At Swords' Point (4 page)

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 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 it.

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.”

“Good! And, Mijnheer, the cook comes from a district near Maastricht in Limburg. Ask for Vla cherry pie — that is a dish of that place. In all Dordrecht, I can promise
you this truly, there is no Vla 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 for 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 Voorstraat-haven. 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 then 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.

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 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 slice 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, not, 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 the day before 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 Capt. 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 corner 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 slot, 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 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 Vla cherry pie —”

The waiter supplied 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 rowboat 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 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 mow. 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 intelligent 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 feline 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. 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 Vla 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 from the Middle Ages.

“A witch cat, a familiar,” Quinn decided 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, 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.