Borrower of the Night vbm-1 Page 11

  Dinner that night was comparatively dull. Irma looked pretty good, and there was no word from the Gräfin, not even an invitation to a small intimate exorcism. Blankenhagen was still sulking; he practically bit my head off when I made a casual remark about the weather. Tony was just as mean. He was seething about something, and I gathered that the something involved George Nolan, from the way Tony ignored him. George was in a splendid mood. He babbled on, quite entertainingly, about Veit Stoss and Tilman Riemenschneider and other German sculptors. I got to the point where I thought if I heard Riemenschneider’s name pronounced just once more I would rise up and smite George over the head with my plate. To make the gloom complete, it started to rain, which ended my plans for a stroll through the quaint old streets of Rothenburg after dark.

  When we adjourned to the lounge, I managed to take Tony aside.

  ‘What ails you? Somebody hurt your feelings?’

  ‘It’s that Nolan,’ said Tony, adding a few qualifying adjectives. ‘Do you know what that rat said to me today? This afternoon I met him in the Hall, and do you know what he said?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But maybe you will tell me what he said.’

  ‘He said – ’ Tony choked. ‘He said he didn’t like the way things were going around here. He said he suspected there was dirty work afoot. He said’ – I really thought for a minute Tony was strangling – ‘he said he was willing to forget our differences and combine forces, because I needed – I needed a man of action in on this caper!’

  ‘Well, now, that was thoughtful,’ I said; and then, because Tony really was mad, I changed the subject. ‘I talked to Irma today. Guess what she said to me. She said – ’

  ‘Cut it out,’ Tony growled.

  ‘She’s the Drachenstein heir,’ I said. ‘The castle and its contents belong to her. The old lady has the right to live here as long as she likes, but the place is Irma’s.’

  ‘It sure is, from the kitchen to the scullery.’ As I hoped, Tony was sufficiently distracted by this information to forget his wrath. ‘Oh ho and aha. That is interesting.’

  ‘I thought so,’ I said. And then George turned back, with a jovial question about our plans for the evening, and I led Tony away before he lost his temper again.

  To my relief, Miss Burton wasn’t in the lounge that night. I couldn’t have faced her. Tony went to the piano and started to pound out a weird medley of tunes, from rock and roll to Gilbert and Sullivan. He plays by ear, and he doesn’t play too badly; but the piano almost defeated him. I don’t know when, if ever, it had been tuned.

  Seeing Schmidt reading a newspaper on the sofa, I headed for him. My attempts to pump him were singularly unsuccessful.

  ‘I took my degree at Leipzig,’ he admitted finally. ‘But that was many years ago, my child, long before you were born. Ah, how charmingly the professor plays Beethoven. A friendly tribute to Germany.’

  The sounds coming from the piano would have made Beethoven spin in his crypt, but I didn’t have the heart to hassle Schmidt anymore. There was a pinched grey look around his mouth, and when I asked after his health, as tactfully as possible – I can be tactful when I feel like it – he shook his head.

  ‘I have, they tell me, a slight condition of the heart. It is not serious; but the events of these last days have not been something for me. If you will excuse me, I think I will seek my bed.’

  Tony made his excuses not long after that. I eluded George, who wanted to chat about our mutual friend Tilman R., and followed Tony. When he said good-night, at the door of his room, my suspicions were confirmed. I knew that sweet innocent smile of his. We had agreed to share information, but only up to a point.

  Sure enough, a couple of hours later I heard his door open. I almost didn’t hear it. After everyone else had gone to bed I turned out my light, propped my door open about half an inch, and sat down on the floor next to the crack.

  The rain had stopped by that time, and the moon poured cold silver light through the open window. The slow drip of moisture from the leaves was as soothing as a lullaby. My eyelids got heavy . . .

  What with sleepiness and stiffness, it took me a couple of minutes to get limbered up and follow Tony. I had planned to bounce out at him, figuring I owed him a scare or two, but on second thoughts I decided I would follow the sneaky little rascal and see what he was up to.

  By the time I reached the gallery above the Great Hall, Tony was halfway down the stairs. I waited in the shadows; I could see all right, thanks to the moonlight, but the Hall was an eerie place. If I hadn’t known it was Tony up ahead, the shadowy figure gliding down the stairs would have scared hell out of me. At any rate, the countess wasn’t walking tonight. There was a flash of reflected light from the row of armoured figures against the wall, but no movement except for Tony.

  Tony walked out into a patch of moonlight that lay quivering across the floor. He looked as uneasy as I felt; he kept glancing over his shoulder at the shadowy area under the stairs. I couldn’t move without his seeing me, so I stayed put, but I didn’t like my location. Almost half the area of the Hall was hidden from my sight by the gallery. If Tony went back under the stairs I might lose him.

  One of the suits of armour got down off its pedestal and started walking towards Tony.

  Chapter Seven

  A RATIONALIST IS AT a disadvantage when events are irrational. One of the count’s contemporaries would have howled with terror and bolted. Tony wasted several vital seconds trying to tell himself that what he saw wasn’t really happening.

  I could see the armour quite clearly in the moonlight. It was armed cap-à-pie, and the metal plates clanked musically with each stiff stride. The visor was closed. I saw the right arm go up; the fan-shaped piece of steel at the elbow spread like a peacock’s tail. The mailed hand held a long dagger.

  At long last, Tony moved. He moved backwards, and I didn’t blame him a bit. Unfortunately, his retreat took him into the hidden area under the stairs; and when the armour followed him I couldn’t see either of them. I heard a clank, and a howl from Tony, and deduced, through a haze of horror and disbelief, that the idiot had swung at the armour, which was a damned silly thing to do . . .

  The whole episode didn’t take very long. Even so, my paralysis was inexcusable, and what I did next was even worse. Instead of rushing down the stairs to Tony’s rescue, I ran the other way.

  I could claim I was going for help; and, in fact, some vaguely sensible instinct led me to the doctor’s door. I banged on the door with both fists and yelled. The door was locked, or I would have rushed in. Finally Blankenhagen answered me. I shouted something – it was incoherent, but forceful. Then I got a grip on myself. I turned and ran back.

  I had a flashlight, which I had completely forgotten in all the hullaballoo. By its light I located Tony. He was flat on his back on the floor under the stairs – his eyes closed, his face white, and blood all over his shirt.

  Maybe I’m not the type for a heroine, but then I behaved like the worst stereotype of the feeble female. I flopped down on the floor beside Tony, held his hand, and insisted that he wake up. I think I cried. I was sure he was dead, and it was all my fault; I had talked him into this crazy escapade, I had jeered at him and dared him.

  Blankenhagen had to push me out of the way to get at Tony. I sat on the floor snivelling while the doctor, fully dressed, poked interestedly at Tony’s shoulder.

  ‘You took long enough,’ I said nastily. ‘A fine doctor you are. Do you have to put on a tie while somebody is bleeding to death?’

  ‘Be still,’ said Blankenhagen coldly. ‘He is not dead.’

  As if to prove it, Tony opened his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ I said, hastily wiping my face on my sleeve. ‘Are you with us again? That was a dumb thing to do, Tony.’

  I don’t think Tony heard me, which is probably just as well. His eyes focused on something behind me. I turned. There was George, wearing a dressing gown. His shanks were bare, and as hairy as a gorilla’s.


  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Poor Tony considered the question.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he mumbled.

  George turned to Blankenhagen.

  ‘What’s wrong with him, Doc?’

  ‘He hit his head falling,’ said Blankenhagen, with a ruthless jab at a spot over Tony’s left ear. ‘He has also been stabbed,’ the doctor went on reluctantly. ‘It is only a scratch, very shallow. Herr Lawrence, it is time you spoke. What has happened?’

  I tried to imagine what Blankenhagen’s face would look like if Tony said, ‘I was attacked by a suit of armour.’

  ‘I was attacked by a suit of armour,’ muttered Tony.

  Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept scepticism. He sat up and thrust out a dramatically stiffened arm.

  ‘You don’t believe me? Then tell me what’s happened to that set of armour?’

  The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, ‘Armour of Graf Burckhardt von Drachenstein, ca. 1525.’

  ‘That’s what happened,’ I said. ‘I saw the whole thing.’

  Tony gaped at me. George said calmly,

  ‘I thought maybe you were the one who slugged him.’

  ‘Well, of all the – You think I was in that armour?’

  ‘You’re too tall,’ George said, with the same maddening coolness. ‘So am I,’ he added.

  ‘Hah, that is right.’ Blankenhagen looked relieved as the conversation took a rational turn. ‘I have noticed, with old suits of armour, how small these ancestors of ours were. Diet, of course, and unhealthy living . . .’

  Poor Tony collapsed again. He hit the back of his head, groaned, and swore.

  ‘While you’re standing around arguing about medieval diet I’m slowly bleeding to death, and Schmidt is getting away. I know you don’t care about me, but – ’

  ‘Schmidt, of course!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘He is not here.’

  ‘Oh, damn,’ said Tony.

  ‘Come on, get up.’ I lent him a strong right arm. ‘You can’t be much hurt or you wouldn’t be so talkative. Schmidt is the only one of us who could fit into that armour. Let’s go get him.’

  George was already halfway up the stairs.

  Blankenhagen followed, leaving me to support Tony’s tottering footsteps. When we reached Schmidt’s room we found another crisis in process. The fat little man was lying on his bed and the doctor was bending over him.

  ‘I found him in the doorway,’ George said. ‘Looks like a heart attack.’

  ‘He said he had a bad heart,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe we were wrong about him,’ Tony said, leaning heavily on my shoulder. ‘A man with a weak ticker couldn’t go tearing around in armour. If he heard that racket Vicky made and came running out . . .’

  Schmidt’s eyes opened. Involuntarily I stepped back and Tony, deprived of my support, swayed wildly. Schmidt’s face was transformed by the most vivid expression of terror I have ever seen.

  ‘Ruhig sein, Herr Professor,’ said Blankenhagen soothingly. ‘You are better now.’

  ‘But he . . .’ Schmidt mumbled, ‘Herr Lawrence. He is not . . . dead.’

  Tony was not a reassuring sight; the cut, though shallow, had bled copiously, and his shirt front was a bloody mess. With his hair standing on end and his face white under the dust that smeared one side of it, he was enough to alarm anyone, much less a man who had just had a heart attack. George stepped in front of him.

  ‘Of course he isn’t dead, he’s in great shape. You’re the one we’re concerned about, Schmidt; did you hear something that alarmed you?’

  Schmidt’s shrivelled eyelids drooped.

  ‘A scream,’ he said with difficulty. ‘Someone screamed . . .’

  His eyes followed George, who was wandering around the room.

  ‘That will do,’ Blankenhagen said. ‘He must rest now.’

  The doctor followed us to the door.

  ‘It is not serious,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A faint, shock – not his heart. He will be recovered in the morning. Lawrence, go to bed. A bit of plaster on that cut, that is all you need.’

  George and I escorted Tony to his room and put him to bed. The doctor’s diagnosis was correct; once I had mopped off the blood I could see the cut was nothing to worry about. I slapped some Mercurochrome and a couple of Band-Aids on it.

  George had settled himself in a chair with a cigarette and Tony’s bottle of bourbon. When I had finished being Florence Nightingale he offered me a drink, which I was glad to accept. Tony demanded his share, pointing out that it was his bottle.

  George shook his head.

  ‘Can’t risk it. Concussion and alcohol – very dangerous, old man. That was quite a crack on the head.’

  He helped himself to a second drink and smiled cheerfully at Tony.

  ‘If it wasn’t Schmidt in the armour, who was it?’ I asked, sensing that the conversation was about to deteriorate into an exchange of pejorative comments.

  ‘Who says it wasn’t Schmidt?’ Tony grumbled.

  ‘If it was, what did he do with the armour? It wasn’t under the bed or in the closet. I looked.’

  ‘Who else could have squeezed into that hardware?’

  ‘It wasn’t me, old son. I’d stick out both ends.’

  ‘Blankenhagen?’ I suggested. ‘He’s muscular, but not tall. How big was the armour, anyhow?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I’d have noticed if it had been unusually outsized, but a few inches more or less . . . How long does it take to get out of a suit of armour? I never tried.’

  ‘More to the point, how long does it take to get into a suit of armour? I don’t suppose our mysterious comedian stands on a pedestal fully accoutered every night . . .’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he did,’ Tony grumbled. ‘Maybe he likes dressing up in armour. Some people think they are Napoleon or Jesus Christ. Some people think they are pineapples.’

  ‘Pineapples?’ I repeated. ‘That’s a weird one. I never heard of that. Where did you – ’

  ‘Will you stick to the subject?’ Tony shouted. ‘I gather that in your incoherent fashion you are trying to ascertain whether the comedian had time to climb into his armour after I left my room. I don’t think he did. So he was down there waiting for me – or for somebody . . .’

  ‘You,’ I said hastily. ‘I’d rather have him waiting for you . . . When you went creeping off to bed at ten o’clock, I knew you were planning to prowl tonight.’

  ‘He could safely assume one or the other of us would be along,’ Tony said, eyeing me malevolently. ‘We haven’t missed a night so far.’

  ‘You’ve gotten him into the armour,’ remarked George, who had been following this exchange with a broad grin. ‘What about getting him out of it? Would Schmidt have time – ’

  ‘Forget about time,’ I said wearily. ‘I lost track completely. Nobody has a respectable alibi.’

  ‘I can’t understand why you’re so vague,’ Tony said critically. ‘You must have been on the gallery, if you were following me. Why didn’t you pay attention? Wasn’t the action exciting enough to hold your interest?’

  I felt myself blushing.

  ‘All right, so I lost my head. When you backed up into the area under the stairs I couldn’t see you any more. What did happen down there? I heard a funny clanking sound. You didn’t hit that thing with your bare fist, did you?’

  It was Tony’s turn to redden.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking straight either,’ he admitted, trying to hide his scraped knuckles.

  ‘Left hook or right jab?’ George asked with interest.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Tony growled. ‘The whole thing was confusing. I guess I can’t blame you for not seeing what happened. I don’t remember myself. I did swing at the damned thing. Felt like I broke my arm. After that everything went black.’

  ‘We’ll forget the whole thing,’ I said magnanimous
ly. ‘You’d better get some sleep, Tony. We’ll all be more sensible in the morning.’

  ‘Right.’ George got to his feet. ‘Tony, old boy, I’ll be sitting up the rest of the night, with my door open. Don’t worry about a thing. I won’t let anyone get to you.’

  I pushed George bodily out of the door.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. I guess Tony didn’t either; he was up early. I had been sort of hanging around. I figured he might need some help, and that he would be as reluctant to ask for it as I was to offer it directly. As soon as I heard his door open I stepped casually into the hall. He had gotten into his clothes without assistance, but he looked as if he had not enjoyed the process; he held his left arm at an awkward angle, and his face was all bony points and grey hollows.

  He gave me a look of solid dislike, and I dropped the arm I was about to offer him.

  ‘Where’s Nolan?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘In his room, I guess. Why?’

  ‘I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Can I come?’ I asked meekly.

  ‘Sure, why not? If I’m going to eat crow, I might as well have an audience.’

  Intrigued, I trailed along after him. George answered the door right away; alert and bright-eyed, stylishly dressed in brown slacks and a fresh white sports shirt, he was a sight for sore eyes. He hauled Tony over the threshold and deposited him in a chair.

  ‘God, you look terrible,’ he remarked. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to worry? I sat up most of the night, didn’t see a thing. Never need more than three, four hours sleep . . . What’s on your mind, Tony?’

  ‘You made me an offer yesterday. I’m ready to take you up on it.’

  ‘Now I wonder,’ said George thoughtfully, ‘why you changed your mind.’

  ‘Good God,’ Tony said querulously. ‘After last night, how can you wonder? It may be you or Vicky who gets the axe next time. Worst of all, it might be me again. We foreigners ought to form a protective alliance. I don’t intend to take you by the hand and lead you to the shrine. But I’m willing to share some of my brilliant deductions in exchange for some help.’