left the Keeper and this time he prudently took a taxi and rode back to the hotel in style and safety—only to be met in the lobby by a visitor which he did not expect.

The man was elderly, his cropped hair gray. But his clothes would have made him conspicuous anywhere. He wore a mulberry velvet coat which buttoned down the front with gold silk frogs. His breeches were white and he had on black and shining boots. In one hand he held a high silk hat with a mulberry cockade—such a hat as Quinn remembered having seen in pictures of old time coachmen. As the American approached the porter's desk the man came forward and, with a low bow, held out a note.

Quinn tore open the crested envelope. On the single sheet inside, the thin and elegantly curled writing of an earlier day informed him that the Freule Matilda van t'Oosternberg would be pleased to receive Mijnheer Quinn Anders for tea at the Chateau des Dames the next day, four o'clock.

Guessing at the proper form of reply, Quinn borrowed paper and pen from the porter and wrote an answer. The apparition in mulberry velvet received it with a second low bow. And Quinn noted with some amusement that the deference of the porter had increased some fifty per cent. Apparently being able to claim acquaintance with the Chateau des Dames gave him the status of V I P.

"So Xante Matilda has recognized your existence." Joris came past the coachman to join Quinn. "You must have received an invitation to the den of the dragonesses.'*

"Yes. And now I want you to brief me. Just what is this Chateau des Dames? There seems to be a touch of royalty to the procedure. Come up and rest your feet while you tell me all about it."

Joris followed him into the elevator. "My feet do need rest, that I assure you. I have walked out good money in shoe leather this day—and with very little to show in return. You have a soft chair and perhaps a cool and refreshing glass of something to offer a struggling pen-pusher?"

When Maartens was duly installed in the one really comfortable chair his room boasted, Quinn demanded,

"Now tell me about the Freule Matilda and the Chateau des Dames."

Joris unlaced his shoes and slipped his feet out of them. He wriggled his toes and sighed feelingly before he answered.

"When you visit the Chateau you will be stepping backward in time—into the early nineteenth century at least— if not into the eighteenth. It is one of the most exclusive and magnificent homes for old ladies in the world. The castle itself is worth seeing—having been built at the height of the Renaissance. And since the middle of the eighteenth century it has housed only spinsters of noble birth. Originally one had to have at least sixteen quarterings to qualify for residence within its walls!

"It is like this—a nobleman pays a fee at the birth of each daughter. If she marries or dies before the age of fifty that sum is forfeit to the Foundation. If she does neither, then she is eligible, as soon as a vacancy occurs, to have her apartments in the castle, her servants, her footman or coachman, and to live in a semi-royal or feudal style for the rest of her days. The system was founded by a Countess of Flanders five hundred years ago. At first the ladies took vows and it was a semi-religious order. But since the Reformation it is wholly secular. So, as a piece of a past which the rest of the world has long since forgotten, it should be of interest to a historian.

"Now for Dirk's Tante Matilda. She, too, is a magnificent relic, well suited to her surroundings. In her early days she was a hostess of fame and of no small political influence—something on the order of that Princess Lieven who ruled the chancelleries of most of Europe for so long. But unfortunately Tante Matilda was born too late—the spacious fife to which she was so well suited was already passing before she was out of girlhood.

"I think that she is one of the few noblewomen still alive who can boast thirty-two quarterings on her arms-more, you understand, than most royal families are en- titled to bear. In fact the van t'Oosternbergs look upon the House of Hanover, for example, as parvenu. At certain times in the year she commands her various family connections to visit her. And, I assure you, they all obey. She has no beauty, but a fine and well-disciplined mind and many talents—"

"You have met her then?"

"I have met her. An experience which I prize. She took my work to pieces in a few well chosen words, deflated my ego to the vanishing point, and then gave me some suggestions on which to rebuild my whole career. I care more for her good opinion than that of any other living person and I would shake in my shoes if she ever signified a desire to see me again—"

Quinn sat down on the edge of the bed. "D'you know— you're not saying anything to encourage me—"

Joris waved his hand. "Just preparing you, just preparing you. Tante Matilda must be taken in very small doses —but you will find her highly stimulating. That I can promise you. And a jaunt back into the past should be bait enough to get you to the Chateau. It is the kind of place one should rightly enter riding in a state coach behind twelve white horses. During the war the Nazi Commandant hereabouts went, uninvited I must add, to pay his so-called respects. He found the gates locked and the message left there for him was never made public but I understand that ever afterward he jumped to his feet and stood at attention when the Chateau was mentioned—he is also said to have turned a light shade of green—. That is only rumor but I can well believe it. Xante Matilda should have been allowed to deal with Hitler. There would have been none of that nonsense about any Thousand Year Reich."

"My nerve is thoroughly destroyed," Quinn informed him. "I wish I had declined with regret instead of accepting with restrained joy. I would do better to lose myself in the St. Pietersberg Caverns—"

"So? And are you planning an expedition there?"

"I suppose I must in order to keep my good standing as a tourist. I've had two pep talks about them today. You have been through them, of course? No? Fine. Then you can come with me. I understand that if one does not go in a party one is apt to wander off and turn into a mummy —to be found years and years afterward and serve as an awful warning. You can hold my hand and save me from that fate-"

"You are trying to tempt me from my duty," Joris complained. He had slipped down in the chair until he was resting mostly on the back of his neck. "But since I now believe that my Vermeer was merely a figment of some editor's overly active imagination I suppose I am able to spare the time. Perhaps your turning into a mummy would be worth at least two lines of type—"

"If Vermeer has proved you false, what about your little man who isn't here—Tubac?"

Joris wormed his way up to a more orthodox sitting position and put his hand in his coat pocket.

"Tubac continues among the missing. However this afternoon I paid a second visit to his lodging. The Mevrouw's story remains the same—in detail and thrice-told. But upon my explaining to her that for my sins I am a member of the working press she became quite excited and escorted me to the unfortunate Tubac's late room and urged me to look for clues. I believe that she confuses me in some manner with the police—"

"Maybe she thinks you're a private eye," put in Quinn.

"Pardon?" Joris, momentarily at a loss, appeared to be engaged in mental translation. Then he nodded. "Ah, one of your very tough American crime 'busters.' But no, not me, I do not want to lie in an alley with my head broken into small bits and that seems to be the constant fate of such gentlemen, or so I have read in numerous accounts of their adventures. Me, I am a simple gatherer of news who wishes to keep whole his skin. But, at any rate, I looked over the room of the vanished Tubac. And on a table there was an envelope of papers. Among them this which Mevrouw allows me to bring with me when I explain it may aid in identifying Tubac in the past. It certainly is, I believe, the work of an artist. And someone should recognize the work—"

Quinn took the small sheet of stiff drawing paper. On it in rich blues, greens, and touches of gold with flecks of vermilion, was a dragon, the legs raised as if in defiance, the snake tail in a round tight curl, the tongue lolling from open jaws. It had a suggestion of the heraldic about it and Quinn examined it with a puzzled frown.

"You know it?" demanded Joris.

"There is something which seems familiar. Doesn't it look to you as if it might be part of a crest or a coat of arms? But I can't identify it."

"But you have made a good suggestion. I shall consult those who are authorities in that field. But the excellence of the drawing itself—"

"Beautifully done," agreed Quinn. "I know just what it reminds me of! Those queer beasts looped about capital letters in the Books Of Hours or in a 'Bestiary'—it might be a copy of one of those."

"I rather hope it's part of a crest. It will be easier to identify. Now," he stooped over to put on his shoes, "I am fast becoming faint with hunger. And if we are to go exploring the caverns we had better make concrete plans for doing so. Shall we consume nourishment as an accompaniment?"

Quinn drew on his coat. "I am eating in the hotel restaurant. Since last night I have the oddest desire to keep out of the streets after dark—"

Joris favored him with one of his rare grins. "Now I wonder why you have developed such caution? But I am willing to humor you in this, Mijnheer Anders."

CHAPTER 11

THIRTY-TWO QUARTERINGS AND MEMORY

At four o'clock the next afternoon Quinn Anders, American, rode in a modern taxi—with two battered fenders-out of his own time into the past. The dividing line between the centuries was a gate of iron bars which closed off the circling carriage drive of fine white gravel from the utilitarian highway. A dour old man wearing the mulberry livery of the Chateau demanded Quinn's name at that barrier and then allowed them to proceed, with visible reluctance, at a pace not much faster than two miles an hour, through a grove of trees which must have already been sturdy and well-rooted saplings when men in body armor rode that way.

Quinn got out and paid off his driver. Then he stood still, examining the pile of stonework before him. Twin towers jutted skyward for several stories above the main bulk of the building. It belonged, as Joris had promised, to the fifteen hundreds when fortified castles were being transformed into palaces for more gracious living. But to a modern s eyes it was an illustration from one of the

Grimms' tales with its stone entrance gates carved with armorial bearings, its drawbridge now permanently down over a moat of ebony water where there were actually swans engaged in naval maneuvers. A lawn showed velvet green to a series of hedges clipped into fanciful shapes.

It was perfect—like a square of tapestry come to life. Quinn could well believe the tale of the Nazi overlord who was never the same again after he had dared these gates without an invitation. This place would have little patience with transient conquerors—

But, the American decided, as he followed a liveried footman down several long corridors, up two flights of stone steps, and through at least one gallery where the mullioned windows gave only a suggestion of light, this might not be the most comfortable place in the world in which to live.

His guide rapped on a dark door, exchanged a few words through the crack. Then the portal was thrown open and Quinn was announced with due ceremony.

"Mijnheer Quinn Anders, Hooge Staatsjuffer—"

"High Lady of State," Quinn translated and wondered if that was the form of address he too should use to his hostess. He bowed in the direction of the high-backed chair installed by the largest window.

"Goeden Namiddag, Mijnheer."

"Good afternoon, Hooge Staatsjuffer." He plunged and moved on, hoping to see her better.

She laughed, not with the thin tinkle of age, but with a deep note of real amusement.

"Lady of State, is it, jongeling? That is a title which means exactly nothing but that I have outlived others until I have now some small authority in this community. For a nation which prides itself on its republican history we are strangely fond of mouth filling titles, are we not? But, Katrina, place a chair for Mijnheer. Here in this light so that we may see each other without invoking the skill of cats. Wait, Mijnheer, move not until Katrina has made all ready. I shall not be in the best of tempers if part of my masterpiece is blown to the winds by your passing!"

Quinn obediently stood where he was while a small woman, gray as to hair, gray silk as to dress, and gray as to skin—as if she had only existence in this none too bright room, scuttled out from the far shadows, moved the light table which stood before the Freule some inches to the right and placed another high-backed chair a couple of feet beyond it.

"Now!"

At that imperious summons Quinn, feeling as if he should be progressing by a series of low salutations, moved gingerly up to seat himself. Now he was able to see that the small table before his hostess was covered with bits of colored paper which, as she talked, she regarded now and then through a large magnifying glass and moved back and forth across the surface of a black tray. Once or twice she left one in place, setting it just so with an approving tap from one of her long fingers before she continued the shifting of its fellows.

Her hands were beautiful, slender, ivory white—not the hands of an old woman. Quinn guessed that they were perhaps her point of vanity. For he saw that what Joris had said was true—the Freule Matilda had never been even handsome. At the same time her narrow thin face with its sharply pointed chin, beaked nose and hard sharp eyes, was so familiar that he worried trying to recall where he had seen it before.

He dared to believe that the mass of red, startling red, curls which covered her head had not grown there, yet even their artificiality fitted his teasing memory picture. A wig above a narrow, alive, intelligent face—an arrogant face— Arrogant—that was the key word! Why, this was Elizabeth the First of England—Good Queen Bess! And before he realized what he was doing Quinn repeated that name aloud.

Her busy fingers paused, those bright, hard eyes swept him from head to foot in one swift measuring stare. He colored hotly. Then her too thin lips twisted in a grimace of amusement.

"Good Queen Bess," she repeated in English. "And now —Raleigh's brother—"

His breath caught in a little gasp. "Stark—"

"Captain Stark Anders," the harsh voice continued. "Yes, he sat in that very chair. Raleigh—yes—a little too polished for Drake, not sensitive enough for Sidney. He sat there and humored an old woman— Tried to pick her memories. Now you come along in turn—persistent, you Anders men. Is it the Bishop's Menie that pulls you here too?"

"What did Stark tell you?"

For the second time she laughed. "He told me everything I wished to know. As you will too, jongeling. The Sternlitz may be gone but it seems that their treasure continues to make trouble. Now what do you have to tell me?"

And Quinn found himself telling the whole true story from the arrival of the Trojan Horse to his own coming to the Chateau des Dames, omitting only his manner of escape from Dordrecht and the underground activities he had so been made aware of. As he talked the gray Katrina drew up another small table and set out on it the elaborate tea equipage she took from the footman.

"So I have come to you—" Quinn ended.

The long fingers made another pounce on a piece of paper, fitting it into place on the black tray. Then she laid down the magnifying glass with the firmness of someone who has made a decision.

"Katrina! Tea."

Quinn accepted a cup and saucer so fragile that he was sure a too tight grip could reduce it to shards, and bit into a paper-thick piece of bread and butter.

The Queen—his confused identification continued to plague him—drank two cups of tea, ate three pieces of bread and butter and a large wedge of rich cake in rapid succession before she addressed him again.

"Your brother showed me that knight," she began. "He was given it by a dying man—a man who had tried to escape into the western zone in Germany and had been shot by the border guards. From the little he was able to tell your brother he had found it in the ruins of the old Sternlitz hunting lodge. During the war he had been stationed near there and he and a companion had gone grubbing around for loot. Your brother had no idea how many of the pieces they really found, but he was sure that it was not all of the Menie.

"This Nazi thief was later caught up in the Russian attack on Berlin and sent to a prison camp from which he was later brought back for some mysterious reason—perhaps because of his discovery. What became of his fellow in crime and the portion of the loot he had, your brother was not able to discover. Captain Anders came to me to ask about the fabled hiding place of the treasure. I could only tell him what I shall now tell you—the legend of the family.

“The Bishop's Menie had acquired over the years it was in the possession of the Sternlitz family a superstitious value. They believed that it was their luck. But its hiding place was known only to the Duke and to his eldest son. Since the last Duke had no son—"

"But that may not be true—" Quinn dared to interrupt.

The fingers were still. The black eyes raised to rake him again.

"What do you mean?"

Quinn told her of Wasburg and the coat of arms found in his luggage.

She was silent and then she gave the table with her work on it a little push which Katrina accepted as a signal, for she appeared in her jack-in-the-box fashion and carefully moved it to one side.

"I wonder—" The Freule was frowning. "I wonder— Katrina, my jewel case!"

The little woman whisked the tea things away and in their place put a polished chest within easy reach of the Freule who selected a small key from a bunch which swung on a gold chain at her waist, fitted it into the lock, and raised the lid. There was a tiny sigh of air which had not been released for a long, long time. Velvet-lined trays, each bearing sparkling-stone set pieces, were lifted out as the Freule searched. When she reached the last compartment she gave a little exclamation of satisfaction and took out a miniature set in a circle of red stones. But the fine lace at her wrist caught in something else and jerked it out so that it flew across the carpet to Quinn s feet. He stooped to pick it up.

What he held glinted even in the subdued light, glinted not with the hard glitter of jewels but with the clear tones of fine enamel work. A green and gold dragon lay, tail curled, claws advanced, on his palm. And—it was Tubac's dragon!

"Please—my lady, where did you obtain this?"

She bent her head a fraction of an inch to see the piece he was holding out to her.

"That? Katrina, where did I get this?"

The gray woman hovered, considered the brooch and then answered in a voice as faded as her dress.

"It was a gift, Staatsjuffer, upon the occasion of your birthday in 1937. The Graf van der Home had it made for you."

"Yes. I now remember." She held it to the window light. “It is an unusual conceit, is it not, Mijnheer Anders. Not Eastern, as you might believe at first glance. My grandmother was of a very old family—the Karloffs— royalty—or semi-so—from a tiny forgotten state in the Balkans." She dismissed the importance of a state in the Balkans with the tone of her voice. "This was their crest. There is a portrait of her—which in my youth I was supposed to resemble—showing her wearing just such a brooch. Julius had that copied for me."

"Do you know where he had it made, Staatsjuffer?" Quinn persisted.

She glanced at him rapier-wise for the third time. "This is of importance?"

"It may be, my lady. A man recently disappeared from Maastricht. He left behind him a detailed drawing of this very piece."

"So." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the chair.

"It was made," she broke her own silence, "by the House of Norreys—of which you have already heard. I believe that it was designed and executed by one of their finest craftsmen. His name I do not know."

A link—a link between the gentle little Tubac who had walked out into the blue in Maastricht and the House of Norreys. Could Tubac be Wulfanger, the artist Lorens van Norreys believed capable of counterfeiting the Menie knights?

"Now, Mijnheer," his thoughts were broken by the Freule, "you shall tell me why this bauble is of such interest to you."

"It might prove to be that the man who made it is also the one who is copying or has copied the counterfeit knight we have found. May I look at it again, my lady?"

At her nod he picked up the brooch and with it the magnifying glass. The tiny scales of the creature were perfect under the glass, beautiful. He turned it over. And there, almost hidden under the catch was what he was hunting for—the mark which Kane had shown him on the base of the false knight—the signature of Wulfanger. He pointed it out to the Freule.

"So. Well, I am pleased that I am able to contribute to your search this much. But regard this also, Mijnheer Anders. Does your Wasburg resemble in any manner this man?"

She handed him the miniature she had taken from her jewel casket.

The pictured head was that of a young man cleanshaven but wearing long and bushy sideburns. His hair was straight and light brown, already receding a little on the very high forehead. He had the mouth of a stubborn man and his eyes were slightly unfocused. Quinn did not consider himself able to judge character in a pictured face —but he thought that he would not have cared greatly for the original of the painting. And in it he could see no resemblance to Wasburg. For despite the guarded discipline of the Eurasian's face one knew that fire smoldered beneath and there was a certain alertness about him which was missing in the miniatured visage.

Quinn shook his head. "I can see no resemblance."

She took the miniature back. "The last Duke was a tedious bore at his best and mule stubborn at his worst. If he left a son and a grandson, I trust for their sakes they resemble their dams. Katrina!"

The table bearing her bits of paper was moved back into place above her knees. And now Quinn could see what she was doing. On the black tray she was constructing a piece of tapestry—a tapestry of paper—flowers, animals, birds, centered with a hunter, horn lifted to his lips, a white hart in flight before him. All had been cut from old engravings or illustrations. And now they were being fitted together to form a complete picture.

The Freule pointed to the litter. "This is an art not so well known nowadays—decoupage. But in my youth it was taught. I always wished to be an artist—but I do not have the talent. So now I make pictures from bits and patches of others' work. Just as you are now engaged in decoupage too, Mijnheer Anders—a bit here, a patch there—until you have a finished picture. You are very unlike your brother!"

Her rapid change of subject made him blink.

"Yes. But we were really half-brothers."

She fitted in a long-tailed pheasant, studied the result, and swept it away again impatiently.

"In decoupage," she continued, "you work with others' pictures but the cutting and patching, the finished result is your own. A little like Me. You accept from others what you need, what you must have, but the completed work is your own. Make your own picture, jongeling, do not attempt to work upon another's!"

There was dismissal in her voice and Quinn bowed. Then she smiled at him, not the faint grimace she had shown earlier, but with a warmth which lit her face.

"I shall lay a command upon you, jongeling. One which your Queen Bess would have used in her time. When you have finished this part of your picture you will return to me with the full tale of your adventures. I have little interest in the world as it is today—but your story promises to be exciting. And—since I have contributed a small part to it—I wish to know the ending."

"I will be back," he promised.

Even after he had said a formal good-bye and was at the door she called after him once more.

"See that you do return, Mijnheer Anders. I am an old woman and I do not desire to have one of my few remaining pleasures spoiled because a jongeling was silly enough not to take care—"

Back in Maastricht Quinn made a phone call and when Dokter Roos answered he was ready with the question he had been impatient to ask for the past hour.

"Is it in your power, Mijnheer Dokter, to discover whether during the war there was a Nazi garrison or any soldiers on duty near Odocar's Tower?"

"That will take me an hour or two, Mijnheer Anders.

But it is easy to find out. You are perhaps planning to visit the Tower?"

"Sometime. Though I have been told that it is now almost a total ruin."

"Above ground, yes, that is true. The tower itself is in a most dangerous condition and, I believe, it is now forbidden to tourists. But the dungeons still exist and one can well study the general outline of the keep. The hunting box there was burned to the ground in 1943 and there is nothing left of that but the cellar holes—"

"Greetings." Maartens came in just as Quinn put down the phone. "You have returned in one piece, I see. How was the Tante Matilda—she did not have you served up in brown gravy?"

"No. In fact she gave me some news for you."

Joris' shoulders moved in an exaggerated shiver. "Please! And what crime have I now committed? Or is it that she has read one of my recent news pieces?"

"She has identified your Tubac—"

"What!" Maartens jerked up from his back-of-the-neck lounging in the chair.

"Tubac, by the evidence of that dragon you found, is no other than a certain Wulfanger—a master goldsmith once employed by the House of Norreys. The Freule Matilda has the brooch which was made from that design you found."

"Master goldsmith—but why—who would want a master goldsmith?"

Quinn shed his coat and started to the bathroom to wash. He looked at his reflection in the shaving mirror. It was the same commonplace and midistinguished face he had always seen there. But why did he have that odd sensation of not exactly—fear—but—more apprehension? As if he were one of the Freule's cut outs being moved against his will into someone's pattern. Here was Maartens with his mysterious organization, his interest in Tubac. Then there was Kane and his quest for the counterfeiter, and Dokter Roos and his "Jachtmeester." And—there was Stark who had not completed what he had begun and left his job as a legacy. Four threads, all tangling about him— Quinn Anders—in one way or another. He sloshed water over his face and tried to think.

"A master goldsmith," he mumbled through the towel as he came back into the bedroom, "could be forced to counterfeit art treasures for the black market. He would be a good tool in certain hands. Those Vermeers you were hunting down sold well, didn't they?"

"There seems to be a story in this—" answered Joris slowly.

"Maybe. Whether you can ever tell it is another matter. But I think that I am getting in almost too deeply, Maartens. And—"

"With you now it is a matter of whom to trust?" asked the Netherlander. "That you must decide for yourself. I know whose man you are and that sign I do trust—"

Quinn turned. With his eyes upon Maartens' face he told the story of the Bishop’s Menie in a rush of bald words.

Joris sat chewing his thumbnail with an air of concentration and Quinn felt as if he were now confronting a calculating machine—that each of his words was falling into place somewhere in the Netherlander's orderly mind. When he was through maybe Maartens would have a neat solution, and the American knew that he wanted such a solution—wanted it badly.

“A puzzle," was Maartens’ first comment. "But some pieces have already begun to fit together as they should. Yes, I think that you are right about Tubac—he is Wulfanger. But the false knight—such a work of art would require many days to fashion and it must be very exact or the counterfeit would not have been so excellent. If he made the false knight, he must have begun work almost immediately after his disappearance. Or did he make it before he disappeared?

"There is also the matter of the piece carried by the Nazi who escaped to the western zone—was it one of several he had had? But his story of how he found it sounds probable. A visit to Sternsberg territory is indicated—"

"But-"

"But if you go there you will lead Wasburg and maybe others? Yes, that is true. However, there is something you do not know. Odocar's Tower stands close to the border. And one may cross that border without doing so openly."

"You mean through the St. Pietersberg Caverns?"

"Just so. And I would suggest that we try it speedily."

"We?"

"Do you think," Maartens answered him, "that I am going to allow such a story as this one may be to slip through my fingers?"

"You may never be able to write it—"

"That can be decided later. And besides if you go through the caverns you can do so only with one who knows the road or who has—as you say—'the proper connections'!"

"How long will it take you—"

"To contact my disreputable acquaintances? Shall we take the trip tomorrow? And you might find your Mijnheer Kane and brief him on today's events. I shall call you when all is ready."

But Kane was missing. A guarded question of the porter revealed that the American had left for the day and was not expected back until the following evening. Quinn hesitated. He did not want to leave a note. The answer might be Dokter Roos. But a call to the Dokter found him out. So Quinn scrawled his information on a sheet from his notebook, put it in a plain envelope and mailed it. It would be delivered sometime the following day to Kane here at the hotel and would not be tampered with as a note might be.

He was in bed that night when his phone finally rang.

"Tomorrow—five-thirty." Maartens' voice sounded thin and tinny. "We may have company. Wasburg is preparing to make the same trip."

Wasburg, Quinn's head was on the pillow but he had never felt less sleepy in his life—Wasburg bound for the caverns. He was sure that the Eurasian's ultimate destination was Odocar's ruined tower.

CHAPTER 12

THE SIGN OF THE BLACK MAN

It was still only gray-light at the window when Maartens arrived the next morning. He brought with him a bundle of clothing and he himself was wearing the seaman's jersey and the patched dungarees he had favored while on the Polite Policeman.

"Rouse yourself," he greeted Quinn. "This is no time to laze in bed—"

Quinn rubbed the smart out of his eyes and indulged in a series of jaw cracking yawns.

"It can't be time yet—"

"It is five of the clock and cold enough to frost you white. But we'd better be on the move. In the first place our friend Wasburg is getting ready to go and I don't want him to get to the caverns too long before us—"

Quinn shed his pajamas on the way to the bathroom. A moment later the bundle of clothing soared in past him, coming apart in the air so worn khaki slacks draped themselves around his shoulders.

"Put those on. We may have to do some crawling before we are through today."

When Quinn came out he found the Netherlander prowling about the room as if he were too impatient to sit down. On the bed lay a buckled knapsack.

"Supplies?" asked the American.

"Something of the sort."

Quinn got out a flashlight, the pencil gun, and his small first-aid kit, all of which could be carried on his person. He shivered and chose to pull his raincoat over the darned and spotted jersey Maartens had brought him.

"Do we go without breakfast?" he asked a little plaintively as they walked through the lobby.

"I have food in the car—"

Quinn, still thinking wistfully of hot coffee and warm rolls, followed Maartens to the battered little car which had brought them to Maastricht. But once behind the wheel Joris did not start out of the city. Instead he drove sedately around the block and parked, with the motor running, before the blank front of an old warehouse.

"What—?" began the American when a sharp dig in his ribs shut him up.

A taxi came down the street, threading among the bicycles ridden by people on their way to work. It stopped half a block away and its driver went into a building. He emerged a few minutes later with Wasburg. The taxi drove off, passing them. Joris pulled out after it.

"We'd do better on bikes," commented Quinn. "Cars are so few here that hell catch on that he's being tailed—"

"Perhaps. On the other hand there is a lot of traffic on the St. Pietersberg road even this early and once we make the highway we shall not be so conspicuous—"

He stopped almost in mid-word. And Quinn's hands balled into fists. Another car pulled out of a side street and swung in between them and the taxi. A car which showed no desire to catch up or pass Wasburg's. Another tailer—! But who—?

Joris cut speed, dropped back—a half block, a full block. The taxi and its black follower proceeded in a stately parade.

"Friend of yours?" Quinn hoped that that was true.

"No." Joris' answer was curt.

They were driving through the suburbs of the city now, almost on the road which ran two and a half miles on to St. Pietersberg. Free of the bicycle swarms the taxi picked up speed, but its spurt was matched by the black car. Joris ventured to draw closer. He took his left hand from the wheel and pulled open a pocket on the door. A moment later he held a Luger.

"Kidnapping ahead?" suggested Quinn.

"That may be what they plan. I do not like the looks of this at all."

That, thought Quinn, was a prize understatement. He located the pencil gun and wondered if Joris had any more arms concealed about the car. A machine gun or a couple of grenades would be a help. He wished that he had not lived so sheltered a life and knew a little more about firearms.

But the black car made no effort to force the taxi off the road and the procession of three continued in the same order across the countryside until Quinn s excitement faded and he felt more the pangs of hunger than before-the-battle jitters.

As the high rises of the limestone cliffs came into view the black car suddenly slackened speed and Joris had to brake to a standstill to avoid catching up with it. The taxi drew ahead and vanished. The black car was at the side of the road and a man got out to look under the hood.

Joris made several blistering comments under his breath. There was no place here to get off the road out of sight of the car ahead. And for him to fake a breakdown also would be entirely too suspicious. He dared not even keep to his present crawling pace for the same reason. But ahead the hood was being snapped down again, the driver got back in and started up at a speed which sent the earth spinning out from the car wheels.

"Wanted to let the taxi get a good start, but didn't want us to pass them—" deduced Quinn aloud.

"Right. And there is the entrance to the caverns."

Before they reached the parking place the taxi passed them, the driver alone in it, bound back to Maastricht. Wasburg must have already entered the caverns. Joris drove in to park beside the now empty black car. Then he went over to the guides' office. He returned scowling and kicking at pebbles.

"Well?"

"It is not well at all." The Netherlander opened the car door. "But we can eat while we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Guides! It is the fault of my own thickheadedness." Joris unscrewed the top of a thermos bottle. "Wasburg had a guide who met him and took him right on in. It turns out that one of the men in the black car—there were three of them—was a guide. There isn't another to be had for an hour when the regular crew come on duty. And we are not allowed to enter alone. So well just have to wait! I should have arranged for one yesterday."

"But how are we going to get across into Belgium if a guide goes with us?" Quinn wanted to know.

"There are markings on the walls—I know how to find the trail from a point inside. But we have to take a cave runner to get us that far and then we'll have to give him the slip and try it alone. But I do not like the thought of Wasburg in there and those three others after him—"

Quinn's sandwich suddenly lost all taste and he chewed and swallowed large dry chunks. An hour before they could start—and so much could happen in an hour!

"If they want to get him they'll have to wait until they are in some distance," Joris continued as if he read the other's thoughts. "The main galleries are too public. But a cave runner who knows his work could get him off into a side pocket where he would never be found—"

"Murder!"

Joris swallowed as if he found the food as hard to manage as Quinn had. "I do not know. But this would be an excellent place to hide a body. There are supposed to be about twenty-three thousand galleries and many are very dangerous. Rock falls can entomb one alive. Some of the deeper passages are flooded."

Quinn put down the remaining part of his cheese sandwich. He had lost his interest in food.

"You were wishing a guide for the caverns, Mijnheeren?"

The man who came up to their car was small and thin and his face in the full light of the rising sun seemed oddly white. He was a hairy man with a thick growth of dark fuzz low on his forehead, sprouting again in bushy tufts over his eyes until they were as well hidden as if protected by hedging. On the back of the hand which rested now on the window of the car was a wiry black mat.

He wore the worn and discarded fatigues of an American soldier, stained on the knees and along the forearms as if he had crawled and wriggled through damp earth not too long ago.

"You are in search of a guide?" he asked again.

"You are not one of the official ones," Joris countered.

The little man grinned and shrugged. "I have not the presence—the proper looks to inspire trust in tourists— or so the officials have frankly told me. But I have run the caves since I was a boy. Ask old puffy neck sitting like a judge there—" He waved his hand toward the entrance. "He must, if he tells the truth at all, admit that Hans Loo knows even the bat trails inside. But if it is a proud strutter in a fine uniform you are waiting for—well, wait for him, Mijnheeren—" He turned away.

"Wait!" Joris got out of the car. "If the guard will vouch for you, you have customers."

He caught the small man with a firm grip on his upper arm and propelled him toward the entrance. Quinn picked up the knapsack, locked the car and followed. He was only halfway to the entrance when Joris emerged and waved him to hurry.

"It is all correct," Maartens said. "Loo is an expert and reliable. Also," he dropped his voice as the American fell in step with him, "I now know in which direction Was-burg was headed. He asked to visit the cave where the female bats raise their young—the bat nursery. It is quite famous. So," he turned to the waiting Loo who had reappeared equipped with a powerful torch and a coil of rope, "we would visit the bat nursery, my friend."

"As you wish, Mijnheeren. You will follow me at all times, please, and do not stray. It is very dangerous to lose one's way." He waited to see them both nod in agreement before he padded away into a weird lost world which, Quinn decided, could overawe those who invaded it.

Underfoot the soft chalky dust, faintly damp, which Joris called "marl," muffled footfalls so that one moved zombie-fashion down corridors carved out of the living stone. In endless rows on either side were ranks of squared pillars rising to support a ceiling which was forty, perhaps even fifty feet above their heads. The massive pillars of shadowy stone suggested an Egyptian temple where the timeless silence could not be shattered by any sound made by relatively ineffectual mankind.

When the guide pointed out the scrawls left by Romans, or those of the centuries-ago explorers who followed after them, Quinn began to realize that he walked where time moved no clock hands. Material taken from these walls had built Roman villas and temples to Mars and Mitra which had been wrecked in turn by Goths and Huns. Then men had come again to haul forth the stone for Christian churches and castles—

"Men once said"—the small guide's voice floated back to them, oddly muffled and deadened—"that the Devil roamed here at his will. The Black Man held his feasts for the Riders of the Goats in lower passages. If you wish I can show you, Mijnheeren, one of the black crosses which were made to summon him out to give a man luck. This place is old—very old!"

He drew his hand along the wall beside which he walked almost lovingly. "It was once on the bottom of a sea—so the professors say. And that is maybe the truth for in the walls are shells, and they once found hereabouts the bones of fish monsters. Now—they still take from here the marl and the building blocks. And in other parts mushrooms are grown. During the war there was also made a place of safety for use in air raids. For five thousand years have these caverns served man in one way or another. And that is a long time, Mijnheeren, a long time."

They passed from corridor to corridor, all alike, forming such a network of exactly similar passages that Quinn was quite lost within five minutes of their leaving the entrance. But the guide was perfectly certain of the path.

"How can you tell the right way?" asked the American at last.

Hans Loo laughed. "It becomes with us who run the caves like another sense, Mijnheer. Sometimes we travel even without this." He twisted the torch so that the spear of light went from floor to roof and back in one yellow-white sweep. "We have our markings which others might not notice—the trace of an old cart trail on the floor, the scar of saw and chisel on the wall or arch. We start as boys —sometimes we get lost—we fight the dark and the fear-There are men, Mijnheeren, who cannot withstand that fear. They come in and when the dark closes about them, tighter, tighter, tighter, they are ridden by terror—they must get out or they will go mad! I have seen that happen. I myself have led out by the hand men who were sick and shaking.

"But if you have not the fear you haunt the grottos and the corridors. You learn the ways as if they were those of your own home. You explore by yourself, always trying to find again old forgotten passages where men have not walked for centuries. In time, cave running becomes your life!"

Quinn looked at his watch. They had been traveling almost a half hour. The dank chill of the place seeped through his coat and he wondered how Joris could stand it with only a thin jacket over his jersey. Then Maartens caught his wrist and, having so attracted his attention, pointed to a scrap of white paper on the floor. Hardly pausing as he passed it the Netherlander stooped and scooped up a crumpled cigarette package.

Quinn could see nothing out of the ordinary about the find. But to his surprise Joris tucked it away in his jacket pocket. Surely such a tourist memento could be found anywhere about the caverns. Then the American remembered he had not seen trash lying about. Could Joris believe that had been dropped on purpose?

Their muffled journey continued. The gloom, the unending lines of massive pillars, the cold and silence began to nibble at Quinn's nerves. He thought he was able now to sympathize with those men who could not take the caverns, who had had to be led out shaking. Man's oldest and most common fear—not that of the dark itself, but of what might lie in wait there—able to see—to hunt—was nursed by the atmosphere of these ways. A man lost here, alone, without light, blundering through an unending maze— Quinn gave himself a mental shake. This was no time to indulge his imagination. He'd better think about what might happen when they caught up with Wasburg. How many men were ahead of them now?

Wasburg and his guide—two. And the three men from the black car. But were those two parties together now? Two against five—not very good odds. They couldn't expect Loo to aid in their quarrel. There was a telltale bulge under Joris' jacket, though. He still carried the Luger.

"Is this section well known?" Maartens asked suddenly.

"Not so well, Mijnheer. Most tourists do not care for the bats— The ladies, now—few of them will go near the bat caves. We have men of science who come from time to time to study the creatures. They band some of them on the legs with metal rings—to learn how far the bat will travel. I do not know—" He shrugged. "The bats, they are most strange and odd. Some years ago I saw one which was pure white—like a ghost it flew. I tried to capture it for I thought that I might be able to sell it to one of the scientists or to a zoo. But I could not. For two years I saw it come and go, always in the same cave. And then it came no more. Perhaps it died—or went to roost elsewhere. I told one of those who band the bats of it. And he was much excited—asking me to watch for another. Well, I have done so ever since—maybe five seasons now—that is why I know the path to the bat nursery so well. But never have I seen another white one."

"What is this?" Joris had been skirting the wall and now he stopped and put his thumb under a mark. The guide swung his light across it—a triangle, point down, the two top angles surmounted with straight lines.

The guide laughed. "Modern foolishment. Some youngster tries to make a mystery with the old sign of the Goat Riders."

"Goat Riders?" echoed Quinn.

"Satan worshipers and thieves who hid out in these caverns maybe two hundred years ago," Joris explained.

"But, Mijnheeren, if you wish to see the real sign of the Black Man now—" Loo stopped short and looked about him as if to get his bearings and then was off along a side way before they could protest. They had to break into a trot to keep his bobbing light in sight.

"Wait!" Quinn seized Joris' sleeve and brought the Netherlander to a sliding stop. "Listen!"

"What—?" Joris twisted himself free impatiently.

"Thought that I heard something—"

"You can't tell about sounds in here," his companion returned brusquely. "Echoes and the dust distort everything. Come on—"

Quinn followed Maartens. But he was still stubbornly sure that he had heard something—a cry choked off in the middle.

Loo had turned another comer but they could still see the reflection of his light. And they were too close to stop when that reflection suddenly vanished. Quinn tried to pull his own torch out, only to have it catch in the flap of his coat pocket. He was still tugging at it when he heard a surprised grunt and other sounds which he could only interpret as a threshing battle in process ahead of him. He gave a last wrench at the torch, brought it out and snapped the light on. And he had time for only an instant's glimpse of rolling bodies before a heavy weight crashed against his skull behind his ear and he fell forward into a blackness broken by jagged bolts of flame.

Now he ran, ran through icy slush which entrapped him to his knees. And behind him rode the Black Man, an inky-faced menace mounted on a goat. But around his head was a band of fire, biting in and in and in—

Quinn could touch the ice—it lay under his outspread hands, grainy, soft—cold. And the pain pounded in a regular beat behind his eyes. His eyes! They were open, he was staring straight ahead—ahead at nothing but blackness! He was blind! He mouthed a sort of choked whimper—cold, sick, waves of nausea in his middle—he was blind!

Painfully he tried to remember. With his hands he made slow exploration. He was lying on his back against some kind of stone wall. A stone wall—in a cave—the St. Pietersberg Caverns! Quinn sat up abruptly and fought for control over his giddy head.

Maybe he wasn't blind after all. If there was no light— Light! He had had his torch in his hand when he went down. Now he hunched forward and began to run his hands through the dust in a circle. His heart jumped as he touched metal. He grabbed for it—then he knew that what he had was Joris' Luger, not the torch.

With an exclamation of disappointment and disgust he dropped it behind him and began again in that blind quest, fingers sweeping furrows through the gritty dust. He crept away from the wall on all fours—like a wounded animal—sweeping inch by inch ahead, returning again and again over the same section to be sure he had not missed it in his sightless search.

Eons later he found that metal tube. He got up on his knees and brought it close to his body, cupping both shaking hands about it. Then he snapped the button.

Light leaped dazzlingly down on the floor where the dust had been churned and plowed. Quinn edged back to the wall and steadied himself with one hand against it while he swept that beam over bare walls, torn up marl —then the light caught and held on something else—

Quinn could not get to his feet. He tried twice and his whirling head nearly sent him flat. So he crawled on hands and knees over to the figure that was Maartens, lying face downward, his wrist and ankles tied with rope. Surely they would not have tied up a dead man, Quinn thought dully.

He picked at the knots and it took a long time for him to unfasten them. But, when the loosened rope coils fell away from his wrists, the Netherlander rolled over. Quinn relaxed and held his throbbing head between his hands.

Maartens spat a wad of cloth out of his mouth.

"So you're alive after all!" he croaked.

The American did not try to answer as Joris untied his ankles and kicked away the rope. Maartens took the torch and got to his feet, switching the light up and down the corridor. As far as that beam could pierce the gloom they were alone. Then the light centered on Quinn and he shaded his tormented eyes against its glare. He was aware that Joris was kneeling beside him and that the Netherlander's hand was on his neck pressing his head down.

"It broke the skin—"

Quinn fumbled for his first-aid packet. Then he gritted his teeth and fought nausea while the other tended his wound.

"They were waiting for us—" Maartens' words came slowly.

"Was—was Loo one of them?" asked Quinn with long spaces between the words.

"Might have been. If he wasn't they took him along with them. I saw them go. They must have knocked Wasburg cold—they were carrying him."

"Go—where?" Quinn summoned wits enough to ask.

"Across the border. We'll get you back to a doctor and then—"

"No!" Quinn braced his arm against the wall behind him and levered his body up. This time, he thought, he could make his feet—the walls had ceased their mad dance around and around. He swallowed twice and found the words he wanted.

"Can't lose the time. I can make it—"

But Maartens was shaking his head. "That was a bad blow you took—"

Quinn dropped his supporting arm and forced himself to stand away from the wall. "I can do it. But how are we going to get out of here?"

"We can—" Maartens answered almost absently. "Well, I can find a doctor in Belgium and it may be easier now to go ahead than back. All right—we'll try it!"

CHAPTER 13

ODOCAR'S TOWER

"Without a guide, how are we going to get out of here?" Quinn tried to assemble thoughts beaten awry by the pain in his skull.

"From remarks they dropped while tying me up," Joris returned, "I gathered that our friends are going to follow a smuggler's route. If it is the same one I know of I can find the guide marks. Our best plan is this—"

He had been recoiling the rope with which he had been tied.

"They did not cut this—luckily. I will be the pathfinder but until we are reasonably sure of the road we must not get too far from this point. So"—he dropped one end of the rope on Quinn's knee—"take hold of this and keep it in your hand. I shall go on along the way which they took when they left. There should be some blaze not too far away. When I discover it I will tug this rope and you must come. It is most simple—"

"All right," agreed Quinn dully. He watched the torch beam flash down the corridor and heard the shuffling of

Joris' feet as the Netherlander moved away. Then light and man turned a corner and the dark closed in again.

Quinn twisted the rope about his wrist and waited. He would like to have now, he decided, a drink and a chance to crawl into bed—or maybe the bed first and the drink later. He would also like to rid himself of his splitting headache. But none of that was possible. He closed his eyes and endured as patiently as he could.

His hand was jerked off his knee by a sharp tug on the rope, and he got to his feet, supporting himself against the wall. Around the corner where Joris had disappeared, into a much narrower passage, he staggered, sometimes reeling from wall to wall. But now that he was on his feet and moving Quinn found that he was not so dizzy. And by the time he caught up with Maartens he was able to walk almost steadily.

"Can you make it?" the other greeted him.

"Sure. Find your guide mark?"

The light swept away from the American and focused on a yellow circle on the far wall. There were three words written there.

"Kilroy was here." And the "here" was underlined.

"You mean that?" Quinn remembered seeing the same message elsewhere. "Kilroy got around to quite a few places some years ago—"

"Yes. But note this—" Joris' hand appeared in the light, his forefinger moved along the mark under "here." "Certainly Kihoy is many places in the caverns. But only when he has this arrow—so—is he important. The line is thinnest on this side—so we turn right."

With the light on their path and Joris within reach, Quinn found that he was able to manage a straighter stride. And if the ground rocked under him now and then he was confident that his companion did not suspect it.

They paused at intervals to rest and twice Joris brought out the thick squares of ration chocolate and the canteen. Quinn's watch read twenty minutes past eleven when the corridor they were following ended in a blank wall. But, before the American could question that, Joris beamed the torch to their right.

Sometime in the past, maybe five or maybe five hundred years before, some blocks had been cut away and left ready to be hauled out. Behind them the black shadows masked a very narrow opening. Joris pointed to furrows in the dust.

"Something was dragged along here."

"Something—or somebody," commented Quinn. "I don't see though how they could have carried anything through here—"

He wondered even more as they edged through the hole. His shoulders were less wide than Joris' and yet they brushed the walls on either side. And the Netherlander had to turn slightly sideways to negotiate the narrowest sections of the passage.

There was a sound coming from somewhere before them, a continuous murmur—not speech unless some crowd was chanting. And that made Quinn think of the Black Man and the Riders of Goats. These were the perfect surroundings for the celebration of the Black Mass.

"Watch out!" warned Maartens.

But in spite of that cry Quinn's foot slipped off into space. His fingernails scraped and broke against stone and then he bumped into Joris. But the Netherlander had planted himself sturdily enough to break the fall for both of them.

"Steps," Joris managed to get out with what breath that encounter had left him.

They were on a series of wide, shallow ledges which might well have been used as a rude staircase. Luckily they were shallow and wide or Quinn s tumble might have carried both explorers to the bottom.

They must have descended for about fifty feet before they came out into a low arched room. Joris sent the light traveling slowly around the walls and then across the ceiling.

"Look at that!"

Quinn did not need the other's exclamation to rivet his attention on the roof painting. It was a black drawing of a crude manlike figure, but curved horns sprouted from its bullet head.

"The Black Man!" He identified it. "Could this have once been the meeting place for a Coven—a witches' Sabbath—"

"Yes. That is old—it was not made by boys playing. Ah-"

The circle of light moved over the Black Man and down the far wall. Even across the chamber Quinn could read the inscription. Kilroy still pointed the way. The hollowed-out room in which they stood was roughly wedge-shaped and the line of the sign pointed to the narrow end. It was not until they were more than halfway across that Quinn saw the other entrance, a hole in the wall. And it was from this that the muted murmuring issued.

Joris thrust his torch hand into the mouth of the crypt. There was just room enough for Quinn to see, over his shoulder, another passage, the floor of which was a band of black, swiftly-flowing water.

"This I was told of," the Netherlander withdrew the light again, "so we are on the right path. Now we shall have to wade with the current—" He hesitated.

"How far?" Quinn shed his coat.

"That I do not know." Joris stooped to put a hand in the water and flipped it out again quickly. "It is liquid ice—

"Waiting won't warm it up," Quinn observed. He unlaced his shoes and took them and his socks off. The marl was chill under his bare feet and he could well believe that the water would be worse. But he bundled together his slacks, shoes and coat and fastened them with his belt.

The Netherlander made the same preparations and in addition unwound the rope he had looped about his waist.

"Now we tie ourselves together. We do not know where or what this water covers and one may be swept away. I shall go very slowly. I have never heard of an underground lake in St. Pietersberg—but elsewhere in the Limburg Caverns there are such, and I have no wish to go swimming without warning. Give me a little start now—“

With the caution of one about to cross a mined field Joris lowered one foot through the hole. He grunted and shivered as the water closed about his flesh.

"Let us hope that there is not to be much of this. Now I will go forward a little and light you through. It is very cold—be prepared—"

All the preparations in the world would not have softened the shock Quinn felt when the ice of the flood clamped about him as high as his knees. Luckily the bottom was level and free of stones. They crept forward at a snail's pace, the current tearing at them with force enough to be felt.

The numb chill crept up their shivering bodies until Quinn came to think that he would never be warm again. There was no place to rest, or to climb out of the stream for a moment or two. His hands began to shake and he clutched his bundle of clothing tight to his chest for fear of dropping it.

Then the beam of light flicked to their right and Joris stopped.

"Here is a place to rest—" His voice floated back in a ghostly whisper, hardly to be heard above the sound of the water.

Quinn shuffled up and the Netherlander handed him the torch.

"Hold this while I explore it—"

The American steadied himself against the shiny wall and watched Maartens clamber through a slit.

"Come on—there is room—"

He drew himself out of the water and sank down, furtively rubbing his weak leg. The cold had settled in the muscles there and for some time he had felt a warning cramp. If his leg was going to give out—! Quinn caught his lower lip between his teeth in a savage pinch and rubbed frantically at the stiff, clammy flesh of his calf.

So intent was he upon his own problem that he paid no attention to Joris until an exclamation from the Netherlander made him look around. Maartens stood by the far wall of the pocket in which they found themselves and he had the torchlight on a small white pile.

"What is it?" asked Quinn without particular interest.

""A good Nazi—"

To Quinn that answer did not make much sense and then the other amplified it.

"From all indications he was a Nazi. Apparently he spied where it was not healthy to wear a black coat and has remained to serve as a warning—"

He snapped off the light. Quinn went on rubbing his leg. He found that the thought of sharing this hole with a tangle of bones was not as revolting as he might once have expected. At least they were out of that water for a while. Then another hand touched his and he started wildly.

"Muscle cramp?" asked Joris.

"Yes. It will straighten out," Quinn rephed hurriedly, hoping that he was speaking the truth. He tried to believe that it pained less now than it had when he climbed in here.

"We can't be too far from the exit now." Maartens' hands moved along with Quinn's, rubbing and attempting to ease the knotted muscles.

"It's feeling better. I can keep going all right." And, Quinn discovered, when they went back into the stream, he could. It wasn't going to last forever he promised his shaking body and numb leg. There would be an end to the dark and the water-It did come. Joris turned off the torch. The darkness ahead was broken by dull grayish light. But that gray did not grow much brighter. And when they at last splashed out to a muddy bank it was under a thickly clouded sky.

Quinn collapsed on an outcrop of stone and fumbled with his bundle. He sacrificed the scarf he found in his coat pocket to serve as a towel and then dressed. But Joris had already climbed to the top of a neighboring spur.

All Quinn could see below were fields at the extreme left and, for the rest, a tongue of thickly wooded land. A faint path led away from the stream to these woods. But there was no other indication that anyone had passed that way before.

He squinted up at the clouds. It was going to rain and rain hard.

Joris skidded down to join him.

"Over there," the Netherlander waved his hand to the right, "there is some kind of a house. I saw a piece of roof through the bare trees. This may be part of a hunting preserve—"

Quinn jerked upright. "The hunting box of the Sternsberg Dukes— We may have come straight to the right place! But the lodge was burnt down during the war."

"There might be a forester or keeper still living here. But I think it wiser for us not to travel too openly from now on. In the first place," a half smile quirked his lips, "we are now illegally in Belgium. And secondly, we are on the heels of those who do not care for witnesses. They have had training in the handling of too curious trailers —both customs men and Nazis—"

Quinn remembered the poor huddle of bones they had come upon in the caverns. He had no desire for a similar fate.

"So now we do not follow this very clear path." Joris dug his toe into the trace leading away from the stream. "Rather shall we circle to the right, making use of the cover afforded by that clump of bushes and that spear of rock. That will take us to the edge of the wood. But within that we must also walk with care. Snares are sometimes set—there is a black market for meat—or so I have heard. You are not woods trained?"

"I am not."

"Then you will step as lightly as possible and I shall lead. I am no forester but in the war days I learned woods-craft—I had to."

They made use of the clump of bushes and the outcrop of rock Joris had indicated and reached the edge of the wood—a process which entailed crawling. The sky was growing darker and a rising wind rattled the branches over their heads.

Within the forest there was a secondary defense of thorny briars which resented their intrusion vigorously. And since the American lacked the amazing skill which Maartens displayed in getting through, over and around these, his hands smarted with pricks and there were long scratches across cheek and chin by the time he reached a small glade and relaxed thankfully on a pile of season-old leaves behind a fallen tree trunk.

Joris stood in the center of the clearing balancing a small pocket compass on the palm of his hand.

"It is going to storm—"

"Now that," panted Quinn, "is an understatement if I ever heard one."

He began to rub his leg again.

"It is better that we do not blunder along in the dark. I want to have a closer look at that house—"

"And you could do that easier if I weren't tagging at your heels?" demanded Quinn snappishly. "All right. I agree to roost here."

Joris glanced at him but the American could read nothing in that quick flash of eyes across his face. Instead of answering Maartens began to strip himself of all extra equipment—the knapsack, his jacket, even his cap. He hunched down and ran his hands through the mold under the leaves and smeared the muck across his face until it was almost as uniformly brown as his hair.

"You are well away from the path. I shall be gone"— Joris consulted his watch—"two hours at the most. If I do not return in that time—"

"I send for the marines and head a rescue party—"

But Joris shook his head. "You do nothing to find me. Instead you will take the compass and go south. That will bring you to the highway and the frontier post. You can tell a story of being lost in the caverns and return to Maastricht—"

"Okay, okay," Quinn broke in. "I can fill in the rest. But you d better get going before it is too dark to see anything."

Joris appeared to agree to that, for, without disturbing a spike of the dead weeds, he disappeared. Quinn rested a moment more and then got stiffly to his feet. He collected the bag and clothing the Netherlander discarded. He might be too green at this game to help much, but he had an idea or two of his own and he was not going to hunt any highway and beat it back across the border! What was the matter with him anyway? He must seem the type who would fluff out when the going got rough or Maartens wouldn't have made a suggestion like that. After all this was more his adventure than the Nether-lander's.

Smarting under his own self-appraisal Quinn started out. He had sense enough not to get lost in the woods, he thought, pulling out a pocket knife and cutting a small blaze on a tree trunk. He went on north, blazing a trail.

And his hope was rewarded as he came through the fringe of woodland to another strip of rough pasture studded with outcrops of stone. One of these was flat topped and could afford a vantage point. He made the effort to climb it and lay, belly down, looking east. In the gathering dark it was difficult to see clearly. But he began a careful sweep from left to right.

A quarter of the way around that half circle he sighted the steeply pitched roof of a small building. That must be the house Joris had gone to investigate. A raindrop the size of a fifty cent piece spatted on the rock beside his bent elbow, another struck him above the ear and trickled down to soak into the bandage. Then the sky opened and poured water, most of which appeared to be funneled directly onto him. Quinn squirmed under the force of the deluge, twice having to bury his face in his arms in order to breathe as the wind tore across him, sweeping cold half sleet with it.

A lull came and Quinn braced himself. It was then that he saw it—a mere shadow until a jagged fork of lightning revealed it clearly. The crumbled outline of a ruined tower, its top showing above the trees. It stood beyond the house and a little to the left. And he knew it. That was Odocar's Tower! They had come right to the place they were seeking!

In spite of the rain soaking his back and legs, gathering around under him in a puddle cupped by depressions in the rock, Quinn held to his post, trying to memorize the bearings of the tower. They should be able to reach it from here. And he was sure that that broken tumble of stone was their real goal.

When he was certain that he could locate it again he crawled down the slippery rock. The first fury of the storm had become a steady downpour which might keep up for hours. But the sky was lighter and he was able to follow his blazes without too much casting about.

Quinn got back to the clearing and took what shelter there was afforded by the largest tree. Joris had fifteen minutes left of his two hours. And to the American every one of those was doubly long. He kept on his feet, pacing a step or two each way, bitterly afraid that his leg might stiffen if he dared to sit.

With only two minutes left Joris came back, rising out of the murk with a whisper of his own name to identify himself. Quinn caught at his arm in relief and then dropped his hold instantly, hoping that he had not given himself away.

“Well?" He tried to school his voice.

"We have indeed come to the right place. The storm covered me and if they had any guards out I did not see them. There was only one man in the cottage but he was engaged in a most interesting occupation. He had one of those portable transmitters—walkie-talkie' as you call them. I believe that he was trying to send a message but perhaps the storm interfered, for he was growing angry at his results. He was an old acquaintance—"

"Who?"

"Hans Loo. And I did not see anyone else in the house. They were either upstairs or—"

"In Odocar's Tower!" Quinn cut in.

He told of the ruin he had sighted.

"So? Yes, they might well be there. Now we shall have to make some plans. I do not much like this—"

Quinn shivered and shifted his weight from his aching leg. That, too, was an understatement as far as he was concerned.

CHAPTER 14

—TO A DARK TOWER CAME

"We can look at this tower," Joris shouldered the knapsack, "and then we will decide what there is for us to do-"

"There may not be much time to decide," Quinn pointed out. "If Wasburg is a Sternlitz and has the secret of the treasure's hiding place, and if they are trying to get it out of him— Well, they aren't going to waste any time getting down to business. They may have their claws on the Menie right now. And if we continue to roost around under these water-spouting bushes making up our minds we'll find the cupboard bare when we do move!"

"There are a great many ‘ifs' in that," Joris grunted. "And the worst of it is, they all may be not only true but fatal! But neither does one move into battle without advance information. We can tell better when we see the tower—"

Joris took compass bearings at the rock from which I Quinn had sighted the ruins. And he took too much time f over that as far as Quinn was concerned. The American was consumed with a growing desire to get on with the job and the deliberation of his companion acted on him as a goad.

The steady beat of rain on their heads and shoulders slackened as they moved into the half protection of the trees, for here was a stand of firs, not as bare as the rest of the woods.

"We could do with some light," suggested Quinn after he almost lost balance catching his foot in an exposed root and giving his leg a nasty wrench.

"It is best to hurry while we have as much as we do now," was Joris' answer. "Because of the storm the dusk is almost here—"

Quinn gave all his attention to his footing. And so he was the first to sight the trap. A branch was hanging a few feet from the ground, swaying back and forth on an invisible support.

"Look out!"

But Maartens had already sighted it. "Stand where you are," he ordered. He crept forward but did not touch the branch.

"An alarm wire—maybe a booby trap," he deduced.

"Listen." Quinn had been watching the movements of that branch. "Suppose that limb had been heavy enough to bring down the wire when it fell? Then if they investigated and found it an accident would they be quick to hunt out another if we set one off?"

But Joris needed no more. He turned around slowly, eyeing their surroundings speculatively. And in a sapling, leaning at an angle with its roots half exposed, he found what he wanted. Carefully he dug around it in the soft earth, using bits of wood and being careful not to print the muck with his fingers.

"That will do, I think." He stepped back, measuring with his eyes the direction in which the tree must fall. Then he wrapped his hands in his handkerchief and put them against the slender trunk.

“When I say the word, you push me and I shall push this. It may not work but there is no harm in trying. Now!"

Quinn braced his feet on the slippery pine needles and pushed against Joris' shoulders. For a moment of suspense he thought that they could not do it. Then Joris jumped back and Quinn fell on the sodden ground. The tree was going over—slowly—almost with dignity. But it was falling along the line the Netherlander had sighted for it. And it snapped across the wire which had supported the betraying branch.

"Come!" Maartens scooped up the American almost by main force. And they went through the gap the tree had opened for them.

"Not a booby after all," the Netherlander observed. "It must be an alarm. But we're lucky, the dark will hide any marks we might have left. Also we shall put as much distance between us and this as we can!"

Quinn saved his breath and did not answer, but concentrated on keeping up with Joris' steady trot and breaking through the underbrush. Once they crossed a path.

But Joris stayed in the open woods, stopping to read the compass. It was almost night as to visibility when they came out on a sharp break in the ground. A gully choked with brush gave into a fan-shaped open space. At the narrow end of this stood Odocar's Tower on a spur of higher land. And around it was the sullen glint of water. No one had drained the ancient moat and, as far as Quinn could see, the only entrance to the mound on which the keep stood was across a narrow bridge. One guard stationed there could hold off an invasion. All the American s hazy plans for attacking the place vanished when he saw that.

But Joris did not appear dismayed as he studied the situation.

"They must have left a sentry at the bridge. And he—" Quinn stated the obvious.

"There is sometimes more than one door to a castle. But we may need reinforcements to take this one."

"And where are we going to get them?" demanded the American. "Rub a flashlight and summon up a platoon of genii?"

"We are not without resources. You must remain here and try to discover what you can about the ways in and out of that place. I shall reach a contact I know of— smugglers are none too fond of those who poach upon their territory, people who might attract the unwelcome attention of the authorities. By playing on that peculiarity of theirs I may be able to enlist allies. There is no harm in my trying. When I return I shall call thus—" He gave voice to an eerie cry Quinn vaguely associated with owls. Then, before the American could protest, he had melted away into the dark.

If he had to stay here he might as well settle in. Quinn sourly pushed back under the drooping lower limbs of a fir tree. He was soaked to the skin already except in a few spots where his raincoat had actually been the protection its makers claimed—but the heavy branches would keep off part of the flood. And from the spot where he was he could oversee the bridge. He settled down and tried to recall the details of the two drawings and the photographs of the ruins which he had seen in the past.

Quinn was sure that the bridge was the only entrance to the keep. There had once been a postern gate on the opposite side but no bridge existed there now and, short of dropping into the courtyard by helicopter, he knew no way of getting inside except over the road in plain view.

A path led along the other side of the gully to the bridge. And from the point where it issued from the woods it was covered from the keep.

He strained his eyes in the dusk and tried to pierce the growing shadows about the broken gate. There was no way of knowing—those dark patches might only be stones fallen away from the walls—or they—any one of them— might be a man!

There was a flicker of light in the woods and a man came out of cover, a flashlight turned on the road bed before him. He walked forward with confidence as if he expected a welcome. And before he put foot on the bridge he blinked the light three times. A darker blot detached itself from the rubble at the gate to meet him. Quinn longed for the gift of telepathy or of supernatural hearing. But he could only squat and fume while the two conferred. Then the guard returned to his post and the other went back to the woods.

But now he did know that there was a guard, Quinn consoled himself. And the others must be inside. Again he tried to recall the exact shape of the ruins and how the moat embraced the island on which they stood. The moat —it was really a small swiftly flowing river which branched to make the island. Then a photograph flashed into his mind, complete to the last detail.

There was a place where the outer wall of the keep had been broken by a landslide. If one could cross the moat there he might have a chance to climb up and reach the courtyard which enclosed the tower itself. But where was that section of wall in relation to the bridge?

If he could have explored in the open he might have located it quickly. As it was he had to try for landmarks in the tumble of stone, attempting to place them in relation to the remembered photograph. But he was sure-just before it became too dark to see at all—that he did know where it was. They would have to make a wide circle to reach it.

In the past half hour the rain had changed from a downpour to a drizzle. It might clear later. Quinn scrabbled in the knapsack for a piece of hard chocolate to suck. The wind died away and the night was very quiet except for the sound of the stream. There were no lights showing in the ruins.

Quinn became conscious of another sound approaching his hiding place. The swish of a bulk forcing a way through the wet bushes sent his fingers to the pencil gun.

He pulled his legs under him in readiness to spring. If the skulker kept on he would pass almost at arm's length. Of course it might be Joris. But he could not have missed hearing the owl's cry—

A stone rolled, clinked against another, and fell over the rim of the drop. Quinn froze—that had been very near.

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom. And now he saw the black blot hugging the ground at a spot he was sure had been clear earlier. He must do this just right—too much force and his leap could carry them both over into the gully! His hands were damp with more than rain and his heart pounded madly. He had to hit straight and hard—

The blot moved—by inches. Quinn waited. Drag-scrape- He thought he could distinguish heavy breathing now. A foot more—

Quinn threw himself forward. He might not have moved with the grace of a cat but he unconsciously imitated a feline pounce. And he took the crawler totally unawares, knocking him flat. Quinn dug his knees into the small of the other's back and grabbed a fistful of hair as he put the pencil gun to the base of the stranger's skull.

"Quiet!"

The captive's struggles ceased. Quinn realized that he had spoken the warning in English. Then why did—? He backed away from the other's body, keeping his grip on the hair. And by that he half towed, half led the newcomer back under the bushes. Once there he thrust the torch at his prisoner.

The light flashed up on a face he knew. He dropped his hold and could not suppress a slightly hysterical giggle. For it was Lawrence Kane who was now rubbing shoulders with him.

"Anders—" He identified himself.

The tenseness disappeared.

"You are alone here?"

"No. I'm with Maartens. He has gone to see if he can get help from some smugglers he knows."

"How did you get here?"

Quinn outlined their adventures of the day. Then he had a question of his own.

"How and why—"

"I've been here since yesterday," answered the other impatiently. "Around three o'clock today a party of five came down to the tower. They have been in there ever since. There's no way in except over that bridge and they have a guard stationed there."

"Did you see who they were?"

"Wasburg was one. And there was another about whom I'm not sure."

"Wasburg may know the hiding place of the Menie—"

Quinn passed along what the Freule Matilda had told him.

"Eldest son—eh? It must be a pretty secure hiding place. That treasure has been hunted by experts for the past hundred years and more. And with five of them busy at it now—"

"They may be trying to get more help. Maartens saw the one in the cottage using a walkie-talkie—''

"They'll have to fly it in." There was grim satisfaction in Kane's reply. "There was a landslip during the worst of the storm an hour ago. It brought down a big tree across the cart track which is the only road in here. I think that the odds will remain five to three—"

"Wasburg may be on our side."

"I wouldn't count on that. He comes from the East— and remember who holds the power there now. If your Maartens can get us a few men we might be able to rush the gate in the dark and force our way in."

"You have been all the way around the tower?"

"Not quite. Couldn't get across that open space to the west. And they have booby traps and alarms in the woods. Up until I saw them come to the tower I was watching; another place. There was a lot of activity yesterday in the cellars of a burned building about half a mile from here—"

"The old hunting lodge. But I believe that there may be another way into the tower," Quinn said slowly. "I've seen a photograph that shows where part of the battlement wall has fallen. A man could swim the moat at that point and climb. If he did make it, he would be in the courtyard not far from the tower. And if there is any hiding place it wouldn't be above ground. In my opinion it would be located somewhere in the old cellars or dungeons—probably under the tower itself."

"Hmm—"

It was too dark to read the expression on Kane's face but Quinn knew that the other was thinking fast. And he remembered some of Marusaki's stories about this man. Kane was the troubleshooter for Norreys—this was the sort of situation he must have faced before.

He was about to press Kane for suggestions when the other's hand clamped on his arm and he heard the whisper,

"Someone's coming!"

The cry of an owl—mournful and nerve-twisting answered that.

"That's Maartens. In here—"

The Netherlander hunched under the bushes and then stiffened as he saw that two rather than one waited him there.

"It's Kane. He's been here since yesterday." Quinn supplied the necessary explanation.

"So?"

"What kind of luck did you have?" Quinn continued.

"None. I found my contact easily enough. But he will not meddle—nor will anyone else he knows. There is something bad—bad and big in progress here. I think that we are now sniffing around the den of a tiger—"

"Say King Cobra and you will be more nearly right," cut in Kane. "If I did see the man I think I did, the most dangerous man I ever knew is holed up down there right now. What he is doing there—so far away from his usual base of operations—I can't tell you. He usually plans and lets several picked stooges risk their necks to bring back the chestnuts he wants. If I am right, I am not surprised you couldn't get your friends to meddle. In fact we would probably be wise to tuck our tails between our legs and light out for home too—"

"Prudence then indicates a withdrawal." That was Joris.

"He who fights and runs away," quoted Kane, "Lives to fight another day—"

Quinn ran his tongue over his lips. "I don't see either of you leaving—"

"I dislike marching in the night," returned Joris.

"Well," Kane added, "this is the first time I have ever caught that snake out in the open where one could conveniently heave rocks at him—"

"And now your pitching arm itches?" inquired Joris. "We have only to storm our way into the tower and the j game is ours!"

"No—" Quinn corrected. "I think we can swim our way m.

When Joris heard the rest he had to say, he pushed head and shoulders between the branches to look out at the tower.

"It is going to be a nice dark night. And I do, fortunately, know how to swim. Shall we investigate?"

"No supper to delay us either," Quinn pointed out wistfully as they slipped out into the open and progressed on hands and knees along the edge of the gully.

“We are traveling on our stomachs—if not in the way Napoleon meant. There's a dip that looks too sharp. Here goes—"

Kane disappeared with a crackling of branches which seemed on a par with rifle shots to Quinn's ears.

"Okay," the whisper floated up slope.

With a last rub to his aching leg Quinn half tumbled, half rolled down until a hand grabbed the cloth between his shoulders and brought him to a stop. He hadn't been able to twist free before Joris slammed feet first on top of them both.

The rest of the journey was not too bad. There was plenty of cover in the way of scrubby brush to aid them in their crawl around the open fields. For a while they paralleled the stream and Kane halted on its bank for an instant.

"That current seems strong. We might have trouble getting across it in a straight line."

"If we entered above the point we want to reach—" hazarded Quinn.

"Use the rope, too. So we would not become separated," Joris suggested.

"How near are we to that break in the wall?" Kane demanded some time later.

Quinn strained his eyes to see. In this dark he wasn't sure of anything.

"I can't tell," he admitted at last, a small spark of panic

Springing to life somewhere within him. What if he could not find the break? In the dark, with the current pulling at them, how could they ever reach the place where the wall might be climbed?

“If we go to the end of the island," he said slowly, "swim across to the tower side and then paddle along, we'll certainly find it. A whole section of the wall has tumbled down and some of the blocks half dam the moat. Even in the dark we couldn't miss that—"

"Here's hoping you're right!" Kane muttered and renewed the caterpillar advance.

Only too soon, to Quinn's thinking, they found the place where they must take to the water. He began, shivering, to strip.

"Look here," he said, "my raincoat's at least partially waterproof—let's put most of our stuff in that."

"Good enough!" Kane grabbed the garment out of his hand.

They roped together before they proceeded gingerly down to the stream. Joris had insisted upon taking the bulky roll of clothing on his own back, but Quinn was ahead in the guide's position. After all, as he pointed out,, he was the only one who had any idea what the breaks was like and he should be the one to identify it. But he regretted every argument he had used when he stepped 1 abruptly into the numbing flood which was thigh deep even at its rough shore line. A second stride took him off bottom entirely and he fell forward for a dreadful instant of panic and terror in which his head went under before his arms and legs moved instinctively and he began to fight the pull of the rushing water.

It was a battle all the way and he dared not think how far along he had been carried before he reached the castle side of the river. It was shallower here. He floundered along until the water was only knee deep, and then crept forward with caution, having no wish to take a header over a piece of fallen masonry.

Then his outstretched hand smacked against stone. Bracing his feet against the pull of the current Quinn explored by touch. They had made it! Above was the break in the battlements. He gave the cord about his waist a sharp tug to summon the other two.

CHAPTER 15

TASK FORCE

Still linked by the rope after the manner of mountain climbers the three made their way up the broken wall. As Quinn felt for hand- and foot-holds he was glad that he could not see what lay ahead. It was a long, long time before he pulled himself out on a ledge or platform and crouched there panting.

"We're here— But where's here?" a voice asked out of the dark.

"The tower should be straight ahead. The courtyard gate is to our right," Quinn answered.

Then Joris thrust damp clothing into his hands and he pulled it on. Slacks and jersey were clammy against his wet skin and he was shivering uncontrollably by the time he was dressed. The drizzle had thinned to a mist which bit to one's very bones.

"Now—that's all we need!"

The catastrophe Kane pointed out was overhead. Clouds cleared perceptibly and a shimmer of wan moon-light made them visible not only to each other, but to any guard who had the sense to watch the walls.

It was easy enough to locate the tower—that was the bulk which showed jagged teeth of broken masonry to the sky. And the stretch of courtyard between it and the wall appeared reasonably clear of rubble.

Clear of anything which would furnish cover and also under the surveillance of the man by the gate! To cross it in this watery moonlight was to present an excellent target.

"The shortest distance between two points is a straight line." Kane offered this piece of wisdom.

"Wait-look!"

Quinn's head swung around but he missed whatever Joris had called attention to. Kane did not.

"By the gate, yeah. Can do—I think. Stick right here— count fifty—slow—and then heave a rock to the far right. If I make it I'll give three dots with the torch? Got it?"

"Got it!" Joris returned as tersely.

With the ease of a skilled campaigner Kane hung for an instant by his two hands on the edge of the battlement and then let go. He was swallowed up by the shadows at once.

"What is he after?" demanded Quinn.

"There was a spark of light over by the gate. Perhaps the guard lit a cigarette—"

"But he went alone—"

"Yes. That is best. For a job such as this there should be but one man—one man who knows just what it is that he is doing—"

In other words, thought Quinn almost bitterly, this was no job for an amateur. He heard Joris counting, slowly. And he saw the Netherlander groping among the rubble for a rock of suitable size to throw.

"Forty-five—forty-six—forty-seven—forty-eight—"

The arm went back, the rock was poised.

"Forty-nine—fifty!" Joris hurled the stone. They saw it flash in the moonlight. Then even through the moan of the rising wind they heard it strike.

After that there was nothing to do but wait. Quinn rubbed his leg nervously. The nagging worry that it might fail him was always in the back of his mind.

Wind-driven clouds were across the moon. And in that momentary darkness they sighted the three quick flashes from the gate. It was easy to climb down and find Kane tying up a limp captive with the man's own belt.

"This one goes into cold storage. And he seems to be the only one on duty."

"They are pretty sure of themselves," ventured Quinn.

"Oh, well," Kane observed, rolling the prisoner behind a pile of stone, "we all make mistakes. But let us hope that the mistakes in this caper continue to be made by the opposition. You're sure that the tower is our goal?"

"I can't see any other place where anything could be hidden. The hunting lodge was burned down. And they came here—"

"Let us go!" Joris broke in impatiently.

Kane picked up a gun from the top of a nearby stone. "Nice piece of hardware," he said admiringly. "Just the equipment for a midnight excursion."

They followed Joris across to the tower.

"Know anything about the layout inside?" Kane asked Quinn.

"No."

"Well, we can always find the way down by falling. I trust that there are no uncovered wells or oubliettes—"

They hesitated in the doorway. Beyond lay the blackest dark Quinn thought he had ever seen. And Kane's last suggestion—of an open dungeon—was not one he cared to think about.

What they would have done had not the enemy made things easy for them, Quinn could never afterwards decide. But, as they still lingered, a glow rose out of the ground some distance away.

"Miner's lamp!" Joris identified it in a whisper.

"A division right and left is now indicated," Kane ordered.

Joris melted away to the left—Kane started right. And Quinn tagged along behind him. The lamp was above ground level now. Had the man who carried it swept the beam across the floor he might have trapped them. But he had no suspicion of trouble.

They were almost even with the advancing lamp when there came the sound of stone striking against stone and a choked-off cry. The light wavered as if the hand which held it had jerked—then it flashed in the direction of the sound. It caught Joris' shoulder as the Netherlander threw himself behind a mound of earth and stone. The lamp bearer fired and the crack of the shot was echoed and reechoed from the walls.

At that same instant Kane launched himself at the marksman. The light crashed to the pavement but it did not go out. Quinn crept toward it hearing the noise of a wild struggle which, for some odd reason, seemed to grow fainter as he advanced on the lamp.

Then he had it in his hands but he kept it beamed toward the pavement for fear that he might inadvertently expose one of his companions as a target. Joris-

"Here." The answer came from within touching distance.

"You shot?"

"Not even a crease—just took a tumble that shook me up. But where did Kane and that other go—?"

Cautiously Quinn moved the light. It touched and held on the first step in a flight of stairs. His hand began to shake. Kane and the other must have fallen or rolled down those!

"Down—" His mouth was suddenly dry. "So now we follow," returned the Netherlander. Quinn switched off the light but Maartens called over his shoulder.

"It is not necessary to risk our necks. Let us keep that on as we go. Behind it we cannot be seen—if they shoot throw it ahead of you—"

The steps were wide and shallow—in the center they were worn into hollows. Quinn kept his left hand on the slimy, damp stone of the wall. Unconsciously he counted as he went. And twenty steps brought them to a broad landing. There was no sign of either Kane or his opponent. Quinn's mouth was so dry he could not swallow.

Twenty more steps. The beam went out across an expanse of stone so wide it could only be a floor.

"Greetings! Took your time about getting here—"

Quinn whirled and almost lost his balance. But the light pinned Kane, hunkered on the floor over a bundle of clothing and limp limbs. There was a white face too— with black eyes which stared up and did not squint against the force of the beam.

"Know him?" asked Kane in an even, conversational tone.

"He drove the car which followed Wasburg this morning," replied Joris.

"He won't drive it back." Kane got to his feet, gave a smothered exclamation and rubbed his left arm and side.

"What—" Quinn had no desire to approach that limp body any closer.

"We rolled down the full flight and landed hard. He was underneath. Or you might be scraping me off the floor now. But I don't imagine many tears are going to be shed for the late Boris Grundt. He is extremely well known in some very unsavory circles—an MVD man of various unpleasant talents. Shall we stow him elsewhere lest he attract attention? Behind the stairs might be just the place—"

Kane and Maartens carried Grundt behind the rise of the stairway. Quinn stayed where he was, leaning shoulder and hip against the friendly support of the cold wall, determinedly keeping his eyes away from the impromptu burial party.

And, because he was looking away, he was the first to note the faint glow of light to the left. In some other room ahead there was strong illumination. When the other two returned he pointed it out.

"The digging party—d'you suppose?" Kane took the lamp from Quinn and deliberately flashed it at the nearest wall. The slime-greened stones were massive. Nothing less than a powder blast could shake them loose.

"If they're scratching at those it will take them hours," Joris echoed Quinn's thoughts.

"Well, they've been in here for some time. Whatever they are doing must be a major operation. Shall we go and cheer them on in their labors? The odds have shortened enough to almost allow us a frontal attack. And it will be a surprise party—with the surprise all in our favor."

They reached the end of the room into which the stairs had descended and entered a walled burrow arched overhead like a huge drain. The flicker of light at its other end grew brighter until Kane prudently snapped off the lamp he carried. But before they were at the next open space he pulled up his companions.

"A little caution is now needed. We should edge to the side—"

Quinn edged—behind Joris this time. And a moment or two later they looked out into one of the strangest rooms he had ever seen.

The cell, or dungeon or hall—he could not guess its original use—was long and narrow with a roof so high that it was lost in the gloom. The floor was native rock, not stone blocks, and part of the wall was the same— here the land itself had been added to the foundation of the tower.

But the most unusual feature of the chamber was that one quarter of the floor was liquid, a silent river, glints and sparkles on the water brought to life by a series of six lanterns set out in a straight line about two feet apart.

Water—here! It must have been diverted from the moat to cut through the foundations of the tower. An excellent device in the old days in case of siege. But why that parade of lanterns—and where were—

A man moved into the circle of light thrown by the lantern nearest the opposite wall where the stream swept under a floor level arch to disappear. He stretched and walked slowly along the line of lanterns, inspecting each one. The third he picked up to make some adjustment. When he had gone the length of the row of lights he moved on as if he were too bored or cold to return to his post.

Quinn stiffened. Sooner or later the fellow was going to reach the mouth of the passage in which they stood. Would they retreat or attack?

But before he got there he turned and went back-straight to the wall of the water arch. There he squatted down, laid aside the automatic he had carried in one hand during his tour of inspection, and plunged both arms deep into the water.

Quinn heard Joris mutter. That action must have some significance for the Netherlander, though Quinn did not see—short of washing—what the fellow could be doing. He was back now, wiping his hands down his rough and dirty trousers.

For the second time the sentry examined the lanterns and walked along the edge of the stream. Twice he stopped and looked at his watch. He was either nervous or impatient.

But where were the rest? There was no way out of this room except the opening in which they stood. And yet here was a sentry on patrol.

Quinn was startled out of his attempt at deduction by the action of that sentry. A dark blot swooped out of the dusk overhead, planing along the line of lanterns as if it were a bomber making a run to discharge its load. The creature wheeled and fluttered and dived upon the lights so closely that it could have knocked one of them into the water. And apparently that was just what the sentry feared. For he fired rapidly at the swooping shadow.

Either the guard was lucky or he was an expert shot. At the second crack the bat flattened, flapped out over the water, and dropped down into the oily flood.

The attack of the bat upon the lantern row seemed to have thoroughly upset the guard. He inspected each of his charges with careful attention and then turned and headed straight for the tunnel, purpose of some sort in his deliberate advance. He might just be hunting more bats, but Quinn could not rid himself of the impression that somehow the man had sensed their presence and was about to attack.

A hand fell upon his shoulder and tugged him back. Quinn bit hard on his Hp to choke his cry of surprise. They were retreating then—and shoulder to shoulder they crept back to the room of the stairs.

"Well?" Kane asked.

"Clever and most tricky," Joris answered. "If the old Dukes hid their treasure so, they were ingenious men. And it is no wonder that it has not been found. To my mind it works this way—the current of that stream is strong, probably as strong as that of the moat river. It flows from arch to arch of native rock. Now somewhere along the part of the stream tunnel which is the outlet of the flood there has been made a room, or a niche—or some kind of hiding place. But to reach it one must fasten a rope to this side, and with that as a guide, get down into the water, and let one's body be pulled along. And since there looks to be no room for air beneath that arch —one must do all this without breathing! It would take a very bold thief—one willing to risk his life for his plunder—to attempt to force such a treasure place."

"Then Wasburg must have known the secret," said

Quinn. "But why do you suppose they have stayed in there so long?"

"There might be other safeguards besides just the water tunnel," Joris replied reasonably. "It may even be necessary for them to remove a stone barrier. Well, what do we do?"

"We can wait here—like cats at a mousehole—or we can go in after them. There is always the chance that they might pass out the other way—down stream into the moat. And that is just what they would do if they had any suspicions of our camping here. In that event we might as well kiss it all good-bye—" Kane stretched. "I could do with a smoke," he added a little plaintively.

"I wonder if something has gone wrong," struck in Quinn. He had waited modestly for the masters at this muddled and dangerous game to advance their opinions before he dared one of his own. "D'you notice how that guard kept looking at his watch. He seemed nervous—"

"Of course, you can't discount the fact that he's doing sentry-go in a spot I wouldn't altogether say was a health resort," Kane pointed out. "On the other hand, Anders, you may have something there. I don't think that they have any way of sending back a message once they're in there. And, for all this joker knows, they could have been swept out while he sits and waits for them to crawl back. Yes, he did appear edgy—"

"Which will only make him the more alert," interrupted Joris. "And minutes are now passing—"

"We should make up our minds? All right. We have the two choices—wait or go—"

"Couldn't we take care of the sentry in any case?" Quinn ventured.

"Turn on that light-over on the foot of the steps!" Maartens suddenly ordered.

When the circle of yellow cut across the stone he went over and picked up two fist-sized stones from the debris which had rolled from above. After weighing them in his hands the Netherlander cut off a yard long section of the rope and tied one stone to either end.

"We need not shoot him," he said quietly.

Kane had watched the operation narrowly and now he approved with a brisk nod. "His feet?" he inquired, as one expert of another.

"If I cannot get his throat."

They put out the light and felt their way along the passage toward the room of the lanterns. And when they reached it Quinn saw that one of the lights had gone out. Apparently its flame had died just as they had come up for the sentry was still walking toward it, muttering. Just as the man stooped for the lantern, Joris moved. Quinn heard a faint singing sound as the stone-weighted cord flew out across the chamber.

The sentry's hands jerked up to his throat as he staggered back. And on the slime-coated edge of the stream he slipped and went over, and was swallowed up instantly as the bat had been.

"That," Kane observed with honest exasperation, "may tear it! If he's swept in with his pals they'll take the water road out before we can join them—"

"He may not be," Joris remained calm. "He could be borne past the chamber before they noticed him. But just in case—I am now in favor of joining them!"

They walked out to the edge of the stream. It was deep and the current raced with greyhound pace. Suppose, thought Quinn, one could not stop at the entrance of what might or might not be a treasure chamber? Suppose one was rolled along under the water with no chance to get a breath—until one was drowned—? Suppose—?

Kane kneeled at the spot where they had seen the guard plunge his arms into the water. The American swept his hands through the flood and then straightened up and raised a section of soaked rope a few inches into sight.

"That's their guide." He shook water from his hands. "It's fastened at both ends and I'm betting that a handhold on it will take you straight to the door inside."

Joris turned to Quinn. "Once more we try the waterproof—hoping that it will resist to its best. Water does guns little good. And I have the feeling that it would be wise to be able to shoot when we catch up with the busy treasure seekers."

Reluctantly Quinn began to unbutton. And this time he did not care whether his companions were able to guess that reluctance or not.

CHAPTER 16

AT THIS POINT—RATS LEAVE

The memory of the journey which followed was enough to jerk Quinn into quivering wakefulness at night for years to come. He would flinch again in nightmares from the forbidding water, feel once more the rough grate of the rope against the palms of his hands, experience anew the seconds of panic as his head went under the flood, his lungs bursting, the current pulling him along, the tug of Kane's hand bringing him into the wild dark unknown.

But the entrance to the water and the first seconds of that trip were not the worst of his memories. No, that came later, when the rope had brought him to the steps—steps so slimed with muck that they seemed deliberately greased—steps so narrow that only one person at a time could claw his way up them out of the water and into breathable air.

Quinn planted a knee on those steps; his fingernails broke as he tried for a grip on the stone. And then his weak leg failed and he slipped back into the stream, with not even the rope to save him. For an agonized minute he gulped foul-tasting water, struggling wildly.

Then a strong pull at the neck of his jersey brought him to the steps again. He fought for a handhold—even a fingerhold— The pull on his soggy jersey strengthened until his head was out of the water. He lay inert, gasping, too sick and miserable to move.

"Get up!" The command hissed out of the dark set him to stirring feebly. He felt the rake of nails across his shoulder as someone took a fresh grip on the jersey and heaved. "Come on—you aren't dead yet!" a voice snarled from above. "Get up, you fool, before you float off again. How's it with you, Maartens?"

"All right."

Quinn squirmed. The answer had come from below. He made his greatest effort of the adventure and forced himself to creep up the slippery steps, aided by that cruel hold between his shoulders. He was sick, the taste of the water he had swallowed was sour and foul in his mouth. But he climbed.

The muck was gone; under his hands was only rough stone. He was above the water level, and that gave him courage to twist free from the hand which pulled him along.

"Wait!" The order snapped out of the dark. Quinn obediently crouched where he was.

"Top—passage." The whisper was an explanation. "Light at the end—take it easy—quiet—"

Quinn reached the top of the stairs. Kane caught him and pulled him to his feet. There was a light to their right, a dim beam which sprayed along the passage at floor level.

When Joris joined them they edged crabwise along the wall. The passage was so narrow they could not have walked straight. And they moved at a snail's pace, which probably saved Kane's life, for the dim light did not betray the last trap until almost too late.

And it was a real trap, undoubtedly intended for just that purpose—a cruel slit in the floor down which a man could tumble to his death.

"Well, well, well!" Kane said softly. His arm made a barrier across the passage. "Wings may be necessary."

"They are here—on the wrong side—!" Joris returned.

Even in the dim light they could see what he meant. A rope dangled over that hole—its free end was looped in a hook carved of stone in the wall on the other side of the pit. The upper end, they could see by straining their necks at a tortuous angle, was fastened to a hoop above reach.

"Imitate Tarzan," muttered Kane. "But how do we get that back here to use?"

He stared at the rope as if by the force of his will alone he could pull it back to aid them. Joris crept to the edge of the drop.

"It is tied over there but loosely. I need a weight-Not too heavy—"

Quinn brought out his small flashlight. "Would this do?"

The Netherlander juggled it in his hand and then nodded curtly. For the second time he took out the rope and this time tied the torch to one end with a complicated knot he tested carefully. Then he swung the metal tube and sent it out into the space above the pit. It fell true across the slack curve of the rope and continued to swing as a pendulum.

With infinite care Joris drew the dangling torch to-him. The cord which held it slipped along the chasm rope drawing the loop of the slack toward them. There-Kane examined it as Joris stopped. "Anders," he ordered, “Hold this, but just at the end!"^ He thrust at Quinn the end of the cord from which the torch swung. Kane himself braced his feet and hooked both hands in the Netherlander's belt.

"Now, Anders, give that a few sharp tugs—careful!" The flashlight jerked and each move brought it closer in an arc to them. Joris had the belt of Quinn's raincoat in his hands. "Go!"

Joris leaned out in a dangerous angle. There was a flurry of movement in the air and then the Netherlander held the torch. Now they had their rope looped tight about the chasm rope.

Quinn relaxed against the wall and his breath went out of him in a sigh of relief. He did not even watch them secure the rope. He only roused in time to see Joris tie it about his waist, take a skip-jump and cross the pit. Then Kane jerked a finger at his countryman.

"Next, chum. The air act is all yours—"

It was Kane who reeled back the rope, who pushed aside Quinn’s stiff fingers and made it tight about him. But it was he who had to do the rest, who had to make that quick dash, praying desperately that his leg would not fail again, he who had to swing out into the dark. On the other side Maartens caught him and loosened the rope while he stood there panting, fighting the sickness which had worked in him since he had crawled out of the water.

Kane joined them and they went on. It seemed like a dazed dream to Quinn who was driven by a dumb determination to keep up, governing by the force of will his wobbling feet and churning middle. His future narrowed to the section of passage before him. Let him just come safely to the end of that and he would look or ask for no more.

At the end of the passage was the source of the light which had led them on, a half circle of iron grating set in the wall, the bottom of it flush with the floor of the passage, which made a sharp square turn to the right.

Kane dropped to his knees and then to his stomach to look through that window and Joris plumped down to shoulder him for room. Quinn flopped behind their legs, content at first just to sit. But at last a faint curiosity drove him to push forward into a vantage point.

They were looking down into a square cube walled with stone—more a cell than a room. There was a ledge of rock running along one wall to serve as a rude bench and on this lolled a tall man who was overseeing, without aiding, the labors of two others prying some of the wall blocks out of their beds. A powerful battery lamp was trained on them. But they could not have been sure of the proper site for several stones had been removed at intervals along one strip.

One of the workers was Wasburg. In spite of the chill damp he was stripped to the waist as was his fellow worker, and glistening beads of sweat ran down their faces and arms. But the man on the bench was at ease. And his face—

"Quong, Hong or maybe Wing," Sam Marusaki's voice rang in his ears.

This was the "very dangerous man" of van Norreys' warning!

"Ready?" Kane's question was the merest thread of whisper to which Maartens' answer was a nod.

Quinn padded after the other two down the sharp turn of the passage. They held guns ready. He had only the pencil weapon—and what use that might be, he decided bitterly, he didn't know.

Within three yards was another sharp turn and steps leading down into the cell. Joris took them first. There was something feline about his swift descent, his shoulders made a slightly hunched outline as if he were preparing to spring. Kane's loose-jointed, almost casual stride was in contrast. As for Quinn, he went a step at a time, afraid of his leg, afraid of himself, but going-Even the entrance of a tank might not have attracted the attention of the workers and their overseer at that particular moment. For they had at last found what they had been seeking.

Wasburg leaned against the wall, his ribs rising and falling, his hands hanging limply at his sides as if he had made his last possible effort. But the man who had worked beside him was still on his knees, pulling out something from the hole they had made, babbling excitedly. And Quong, Hong or Wing was up, crowding behind him.

The man brought his find out and slipped back on his heels as it suddenly came free and banged against the floor.

"Fool!" Methodically Quong slapped his gun down, ripping a gash along the side of the man's jaw. The blow spun him around and the man who struck it gestured to Wasburg.

"Pick it up!"

Moving as rigidly as a toy soldier or string-controlled puppet the Eurasian stooped for the small chest. But the other worker had looked up to see the three by the steps. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell loosely open. Quong must have seen him. He began to turn. But Kane spoke first.

"Drop your gun, comrade!"

Quong did not even stiffen. It was almost as if he had been expecting to hear such an order. Wasburg, paying no attention to any of them, crossed the corner of the room and set the chest down on the rock ledge.

"I said—drop it!"

Painfully, as if his muscles moved against his will, the other's gun hand fell, his fingers loosened, and metal clanged on the floor.

"You—" Kane indicated the wounded man. "Kick that over here."

When the man blinked uncomprehendingly Kane repeated the order in Dutch. The fellow scuttled forward on hands and knees and pushed at the gun. It slid behind Kane and Quinn stooped to gather it up.

"May I be permitted to face you now?" The question came from Quong in smooth and faultless English. "I have a strange desire to meet death face to face—"

Kane laughed then and there was no humor in the sound at all. "You are flattering yourself, Lee Quong. I am not the public executioner."

He had been turning but the use of his name froze him. Only for an instant. Then he was around, face to face with the man from Norreys. For a long minute they eyed one another.

Then Quong shook his head. "I do not know you," he stated flatly.

"There is no reason why you should," began Kane in English and then slipped into another and more guttural tongue.

Quong's hps drew back in an unpleasant quirk which might have been intended for a smile. "My fame—" he waved a hand almost airily— "it seems to have spread afar. I have not been in those islands since—"

"1947," returned Kane.

"Now I wonder—" Quong's long fingers caressed his chin. "Why do I not remember you?"

"We never met. But I helped to stamp on a nest of snakes—the chief cobra not being at home at the time. He then sailed under the name of 'Red Turban'—"

The faint smile disappeared. The eyes watching Kane were now dangerous black slits without emotion—hard glassy beads. Cobra—King Cobra—Quinn could almost visualize rippling coils—an expanding hood raised in menace and the threat of death.

Quong spat—not liquid poison but a stream of biting words. And Kane laughed again, this time with a humor which stung.

"Sure. I'm probably all of that to your kind. But now the game is up, Lee Quong—or whatever you call yourself this time. There are quite a few people who will be pleased to talk to you—and after that you will come to the end you’ve been heading toward for years—never fear about that!"

Kane started to approach his captive. And Joris edged along the wall toward the man who still nursed his bleeding face. But no one had been paying attention to Wasburg. And now he moved.

As if he were the cobra Quong had been compared to, the Eurasian launched himself at Kane, bringing his hand down in a vicious chop across the American's wrist. At the same time Quong hurled himself in a dive at Kane's knees and the three went down in a struggling heap.

Quinn leaped toward the muddle, the gun he had picked up from the floor clubbed in his hand. He dared not shoot but he might just— But, before he could reach the fighters, what he had feared from the first happened. His leg buckled and he fell sidewise, rolling, in spite of his struggles, to sweep Joris off his feet.

The Netherlander as he went down aimed a backhanded blow at the man by the wall. But it did not land true. As Quinn and Maartens came up against the ledge the huddle on the floor broke apart.

Quong was out of it and in his hand was the automatic Kane had dropped. Wasburg lay flat, face down and un-moving. The American had reached his knees and was about to throw himself at Quong when he looked down the black mouth of his own automatic.

"At this range," Quong's voice cut through the heavy panting of the others as evenly as if he had not been trading blows on the floor a moment before, "even a poor shot could not possibly miss. And I am not a poor shot.

"You, gentlemen," he spoke to Joris and Quinn without turning his head, "will immediately toss your guns over to Kammer or I shall put a neat hole through this friend of yours—"

And that was no bluff; it was a promise. Quinn knew that Quong would shoot Kane with the careless assurance j with which one might crumple a piece of paper and toss it aside.

So, biting deep on the sourness of his own failure, Quinn pitched the weapon he held across the room. And Joris' followed it.

"Kammer!"

The little man stopped nursing his jaw and came to life. With an evil grin he scooped up Luger and automatic.

"And now, gentlemen." Quong moved back lithely. "I am sorry but we must part. I have hngered altogether too long over this business as it is. Kammer!"

He snapped some order in the other language. The small man pocketed the Luger and went to pick up the chest. As he passed Wasburg he kicked the prostrate man hard in the ribs. Then he went up the stairs without a backward glance.

"Do not move or entertain any pleasant hopes of turning tables. If you will look up at that grating you will see Kammer's gun ready. He is well armed—thanks to your generosity. And he will stay on guard there, to pick you off, until I join him—"

"Why don't you just fire now?" asked Kane in the tone of one making polite conversation. "It would be simpler."

"Why should I waste ammunition?" returned Quong. “The fate I leave you to is so much more rigorous and reasonable. When you are found—if you ever are—per-laps some centuries from now your skeletons will serve to provide one of those intriguing historical mysteries which engage the minds of scholars and keep them busy or years. Because, when Kammer and I leave this very unhealthy spot, you are going to remain—probably forever!"

He turned to go, hesitated at the foot of the steps, and came back. With his toe he prodded Wasburg viciously.

"I forgot my thanks to you, my so stupid friend. But I am moved to be generous and merciful and so will relieve your mind. After all you should have some pay for your hard labor here—"

Wasburg rolled over slowly—as if to move caused him maximum effort. But he did not try to rise. His face was as emotionless and controlled as it always had been.

"I would not have you worry concerning your father's fate. After all a bargain is a bargain. Let me reassure you as to his future—he has none. He has been dead since that first night. Old men do not long survive our questioning methods—"

Wasburg's face came alive. And Quong hurried to the steps as if even he had never seen before such naked hatred blazing raw and open in a victim's eyes. He was gone with a couple of loping bounds. Maartens had kept his eyes on the grating. Now he spoke.

"They are gone—"

Together he and Kane made for the stairs. Quinn levered himself up with the aid of ledge and wall.

The sounds of pounding feet faded away, the last echoes swallowed up by a sharp clang. Both Kane and Joris paused to look up again at the grating.

"That was the portcullis," Wasburg said flatly. "He has now sealed the passage—"

But neither of the others accepted that. They were gone before he uttered the last word. Quinn lowered himself onto the ledge and rubbed his leg. If he hadn't been such a crock—if he could have knocked out Quong as he intended—! He should have known from the beginning that this kind of thing wasn't for him. He had done nothing—but maybe sign their death warrants. He was sick—unable to raise his head or move.

Vaguely he was aware of Wasburg. The Eurasian was on his feet getting into his shirt and coat.

Without looking up Quinn asked the question,

"Why did you do it?"

Help Quong, he meant—throw away their chances-just as he, himself, had done by not owning up at the start that he could not keep his feet in an emergency.

"It is of no matter now—" Wasburg replied absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Something in the tone of his voice drew Quinn's full attention.

The Eurasian had gone to the far wall and was walking along, counting stones with a finger tip. At the comer he shook his head and went on to the next section where the ledge was placed. He was counting aloud and as he reached "ten" he stopped—one stone beyond where the American crouched.

Then the counting began again from the roof of the cell to the floor. At "ten" he halted for the second time. The block he had located was but one above the level of the rough bench.

Before Quinn could demand an explanation there was a clatter on the stairs and the other two were back. He looked up eagerly but in their faces he could see no hope. Kane spoke first.

"They cut the rope over that drop. Maybe we could have fixed that. But there is an iron portcullis in place on the other side and we can't force that while dangling from a rope—at least we can't see how to do it yet—"

"You could not," returned Wasburg without looking around. He was counting again up and down. "That portcullis can be locked on the other side and there is no reason why they would not take advantage of doing so."

Kane went over to him.

"That reminds me, friend. Just why did you upset the applecart and let Quong get the jump on us—"

"For now—no matter." Wasburg dismissed the immediate past. "Here is something of greater importance. The river entrance is not the only way into this place. By fortune's favor perhaps the other one may be found—"

Maartens' question was a single word.

"How?"

"It lies here." Wasburg tapped his nails against the stone. "And it leads to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge. But whether it is still clear and usable I do not know—"

"We can try anything once! How do you get it open?" Kane wanted to know.

Quinn shoved along the bench to the end farthest from their explorations. He had begun to wonder about that ledge bench. Why had it been put there in the first place?

No one would use it for a bed and why would the owners want to come here and sit down for any length of time? He slewed around and tried to see how it was fitted to the wall. Surely that was a crack—!

"Look!" In the excitement he forgot about being sick and how miserably he had failed. “This bench—it doesn't fit tight!"

Joris jerked the lamp around, bringing it to bear full upon the ledge.

"Now let's see about that," said Kane briskly.

Quinn got to his feet to watch.

CHAPTER 17

BEHOLD—THE BISHOP'S MENIE!

"Just a minute—" Kane felt along under the edge of the slab. "There seem to be some holds here—''

But Joris had already gone down on his knees at the other end to make the same discovery. He grunted in agreement.

"Suppose we try pulling it forward. Steady now—" ordered the American.

At first nothing happened. And then, as if the inertia of centuries had been bested, the ledge came out from the wall an inch or two.

"A couple of quick pulls should bring it—" suggested Kane.

They gave it a couple of jerks. The resistance gave way and the stone slab moved so fast that the men fell back to escape the crash with which it met the floor.

"That did it!"

But they didn't need Kane's words. All could see that the removal of that weight from the grooves in the walls had activated a counterweight and that there was now a black hole facing them, a hole through which a man could crawl on hands and knees.

"What's beyond?" Kane demanded of Wasburg.

"How do I know? It is supposed to lead, as I said, to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge—" '

"Which means," Joris observed, "that it must pass under the river bed on the way there."

Kane rubbed his bristly chin with the palm of his hand.

"Under water—eh? That could mean cave-ins and other fun and games. And how much of it do we have to do on our bellies?"

Joris flashed the light into the darkness.

"Not much—there's a good space on the other side—"

"Well, we don't have any choice left." Kane glanced up at the Eurasian and his tone was that of an order. "Suppose you act as guide here."

Without answering Wasburg picked up one of the crowbars he had been using to dig out the treasure. Then he went down on his hands and knees and crawled through, Joris hard on his heels. Kane passed them the lamp and turned.

"Next, Anders—"

Quinn lowered himself stiffly to the floor and pushed his body through the hole. Then he was being helped to his feet in a narrow passage.

Single file, Wasburg in the lead, they went on. Within three or four yards they were at what might pass for steps—notches cut in the wall into which one could only set toes and fingers.

That downward climb was a nightmare for Quinn. He could use his leg again. But, sweating, his nerves tearing at him, he wondered how long the muscles would continue to work. If he fell here he would carry others down with him. He prayed desperately, his body taut with fear and effort, as they descended what seemed endless miles into the dark maw of a raw rock pit.

When he reached a level passageway again Quinn reeled to the nearest wall and leaned against it limply.

"Can you make it?" Kane's voice came out of the rusty mist which was fast closing about him.

He couldn't, of course, he would slip to the ground right there. He could not force himself to take another step. Only neither could he admit that, he discovered with dull surprise. And he did keep going, one hand on the guiding wall beside him.

The rest of the journey was a mixed dream. Once they stumbled across a section where water ran in sluggish, evil streams down the walls and puddled in rank pools through which they must splash. Luckily there was no more climbing to be done and Quinn continued to keep his feet after a fashion.

Because he was so occupied with his own battle against the weakness of his body he was only thankful when they paused at last. Before them was a mass of earth and stone walling off the tunnel. He watched as the others picked and dug and felt no thrill when the crowbar prodded through. Nor did he care how long it took them to dig out of the debris a hole through which a man might wriggle.

But when a cold fresh wind suddenly blew full in his face and he found himself looking up into the night sky he came fully awake.

"The wine cellar—" That was Wasburg. "Two of the Menie were kept here. The luck of Sternlitz was left to guard the last holding—. The rest were hidden, as you saw, in the tower—"

''Were in the tower was right!" Kane returned. "Quong has them now."

"Whether he will continue to keep them is another matter—" There was the ice of a terrible driving hate in that answer.

"What chance is there of stopping him?" Joris wanted to know.

Quinn was fast coming alive. He began to take an interest in matters at hand. How could anyone stop Quong?

"There is but one road leading to this place. And earlier it was reported that a tree had blown down across it. Unless that one chooses to go back through the caverns —which for many reasons he may not care to do—he must clear the road—or have his men do it for him. That should require time—" Wasburg talked almost as if he were thinking aloud.

"Where is the road?" asked Joris.

"Thanks to my prowling I can answer that! Just let us out of this cellar." Kane was already on the move. "But may I remind you that he has all the guns. Also, Wasburg —why should we trust you? If it hadn't been for your jumping me back there we would have been all right!"

"The Bishop's Menie was to be my father's ransom. You heard what that one said when he thought that the victory was all his. Now it is no longer necessary to ransom my father. And I have a debt to pay—a heavy debt. If you do not care to continue this venture—that is your concern. But I am going on. While I live I shall follow that one!"

“We have a gun." For the first time Quinn spoke. "It's not much good for anything but close quarters."

They all swung toward him—as if, he thought with some of his old shame, they had long since counted him out. But he drew out the pencil weapon and gave it to Kane.

"Oh, one of those! Well, it's better than nothing and they believe us totally unarmed."

Morning was coming. The sky was gray before they had climbed out of the cellar. And by the time Kane had led them into the tangled ruin of a garden they could see , clearly. But at the fringe of trees beyond Quinn stopped.

"I can't keep up," he said. "You go on ahead or you'll miss out. That's only good sense."

"It's not too far from here," Kane encouraged.

"All the more reason for you three to cut on. In this light it won't take them long to get a tree cleared away. And we don't want to lose out again—"

Kane did not argue. He had that much consideration, thought Quinn gratefully as he swished along through a tangle of last year's waist high grass. He stopped twice to rest and listen. And during his second halt he did hear a sound, a dull thud, thud. Not the sound of battle surely.

In spite of his snail's crawl Quinn reached the thin screen of bushes along the road in time for the last fight of all.

A mud-spattered jeep stood almost hub-deep in those two ruts which marked the road. Across the track several yards away lay a tree and chopping at its litter of branches were two men. The third still sat at the wheel of the jeep and in him Quinn recognized Quong. The leader was impatient, shrilling out a stream of orders at the workers.

There was a deep gouge in the fallen trunk, marking an attempt to cut through it. But that must have proved too slow. They were now trying to ax away enough of the branches to bring the jeep in a detour around the obstruction.

From his vantage point the American saw Wasburg materialize across the road, slightly behind the jeep. The Eurasian was as suddenly gone again but telltale movements in the bushes betrayed his progress toward a point level with the driver's seat of the vehicle.

This—Quinn rubbed his leg absently and settled his back against a tree as sturdy as the tower wall—was going to be good. He had a ringside seat for the whole engagement, too.

Quong was still shouting advice, waving his hands to illustrate whatever point he was making in that strange language. And in neither hand was there a gun. He was not fearing attack now.

The wood choppers stopped. One straightened and felt his back. That was Hans Loo. And the ex-guide was annoyed and not hesitant in letting his boss know it.

"If you can do this better and quicker, Mijnheer, then get you down from that fine car of yours and show us how!" he yelled in Dutch.

Apparently Quong decided to do just that, or at least to carry on his supervision from closer quarters. He had one leg out of the jeep when Wasburg struck.

The eagerness of the Eurasian spoiled his attack. His shoulder struck Quong but he knocked the other back into the jeep not out of it. And Quong, with the speed of a striking snake, went on, across the seat, and out the other side. He landed belly down in the road, already sighting under the car at Wasburg's legs with an automatic he must have snatched up from the seat.

Just in time the Eurasian scrambled into the jeep. He launched another dive from that vantage point. But the other had rolled for the ditch. And from momentary safety in its mud he snapped a second shot which turned Wasburg's forward leap into a sprawling fall.

Quinn automatically began to move toward the point where the Eurasian had crashed down.

There was a third shot and someone cried out. Quinn looked down the road. Loo hung over the tree trunk. His companion had vanished—wildly thrashing bushes to the left marked his retreat.

Someone was moving this way in the brush. Quinn picked loose a stone imbedded in the mud. He might just be able to bounce that off a head—

"Take it easy!"

He had hurled the stone but his aim had been spoiled in the last second by that familiar voice. The stone missed Kane by a good foot. The American came up and there was a Luger in his hand now.

"Quong?"

"Went into the ditch—over there. And he shot Wasburg."

"Did he have the chest with him?"

"No."

"Then he can't be too far away. He won't leave that behind if he can help it. Now we play a waiting game—"

"Where's Joris?"

"Down after Kammer. The odds are in our favor now —or they would be if we weren't up against Quong. He's always had the luck of the Devil himself!"

A moan startled them both. Above the rim of the ditch appeared a hand clutching feebly at the dried weeds.

Wasburg was still alive. Quinn crawled forward, evading Kane's restraining grab. He might not be able to fight but he could see what might be done for the wounded. Before he broke cover another shot cracked viciously and earth spurted into the air not six inches from those weakly moving fingers. The hand disappeared. Quinn shifted his worm's progress to the right. Brush grew thicker there and under its cover he thought he could roll unseen into the ditch.

But Quong moved first. He darted across the ruts as if propelled by his own automatic. Within a second he had gone to earth again on the other side of the jeep.

That chest was still in the car, bait to draw him. Bait in a trap because Kane would be waiting for him to move, waiting with a ready Luger. There was no possible way for the fugitive to reach the jeep without exposing himself.

But Wasburg couldn't afford to wait. Quinn traveled snakewise for the entrance he had marked which would certainly bring him into the ditch. The dusky half-light in which they had begun the battle brightened steadily as red streamers cut the sky to signal sunrise. It was going to be a fair day. Too bad this road was so isolated. If there were only a few neighbors ready to call the Belgian equivalent of the state cops—Quinn bit down on his lower lip. He was so tired he might go to sleep right here and now if he didn't keep on the move.

A bird sang in a liquid trill rising up scale. As peaceful a scene—if one didn't mind Loo hanging over the tree there—as one could wish.

"Good!" he encouraged himself. Now roll down— Ugh— water at the bottom! But he'd forgotten what it felt like to be dry anyway. And soaking up another quart or two at this late hour didn't matter.

Wasburg was plastered face down against the wall of the ditch as if he had been about to climb out when that last bullet had warned him. He was still breathing. Quinn tried to turn him over and the Eurasian roused enough to flop on his back. There was a sticky red patch high on the left shoulder of his shirt where his jacket had fallen open.

Quinn tore the cloth away and gave a sigh of relief. Even to his inexperienced eyes the wound did not look fatal. He searched the victim's pockets, found a reasonably clean handkerchief and made a wad to be bound over the hole with tatters of shirt. That would have to do for the present.

Wasburg opened his eyes but he said nothing until Quinn had finished.

"Where is he now?" he asked in a faint whisper.

"On the other side of the road. He's trying to get at the chest. But Kane's just waiting for that. Both of his men are out of it now. He is alone—"

"Mustn't—" A sharp frown line was etched between Wasburg's eyes and they closed in spite of his efforts.

Quinn squatted on the cold clay. No, Quong must not be allowed to get away. But he would not be. Anyway there was nothing Quinn Anders could do to help— It was a waiting game which would be won by the first who thought of a plan of attack.

"Anders—?"

"Okay here," he answered Kane reassuringly. "Wasburg stopped one—it doesn't seem too bad—"

"Maartens has gone for help."

What help? Quinn wondered. Hadn't the smugglers sworn hands off this little project just last night? Or had Joris decided to try for the police this time?

"Shouldn't be long then," he returned in a louder voice —one which might carry across to the ears of a skulker. He felt cheerful—because he had a firm conviction that the whole game was almost over now. Not only that, but his side held the winning aces. He waited serenely for what was going to happen next.

The sun was rising, its beams shooting through the branches of old, old trees. And that added light was a challenge to Quong. Just as it struck down the road he made his last move. He ran for the jeep and Kane fired.

There came a cry in answer to the roar of the gun. Quinn levered himself up just in time to see Quong duck back into the bushes. But he was positive that the man had been hit.

"Did you get him?"

"Winged—I think. Get his gun—he dropped it—"

Kane moved out on the road. Quinn looked for the gun and found it barrel up in a rut within distance of his reach. He got it.

"You're not going to get away," Kane addressed the trees before him. "The whole district will be out after you. And the smugglers know this country well enough to have you in an hour—"

No one answered that. Kane and Quinn froze—listening. Surely not even an experienced and trained forester could move through that dry tangle without betraying his passage!

A shout carried down wind.

Kane smiled. "Hear that, Quong? The hunt's up! And those boys don't like you—not one httle bit. It seems that you've spoiled some games for the local big shots. Now you're on the run and they're going to have their innings. Myself—I'd rather take my chances with the law. Come out with your hands up and you'll be turned over to the authorities. Stay in and they'll get you. It's up to you!"

No answer—no answer at all. Had he slipped away?

The mournful hoot of an owl—which did not belong to the sunlight—was the only reply. Maartens climbed over the fallen tree and walked up to the jeep.

"Where is he?"

Kane indicated the brush. "Trying to go to earth. He's unarmed and I'm pretty sure I nicked him. He may try for the cave—"

"Which he won't be able to make," the Netherlander returned with satisfaction. "There is a guard there now. The rest are moving in, beating the ground. As soon as they knew he was on the run they were willing to make it permanent."

Maybe Quong heard that or maybe he was simply trying to reach some bolt hole he knew of.

Bent almost double and running so noiselessly that his feet might have been bare, he crossed the road before Kane could shoot. Maartens started after him but the American caught him by the jacket, and brought him up with a force which spun him half around.

"We can't go charging in there—the woods is trapped all through this section. He's heading to the forester's house. But unless he knows the right path he's apt to blow himself up!"

"Alarms won't stop him!" Maartens struggled to free himself.

"Who said anything about alarms—I said traps! There're wires in there that will set off bombs. I traced two of them down yesterday."

And to prove his statement there came a dull explosion. Quinn felt the vibration through the ground under him. Birds wheeled up in a flock over the road and a series of questioning shouts sounded through the woods.

Maartens closed his mouth.

"Guess he didn't know the right path," commented Kane. "Shall we investigate? And you'd better call off those friends of yours before they set off more fireworks!"

Together they went down the road.

"The chest—" Wasburg had pulled himself up.

"Sure." Quinn fought off the vast fatigue which made every movement of his body an almost impossible labor. "I'll get it-"

He was a long time doing that. Or so it seemed. And it was so heavy—he had to use both hands to lower it to the ground before he half fell down beside it.

Wasburg huddled on the edge of the ditch, his eyes dark and wide. He stretched out a scratched bloody hand. And in it was an old, rust-pitted key.

"Open it.”

Quinn forced the key into the lock. Once there it refused to turn.

"Rusty—" he muttered.

But Wasburg paid no attention. "Open it—open it!"

Quinn braced the box between his knees and took both hands to fight the stubborn key. It might break off in the lock—the fool thing was stuck— Then it gave, complaining. But even after it made a complete turn the lid would not yield. Quinn pried with his pocket knife. It came up.

"Count—must be eleven—must be—I" Wasburg's burning eyes were more alive than his shred of voice.

Quinn pulled out a length of oiled silk and then a pad of woven stuff many times folded. Underneath were small compartments—thirteen. Two were empty—the other eleven contained small rolls of wool.

"Eleven—" Quinn counted them while the Eurasian watched avidly.

"See—right ones—" he begged.

Quinn's fingers, black with grime, picked at the wool. Another and another. He set out the figures on the silk while Wasburg brooded over them. Eight—nine—ten-eleven.

The sun touched the silk, brought to radiant hfe the army standing on it.

“Behold—" Wasburg's voice had steadied and gathered volume. His face was alive, too, a sort of fierce exultation breaking the mask he had worn. "Behold the luck of Sternlitz—behold—the Bishop's Menie!"

CHAPTER 18

AT SWORDS' POINTS

Quinn lay flat—softness under his aching bones—watching a complex pattern of light and shadow flicker on the ceiling. At first awakening he had simply enjoyed the sensation of being warm and dry, drowsy and fed. Then he began to be plagued by the thought that he was lazing there when important things waited to be done.

He swept his hands over the cool sheets, frowned at the light patterns, and remembered. There was a snatch of recollection which had to do with a farmhouse and food and dry clothing. And he had certainly been in a car on a country road. But the rest was gone—

Before the house or the car there had been something else— Sunlight shining on a row of small men. The Bishop's Menie!

As if that had activated his physical machinery Quinn sat up in bed.

They had found the Bishop's Menie! He had held the pieces in his hands. That had been no dream!

And now—he looked around the room. He knew those walls and the chair by the window. He was back in his hotel in Maastricht.

And someone occupied the chair, head in the angle between arm and back, feet resting on an upended suitcase. Quinn put his legs out of bed and stretched. It must be almost mid-morning—

"So you've come to?"

Kane sat up, groaned and rubbed his shoulder, ran his hand across a chin which bore more than one day's growth of red stubble.

"How did we get back here?" Quinn reached for his robe.

"By car—over the border. Can't you remember?"

"Not much—"

"You did an excellent job of sleep-walking then. Whew —" He had glanced at his watch. "We got in here at eight last night. It's now nine in the morning. Which makes a good spell of bunk drill for us."

"I'd like to do some catching up on past events," Quinn mumbled through toothpaste. "What happened to Quong?"

"He investigated one of the booby traps. We let the authorities deal with the result. Loo was kaput too. But they collected Kammer and the chap who stood sentry at the tower gate. Only—officially they're smugglers. And we won't be called upon to testify against them. At this point it is better not to admit openly when you remove some of the enemy—silence is so much more confusing to their home base. And," there was a cold note in Kane's habitual lightness, "a spot of confusion—all spots of confusion— which anyone can cause at that home base right now are to the good as far as we are concerned.

"Quong was a big man in that service. He will vanish for a time without a trace—because I don’t believe that he told even his nearest companions where he was going or why—that is his usual procedure. So he slipped out of sight. Now there will begin to spread some nasty rumors. ‘Did you hear, comrade, that dear Quong was not altogether pleased with his paymasters? That he was dissatisfied when he left on his secret mission?' Those are the words which will trickle into the right ears.

"Perhaps Quong has made a deal with the enemy.' And Quong knows or did know too much. So Quong's paymasters begin to sweat because they never trust each other. And they will set in motion their own intelligence-gathering lines. Maybe they will hear of a mysterious passenger carried to the United States on an army bomber —a passenger held incommunicado. And they will sweat even more—"

"But how can you keep his death quiet entirely?"

"Eventually, of course, someone will report that the so-dear Quong is now underground. But by that time the rumors will seem more believable than the truth. Haven't you heard all the tales of Hitler's escape? And I don't think anyone could possibly identify the body we found yesterday. No, Quong dead may serve us better than he ever served his masters when alive."

"What happened to Wasburg and the Menie?"

"Wasburg is under Maartens' wing. He had a slug dug out of his shoulder and he has probably spent the past hours in bed with the Menie under his pillow. Yesterday he was in no condition to answer questions but we have hopes of learning a little today. Now," Kane scratched at the stubble on his jaw again, "I shall withdraw to make myself beautiful. But I want a promise from you first, m'lad. You are going to stay put right here until I come for you. We don't know who Quong set loose in this town when he left. And the local boys who accounted for your brother must have some contact with his team. I have a fancy to keep you in one piece—at least until we finish this caper—"

"But I thought it was all over—"

"We may have found the Menie and accounted for Quong but we still have Wasburg to deal with. So you stay—understand?"

It had the ring of an order but Quinn did not resent it. Instead he nodded assent. And Kane went out.

Quinn dressed slowly, enjoying the feel of clean clothing. And he was still knotting his tie when the man from Norreys came back. But, in place of the lank scarecrow who had left, there returned an alert person in well-tailored tweeds and a snap-brimmed hat.

"Ready—? We'll go on to Maartens'—"

They went not to a hotel but a tall old house. And they climbed two flights of narrow stairs to a big room with french doors wide open on a balcony. Wasburg sat up in bed, a mountain of pillows behind him. And Joris opened the door to them.

Within reach of Wasburg's hand rested the chest. He watched the Americans enter almost warily, Quinn thought. Why—that had been Oliver's way back home when he had a treasure under one paw and suspected that Dad was about to interfere in his cat concerns!

"What are you going to do with me?" The question was shot at Kane.

But Kane seated himself without haste, skimming his hat onto a nearby table.

"Do with you? You're not a prisoner, Wasburg."

"Am I not? You have brought me back across the border, not to my own rooms, but to this place where Mijnheer Maartens is to be obeyed. I do not think that I may walk out of here at my own choosing—"

"You are entirely wrong, Mijnheer," Joris answered that. "Whenever you wish you may walk out of here and no one will stop you."

"But not, I fancy, if I try to take this." He drew the chest closer.

"The ownership of that has yet to be proved. It belongs to the Sternlitz family. And who is the present Sternlitz heir?" Kane turned to Quinn.

"There is none that I know of. Unless it might be the Freule Matilda."

Wasburg leaned forward, out of the hollow of his pillows.

"Please, Mijnheer Anders, who is the Freule Matilda?"

"The Freule van t'Oostemberg. Her mother was a relative of the last Duke. She Uves near here in the Chateau des Dames."

"The Freule van t'Oostemberg," repeated Wasburg. "I might be allowed to speak with her? That is of the utmost importance, Mijnheer!"

"I think that it is of the utmost importance right now, Mijnheer Wasburg, to know who you are and why you believe that you have a claim to the Bishop's Menie,” Kane cut in.

Wasburg sank back into the pillows. In the bright sunlight his ivory skin was nearly the same shade as the linen behind him. His mouth was bracketed with hnes of pain and weariness. And the mask was back in place, the heavy eyelids effectively veiled again those alive and burning eyes.

"Which moves me to ask in my turn, Mijnheer, just who you are and why you have this uncommon interest in my affairs. Mijnheer Maartens has been most discreet and has held his tongue. But I will venture to say that you do not have official standing—"

That last might have been more question than statement in Quinn's judgment.

Joris seated himself on a straight-backed chair as if he were riding horseback.

"We have little time to waste." He might have been bringing an unruly classroom into order. "Kane represents one branch of an organization very much interested in the occupations of the service which employed the late Quong.

I am remotely connected with another of the same type. We were drawn into this affair—not exactly as treasure hunters—that part of it was Anders' by inheritance; his brother's death brought him overseas to finish the job Captain Anders had begun—no, we came in because we have the greatest desire to defeat all and any games which your late companions engage in. Do I make myself clear, Mijnheer?"

"You do." But Wasburg was staring down at his own hands. And for the first time Quinn saw the massive gold band on the middle finger of his right hand. The American was positive that that ring had not been there two days ago. Almost as if his own thoughts had been directed to it Wasburg began to turn it around and around his finger.

"You are frank," he said slowly, "and after yesterday I believe that you speak the truth. Surely you did all you could to remove from the world one who had too long befouled it. First—as to who I am—well, since my father is dead, I am now Frederick Floris Pieter Sternlitz of Sternsberg, a duchy which does not exist. I am the grandson of Ludwig Carlos, who was the last Duke, by his marriage with the Lady Mei, a Manchu of the old Imperial House.

"When the Russians overran Manchuria my father and I were in the hills of the Gobi country. We tried twice to escape to the coast but were cut off both times. Last year we decided to make another attempt through Tibet and the Assam passes. They wanted my father because of his blood—he had influence over certain tribes which for centuries have held allegiance to his mother's clan. Also the Russians had not overlooked his European heritage either. They seldom—"

"Overlook anything," Kane finished for him. "Yes, we are learning that, slow but sure—"

"We were caught before we reached Assam," Wasburg continued in his expressionless voice. "For three months we were under house arrest—with no hint of violence. Then one day that one came. He brought with him one of the knights to show to my father. I knew of the Menie— but to me it meant very little. The secret of its hiding place I had learned as a young boy—more because it was a tradition of my father's house than because it would lead me to this—" The hand bearing the ring moved across the lid of the chest.

"That one told us that two of these knights had been found. He wanted the other eleven. And not because of their value either—I do not altogether understand why—"

"That is what brought us in," answered Kane. And in a few swift sentences he sketched the plan for counterfeiting the Menie and reselling the false knights again and again.

"Ingenious," commented Wasburg. "Yes, now I can see why these would be worth more to that one than their mere value as a historic collection.

When my father would not immediately reveal to him the hiding place we were separated. It was—the next morning—" For the first time his voice caught. Quinn remembered the taunt Quong had flung at this man in the treasure chamber.

"It was the next morning," the Eurasian had his voice under control again, "that I was offered a chance for my father's Me. I was to come here, to locate the treasure, and with it I could buy my father's life. To me the treasure was far less than his safety—you can understand that, I think?"

"We do," Joris answered for them. "But why did you trust them?"

Wasburg laughed bitterly. "I did not. But what could I do? If I obeyed there was a faint chance that they might keep their end of the bargain. My father's influence among the tribes would be worth much to them. They might not kill him if I were their willing tool. So I was furnished with papers and sent on a roundabout route to Rotterdam. There I was told that another was after the treasure. I was given orders to find out what I could about him. So I was put on your trail in Dordrecht," he said to Quinn. "The rest you know—you have witnessed most of it."

"You have proof that you are Sternlitz?" Kane was regarding the smoke curling up from the tip of the cigarette he had just lighted as if he could read a fortune in it.

"I have papers I have brought with me. I have this— the Duke's signet—" He displayed the ring. "I have enough—they wanted no dispute about my ownership after I found it."

Kane's frown cleared. "Neither do we. What are you going to do now?"

The last Sternlitz shook his head. "That I do not know. I shall not return to the East. I am western educated by my father's wishes. And so I was a misfit in the tribal life. I do not know in what way I can earn my bread—"

"The collection is not complete—" Kane switched off on another track without any reason Quinn could see.

"No. Because of the old superstition that the Sternlitz land must be guarded by the Menie, two of the pieces were concealed in the foundation of the hunting lodge. Fortunately they were the least valuable of the collection. They are the missing pieces—"

"One is in America," Quinn broke in. "My brother sent it there. That leaves only one unaccounted for."

"The one which was counterfeited," Kane agreed. "And that one might just be located also. There is the still unsolved mystery of Tubac—"

Joris nodded. "I find the matter of Tubac now of the highest importance—"

"Sure. Top priority! We'll get on it. I take it that the collection is now your only asset?" he asked Wasburg. It is.

"Van Norreys will be able to find a buyer for you if you want to sell. Maybe we can clear it for you to see him in person. We'll see."

"About Tubac," said Quinn. So the adventure wasn't over. He didn't know whether that idea was pleasing or not. When he thought of tramping on in Stark's boots a vast fatigue weighed him down.

"Tubac is another affair," answered Joris, almost, thought Quinn, as if he were patiently explaining something to a child.

And he could translate that, too. "Tubac is none of your affair," is what the Netherlander really meant. Well, he didn't blame them for that decision. They could have ended it all neatly in the treasure chamber if he hadn’t made a mess of it.

It was time to accept what he had really known all the time. Stark's heroics were not for him. He waited for the old sensation of frustration and shame to rise. But now he didn't feel anything at all except an overwhelming weariness.

"If it works out we may be able to recover the other piece," Kane was continuing, smoke curhng from his nostrils as if he were the Freule's dragon brooch come to life. "We may have to do a bit of traveling—"

Quinn was sure then that some unspoken message passed between the tall American and Joris. But he had no resentment.

"Now, Sternlitz," Kane got to his feet. "You're free to go if you wish. On the other hand you can help us with information and we may be able to help you. It's up to you—

For the first time the man in the bed smiled. And that smile broke the alien shadow of the East which had been across his face. Now he was one with them.

"I believe, Mijnheeren, that I am now in good hands. It is my intention to trust you. What I know is at your service. There is only one thing which I ask of you—a meeting with this lady of my house—this Freule van t'Oosternberg."

"We'll leave that to Anders to arrange. I believe she suggested a return engagement, didn't she, fella?"

Quinn roused himself to nod.

But three days passed before he was able to escort the sling-equipped Sternlitz into a taxi and drive for a second time to the Chateau des Dames. Again he followed a liveried footman through the long corridors to the dim room where sunlight fought hard to enter.

"May I present, my lady," the formal words came easily in that room, "Frederick Floris Pieter Sternlitz of Sternsberg-"

Sternlitz bowed with more grace and ease than any trans-Atlantic man could ever show.

"So—the last piece of the picture! Well, come here, young man—come here!" The imperious voice brought Sternlitz into the light by her table of scraps.

"A new piece, too. There is little of the Sternlitz in you—"

"I regret—" began the Eurasian.

"Nonsense! The Sternlitz blood was running thin. It needed a transfusion! You are entirely presentable, kinsman—" One of the ivory hands which had been toying with magnifying glass and penknife was suddenly thrust at him.

Sternlitz touched his lips to the knuckles.

"Well-mannered, too," she commented. "And you— jongeling—so the adventure is over?"

"It is, my lady."

She was measuring him with those dark eyes which saw not only him, but through him. He did not resent it. The heavy fatigue which had insulated him since he had returned to Maastricht still held.

"You were successful?"

"We were." Slowly, almost drably, he told the story of those two wild days which had brought the Bishop's Menie to light.

"Well done. And this Mijnheer Kane and Mijnheer Maartens—they are still with you?"

Quinn shook his head. "They left yesterday. They have gone on the affair of Tubac and after the last piece of the Menie."

'So? Well, when they return I shall hear that story also. Now what are you going to do, jongeling?"

“I shall finish my research and the book."

“Your part in the adventure being over? But it was a brave adventure was it not? You have a picture almost complete—do not take shame that other fingers will fit in the last piece—"

He wasn't, thought Quinn bleakly—now that he knew he was never intended for this game. He had learned his lesson—to stay on his own side of the fence.

During the next days, the next weeks, he made himself think of the past as one of the Freule's pictures—made up of bits and patches torn from other lives. He had fitted in a few, that was true—probably with no skill at all. There was the visit to the Wise Tomcat, the escape from the hotel in Dordrecht, the meeting with the Man Who Sold Memories, the visit to Odocar's Tower. But when he found himself trying to relive any of that he resolutely buried himself in his work. He hoped that it would recede more and more into a dim memory until it would mean no more to him—or not as much—as something he had read as happening to another.

It was five months before the last bit of that picture was put into its proper place—neatly and expertly by fingers as skilled in their business as those of the Freule. And Quinn almost chose not to see it done.

He was in New York then, on a visit to the publisher. And he stood in a hotel lobby, a telegram in his hands, two answers to it warring in his head.

"See you ten-thirty sixteenth important, van Norreys."

This was the sixteenth and his watch read ten-ten. Did' he want to go? Why should he? He wanted to forget the Bishop's Menie. So much better to—

But even as he put the message in his pocket and walked toward the door he knew that he was going to take the first cab he could find and drive straight to the House of t’Norreys.

Fifteen minutes later he was facing Lorens van Norreys On the mirror-polished desk in that ofiice was a large black leather case. Van Norreys released a catch and lifted its lid. There were velvet-lined compartments and each held a man of the Bishop's Menie. Quinn counted—half aloud.

"Thirteen!"

"Yes. The Menie is now complete."

"Then Kane and Maartens—"

"The story is their own. I shall not spoil it in retelling. Tonight, if you are free, have dinner with us and hear it. Sternlitz will be present also. We have now a buyer for the Menie and Sternlitz is in Washington on a mission. He knows a great deal about the interior of Asia which we wish to learn. How have matters fared with you?"

"The book is finished. It will be published in the fall."

"Excellent. Congratulations. And what do you intend to do with yourself now?"

Quinn shrugged. "I am applying for a teaching position. But my age is still against me."

"You made no effort to contact me when you returned to the States three months ago. I assumed that you were engrossed in your own work. Or was it because, as you say, you were 'fed up' with the whole affair?"

"Let us say that I realized my limitations." Quinn was rather pleased with the smoothness of that answer.

Van Norreys did not reply at once. Instead he brought out a folder, leafed rapidly through the papers inside, and produced a single sheet which he pushed across the desk to Quinn.

The writing on it began without salutation or introduction and he guessed that it was only part of a longer report.

"—could not have done so well without Anders. He appears to take to this sort of thing naturally. And he knows enough not to smash ahead on his own. Suggest that if he is willing we keep contact. A good man in a tight place—"

Quinn read the words twice. Then the black letters blurred and moved. He found that he dared not look up just then.

"That was Kane's report to me five months ago. I called you here today not only because of this—" Van Norreys gestured to the Menie, "but to discover where you stand—"

"I thought—I thought—" Quinn gathered courage to blurt out the sorry truth, "I thought that I was a failure. I thought—"

But van Norreys might not have heard that outburst. "All kinds and types of men play this game. What one is able to do may not be possible for another. You know the risks we run. We have no governmental ties—we are blithely disowned if caught. We work always under cover. There are no medals, no recognition, no public triumphs —even, if by our efforts, a precarious peace is preserved for a short time.

"We are always at swords' points with the enemy. We fight on the first line of defense. That is all I can promise you. The decision is yours. Only remember this—I would not call for Roajact if I didn't know that he was of value to us. In this game we carry no dead weight!"

Quinn straightened. Something—a burden had been lifted from him. Outside the window the sun was very bright, a vivid gold. It was a wonderful day!

"If I remain Roajact—I go to work?" he asked, a little shy of this even yet.

"Well, there is a little matter—" Van Norreys brought out a second folder. "Just how much do you know about Central America?"

"Precious little," Quinn admitted. "But I could learn."

"Roajact had better," Lorens van Norreys returned. He closed the Menie case almost impatiently and shoved it away. That was done with.

Quinn moved his chair closer.

"There is a country—"

Quinn Anders relaxed and listened, content.

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18