The Golden Flask (30 page)

Wherein, Claus van Clynne is discovered to have dawdled more than necessary.

W
hile Jake had seen
Claus van Clynne heading anxiously for the exit
,
it could not be said with any veracity
that the squire made a very quick departure. He did, indeed, head straight for the back door, proceeding through the kitchen into the rear hallway and back
rooms with all the haste commonly associated with a
windstorm. Alas, upon his arrival at the rear of the
building he discovered the passage had been given over
to storage — and his escape was blocked by a broad
cubbyhole stuffed with all manner of maps.

Cursing, he picked through the papers to see if the
way beyond them might be cleared. It could not, but as
he loudly cursed his frustration, his eyes happened
upon the drawing in his hand, and he immediately retracted his angst. He pulled a second map out and ex
amined it with great interest, temporarily losing all concern for the world around him.

Only one thing could divert the Dutchman's atten
tion from the danger Keen posed — the prospect of re
trieving his purloined estate. For the maps in his hands were copies of ancient Dutch documents, and clearly
showed his birthright. The name was misspelled, with
an extra "e" at the end, but here finally was perfect and
legal proof of his family's ownership.

There is no describing the joy that enveloped the
Dutchman at that moment. He felt as if every one of
his ancestors had gathered round and begun pounding
his shoulders while preparing the most glorious brown
ale for celebration.

The loud growl of Keen's voice in the foyer brought
him back to his immediate predicament. He took the
maps and returned to the kitchen, searching for a way out. Here he found the windows filled with provisions
for the lord's supper and snacks. Only a small portion of the top quadrant remained of each, not enough to allow van Clynne's dream of escape to take flight.

He picked up a large butcher's knife from the table,
then with a firm resolve, shouldered open the door and
proceeded toward the front, determined to fight his way clear to his land and destiny.

Miraculously, the front hall was empty. Keen had
rushed upstairs, looking for Alain. Though not overly
religious, the Dutchman began saying a prayer beneath
his breath even as he passed the stairway.

"Mind you, I would have boldly faced him," the squire added after a humble amen. "A man such as
Claus van Clynne is not frightened by the Keens of this
world."

It was at that moment that Keen spotted him from
above.

"You!"

The single word, hurled at him from the top of the
stairs, struck van Clynne just as he reached for the
elaborate brass doorknob. Like a tangled, prickly vine, it grabbed at his head and shoulders, slapping itself to
his body as Keen's South American leeches had once
done.

"You!" repeated the doctor, as stupefied and stunned at seeing the large shadow flitting before him as if the archangel himself had appeared to bring him
to heaven. "I disposed of you weeks ago! Yet both you
and your companion Gibbs have survived! How?"

Van Clynne swirled in an elegant turn as he answered — not by voice but by the long-bladed knife,
which flew from his fingers with a well-practiced flick.

Alas, the squire had not had much experience throwing
kitchen knives. The blade sailed forward through the
dim space of the stairway, missing the doctor's head by
a good foot, and lodging in a large and overdrawn por
trait of King George II that stood on the wall.

The projectile did have a positive effect on van
Clynne's situation, however: Keen lost his footing as he
ducked back out of the way. He tumbled over in a curs
ing heap, thrashing his head against the railing as he fell down the steps.

"I will forestall a proper discussion of your ineffec
tive potions until we meet under more leisurely circum
stances," declared van Clynne as he pulled open the
door. "Lord Peter, your ale was most satisfactory. You
must introduce me to the brewer."

Clayton, Lady Patricia, and her husband had recov
ered from Jake's insults, and were just knocking at the front door. The Dutchman bowled them over as com
pletely as the front pins in a skittle game. He reached the street as Keen emerged from the house, pistol in hand.

Van Clynne had unholstered his own gun, and waved
it back toward Keen as he headed around the corner of
the building. The guards who had accompanied Clayton Bauer and his relatives hesitated at first, unsure
precisely what side they should take in the conflict. Fi
nally, their commander brought his horse forward, ar
ranging his men in a protective cordon around Bauer and the others. This had the effect of leaving van
Clynne and Keen temporarily to themselves, an ar
rangement neither cared to change.

"You won't escape me this time," said Keen, advanc
ing to the alley. "I had not thought to find you here, but it is most convenient."

Van Clynne just managed to duck behind the large
barrel Jake had used earlier as Keen fired from the
street. In truth, the wood of the barrel would not have
provided much of a stop for the well-muscled bullet. Pig fat, on the other hand, did quite nicely: One of
New York's many fine pigs, running loose in the street
and angry that its favorite resting place had been usurped, chose that moment to take a run at van Clynne — and thus met a premature end.

Now it was Keen who retreated as van Clynne rose
and cocked his pistol. The doctor ran back toward his
coach, intending to grab another weapon. The Dutch
man called out, but failed to fire; the doctor feinted to
one side then dove to the other. Once more the squire
took aim, but paused. Keen took advantage of the in
terlude to dive behind the coach. Van Clynne once again missed his chance to fire.

Actually, his failure to shoot was due to a problem
with the pistol. So often in tales such as these, weapons
go off right on schedule. But pistols fail much more
often in real life than in literature, and this one was no
exception, responding to van Clynne's vigorous pulls and curses with the nonchalance of a deaf elephant.

Sensing the problem, Keen opened the door of his
coach and hastily climbed inside. Retrieving a wide-
barreled blunderbuss from its compartment beneath
the seat, he crept close to the door, listening for a mo
ment to the Dutchman's loud complaints.

"You are quite correct," said Keen, kicking the panel
open. "They ceased making proper pistols years ago."
Keen steadied his gun, not wanting to take any chance
of missing again. Though of ample girth and now less than twenty feet away, the Dutchman had shown a re
markable propensity to dodge bullets and Death him
self. "Fortunately, they have not forgotten how to make weapons such as these."

"Just so," said van Clynne. "Just so."

Keen mistook the squire's comment and confidential
nod as being directed toward himself, a typical show of
empty rebel braggadocio. In actual fact, it was meant
for the figure who had secreted herself on the coach
man's bench atop the vehicle, taking the horses' reins
in hand. For we had not seen so much of Alison's bravery
to think she would leave a fellow soldier in need, had we?

The carriage lurched forward as Keen pulled the
trigger, and the jolt — together with the squire's expedi
ent flop to the ground — resulted in all fifteen balls sail
ing far wide of the mark. The horses decided the loud report had been meant for them, and began thundering
down the street.

The dragoon captain now decided to spend some of
his resources, dispatching two men to chase down the
vehicle while the others kept up their guard on Bauer
and the house. In truth, the redcoats' most difficult job at the moment was keeping straight faces. Keen's earlier curses had not inclined them toward helping him,
and the Dutchman's antics were more than a little comical. From the safety of their horses they thought
the dispute purely personal and not worth their inter
vention.

Keen cursed to high heaven as he rolled in the interior of the carriage, dust and smoke clouding his eyes
and the door flapping back and forth in a great succes
sion of crashes against his face. Several times he strug
gled upwards, intending to climb out and control the
horses, only to be smacked down harder than before.

When she noticed the redcoats starting to pursue, Alison jumped from the bench and tumbled into the
dirt, where she was plucked by van Clynne as he beat a
hasty retreat back to the Sons of Liberty's sanctuary.

"You have your father's sense of timing," said the
Dutchman as he led her up an obscure but convenient alleyway. "Another two seconds and my chest would
have been weighed down with lead. Really, why does
your race dally so when time is of the essence?"

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Wherein, Jake launches a new plan, and Claus van Clynne offers his own revised theories of divination.

J
ake was met halfway t
o the infirmary hideout by a loose group of
boys and young men sent by Culper as
reinforcements. He was not surprised that they had not
met van Clynne or Alison; both were independent sorts
and undoubtedly were proceeding by their own lights
and circuitous routes back. At the hospital, however,
he did worry, and had hunted up Daltoons in prepa
ration of mounting a rescue mission when the landless
Dutch squire and the disguised girl appeared at the door, arguing about who had saved whom.

"Where have you been?" demanded Jake.

"We have been salvaging your operation," declared
van Clynne. "As usual. I tarried long enough to make the entire episode seem a simple robbery, appropriat
ing some cutlery along the way. Your friend Dr. Keen
tried to upend me. Which raises another matter: I thought you had disposed of him."

"He has more lives than a cat."

"Indeed. Perhaps we should recruit several dogs to
attack him. Now, on to more important matters: is there any ale in the house?"

Jake shook his head and turned his attention to Ali
son, telling her with great severity that she had dis
obeyed his direct orders by not heading straight back to
the infirmary. The ledger book was more important than all of their lives together, he told her, as its ac
counts might well tell General Washington where the
British were heading. That, in turn, might save the en
tire Revolution.

"It gives no more clue to Howe's intentions than the
wind," said van Clynne as he pulled it from his belt. "I
took the liberty of examining it on the way. It will show
you quite clearly that the British have spies spread
throughout the continent and pay them equally. But beyond that, nothing. Now, where is the ale stored? Must I attend to every phase of the operation myself?"