At Swords' Point (11 page)

“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 life 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 entitled 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. “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. Tante 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 any 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.”

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, 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 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 — ”

“Capt. 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. Capt. 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, 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 Fruele 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, 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 Horne 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 clean-shaven 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 how 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 life. 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!”