At Swords' Point (6 page)

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 through 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.

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 into 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, 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 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-modern 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 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.

“Intoductions 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 already 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 meantime,” 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, 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 living in retirement but —”

“I know the Doktor 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 activites!”

“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.

“Capt. 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 identiy 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.