Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (18 page)

“Aren’t you being rather melodramatic?” I asked. “With an attack so severe, Schmidt must have experienced great pain. He might well scream, or cry out. Everything indicates he was alone in the room.”

My reasoning did not convince anyone. George laughed and Tony shook his head. Blankenhagen’s face assumed its normal scowl.

“I would accept that idea willingly were it not for the other strange events which have happened here. Have you heard of what transpired at the church last night? It is all over the town this morning.”

“No, what?” I asked, spilling coffee into Tony’s lap. It was still fairly hot; anguish replaced the guilt written on Tony’s ingenuous countenance. I handed him my napkin and said to Blankenhagen, “Something happened at the church?”

“Hurrumph,” said Blankenhagen, eyeing Tony suspiciously. “In the churchyard, to be precise. Desecration of graves.”

“Graves?” said Tony.

I was out of coffee, so I interrupted him before he could go on to explain that he thought only one grave had been damaged.

“What do you mean, desecrated? Dirty words written on the tombstones?”

“That, yes. Stones and crosses overturned, one grave opened.” He gave us a critical stare, but by now we were all registering proper shock and surprise. “Interesting, is it not, that the opened grave should be that of the steward?”

He left the table, stamping a little. George looked from me to Tony and started to speak. Tony stood up.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“It’s raining,” said George.

“I didn’t mean you.”

Rothenburg looked thoroughly medieval in the rain. There were few pedestrians, and the old gabled houses leaned together like gossipy ladies. I knew Tony wanted to get away so we could talk freely, but his first remark took me by surprise.

“The blanket,” he said, groaning.

“The what? Oh, that. It wasn’t marked. Just an ordinary cheap blanket.”

Tony looked relieved.

“Smart,” he said.

“Your conversation is very oblique today,” I complained. “You are now referring to the Black Man? Yes, it was smart of him to attack several graves. The town authorities will be looking for an ordinary sickie. He didn’t fool Blankenhagen, though.”

“Blankenhagen is too damned bright for his own good.”

“You are suggesting that he did the desecrating himself?”

“He could have.”

“The man we saw was too tall. And don’t tell me we were misled by the costume and the general air of brimstone. I think Blankenhagen is okay.”

“You would.”

“George is tall enough, but he has an alibi, if you believe the
Gräfin
.”

“Nobody has a good-enough alibi for anything,” Tony said sweepingly—but I could see his point. “Remember what is at stake, in terms of cold hard cash. The value of the shrine is literally incalculable—a hundred thousand, two hundred, maybe half a million bucks. That’s a lot of dough, even for a man who considers African safaris and original Rembrandts among the necessities of life. I know Nolan is rich—so he says. How do I know how much he’s got and how much more he may fancy he needs? The day after he suggested an alliance I got stabbed. Not seriously, just badly enough to make me require help. No, I don’t accept the
Gräfin
’s word, or anybody else’s.”

“Tony… Are you sure any person is behind all this?”

“Don’t tell me you, of all people, are going over to the spiritualists.”

“A scholar is supposed to keep an open mind. All our instincts are against a supernormal explanation, but instincts aren’t logic. How do we know?”

“Well.” Tony brushed raindrops off his face and thought. “For one thing, this business is too corny to be supernatural.”

“Corny?”

“So far we have had a séance, with spirit possession, a White Lady walking by night, a perambulating suit of armor, a diabolical character in a black cloak, and even a semi-dead man with a look of stark staring horror. It isn’t even good horror fiction; it’s straight out of
The Mysteries of Udolpho
. By some straining of the brain I could believe in ghosts; but I can’t believe in a ghost that acts like
Terror Comics
.”

“Thanks. I just wanted someone to talk me out of it. It is corny. Do you suppose that’s a clue—to the way the criminal’s mind works?”

“No. The obvious interpretation is that the criminal is as corny as his plot—a retarded adolescent who is naïve enough to believe people will be intimidated by his pulp-fiction ghosts. But he may be just the opposite—a sophisticate with a sardonic sense of humor, who is smart enough to know that people are intimidated by pulp-fiction ghosts. Or he may have practical down-to-earth motives for all the things he’s done, motives that escape us now, but that—”

A large raindrop tobogganed off his nose and fell straight down his throat. Cut off in full eloquence, Tony gargled and clutched at his Adam’s apple. I laughed.

Maybe it was the laugh, or maybe I overdid my attempt to boost his ego. Anyhow, Tony got very defensive and mean. He had not suggested going out because he wanted to walk in the rain with me. He had an errand. It led us to the telephone-telegraph office, and the rat wouldn’t tell me what he intended to do there.

In view of the rain he consented to let me enter the office, but he sat me in a corner and I couldn’t hear a word of his conversation with the girl behind the counter. The conference took some time and ended with the dispatch of several cables. When we left the office together the rain had stopped, although the skies were still gray. Naturally I didn’t ask any questions. I have my pride.

We found a
Bierstube
on a back street, and ordered beer.

“Look,” said Tony abruptly. “I’ve been thinking.”

I made encouraging noises. More ego-boosting was obviously in order if I wanted to get anything out of him.

“You were saying the other day that we seem to be obsessed with ancient history instead of concentrating on the shrine. It’s true. I can’t get these people out of my mind—Burckhardt, Nicolas, Konstanze. But there’s some method in this particular madness. Our reconstruction of what happened in the crypt that night in fifteen hundred twenty-five is not just antiquarian hobbying. It has helped us in our search. We know now that the shrine was in Count Harald’s tomb at one time. We don’t know whether it was Burckhardt or the steward who put it there, but that’s not important. What matters is who took it out. And we know it wasn’t Nicolas.”

I was inclined to agree with that.

“Burckhardt was on the loose that night; it’s almost certain that he murdered Nicolas. So he must have been the one who disposed of the shrine. Therefore we can make a few deductions as to where he may have hidden it.”

Tony summoned the waitress and ordered more beer.

“The hiding place can’t be too obscure,” he continued. “Burckhardt wasn’t a man of great subtlety, and I don’t imagine he intended to find a permanent hiding place. Only his sudden death prevented him from disposing of the shrine.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t plan to give it to the church.”

“It’s a safe bet. Why hide it, if that was his intention? Now there aren’t that many places where it could have been hidden. I’ve made a list. Maybe you can think of some more.”

Tony pulled out his notebook.

“The crypt is one place. I don’t see why the old boy should have removed the treasure from one tomb only to put it in another, but it won’t take long to check. I’ll examine the other tombs this afternoon. The chapel was remodeled in the eighteenth century, so that’s out. You’ve looked at the library, and didn’t find anything. Burckhardt wouldn’t choose his wife’s room, or the servants’ quarters, or any of the public rooms such as the kitchen, scullery, etcetera. It seems to me that the best possibilities are Burckhardt’s room and the cellars. I’m going to check the cellars first because of the fact that the plan of that part of the
Schloss
is missing. Does this make any sense to you?”

“It does. But I can think of one other place.”

“Where?”

“The
Wachtturm
.”

“We looked there.”

“Not thoroughly. Another point. The
Schloss
seems to be riddled with secret passages. Maybe there is one from the crypt to the tower. Or the crypt to—almost anywhere. I can’t see Burckhardt carrying an object the size of the shrine through the public corridors on that fateful night.”

“It’s a point. Well, we won’t find anything sitting here drinking beer.”

He stood up and the waitress swooped down on him with the bill. I stayed put.

“Do I understand you are inviting me to join you in your investigations?” I inquired.

“Understand whatever you like.” Tony hesitated. Then he blurted, “I don’t want you poking around in those lonesome places by yourself. You’re dumb enough to go exploring on your own, even after what has been happening. If I have to take you with me to keep you out of mischief, that’s what I’m prepared to do.”

“Oh,” I said. “You’re so sweet to little helpless me. I don’t know how to thank you. I’m just all a-twitter….”

“I’ll even put up with your smart-aleck remarks,” Tony said shortly. “Come on.”

I had been trying to decide whether to tell him about the secret passage and my discovery of the missing armor. I decided not to.

A little later, dressed in working clothes and equipped with flashlights, we descended into the crypt. After an hour of eyestrain and general wear and tear, Tony rose stiffly to his feet.

“If any other stone has been moved within the past five hundred years I’ll—well, I don’t think it has. Have you got a cigarette?”

We sat against a pillar and rested for a short time. But before his cigarette was half finished, Tony stood up.

“I can’t sit, I’m too restless.”

“I know what you mean.” I followed as he headed for the far end of the long, shadowy chamber. “Like the clouds overhead, a feeling of impending doom….”

“Stop that.”

The beam of his flashlight darted frivolously around the room, glancing off ponderous stone pillars, illuminating a carved face or two bronze hands clasped around the hilt of a sword.

“What are you looking for?”

“There ought to be a door down here somewhere. For workmen, repair materials—they wouldn’t drag lumber through the chapel…. Ah, I thought so.”

The north end of the crypt was made of brick instead of the stone prevalent elsewhere. Set into the wall was a low door fashioned of heavy wooden beams bound with iron. One of the keys on the
Gräfin
’s ring fit the massive keyhole, but in addition there was a modern padlock and a series of bolts and chains. When these had been dealt with the door opened into a corridor with a number of rooms leading off it. The first was typical of all the others—a vaulted stone chamber, poorly lit by a grating high in the wall. It contained nothing but some scraps of wood and a broken pottery bowl.

“Storage room,” said Tony, after an inspection had yielded nothing of interest. “We must be under the far end of our own wing now. My God, this place is big.”

“Too big. All we need to do is miss one stone, in one wall or floor.”

“It isn’t as bad as that. These are public rooms—places the servants had access to. It’s unlikely that the count would have a secret wall safe down here.”

We gave the other storerooms only a cursory search. Finally we reached a big room lit by several windows at ground level, but still dark and dismal. On one wall was a flat stone slab like a table. In the corner was a hooded fireplace big enough to roast a couple of oxen.

“Kitchen,” Tony announced unnecessarily. “How would you like to whip up a meal in this mausoleum? We’re under the Great Hall—I’ll bet that stair goes up to it. Here’s where the banquets were cooked.”

“We won’t have to thump on these walls, then. I haven’t got any skin left on my knuckles.”

“Here’s your well.”

Tony tugged at a stone which was equipped with a rusted iron ring. The stone slid aside with a screech, leaving a gaping hole. Peering into it I saw, far below, the glimmer of water.

“Cover it up,” I said suddenly, glancing over my shoulder.

Tony heaved the stone back into place.

“You can see,” he said, “why I don’t recommend solitary exploring. If something went down there, it wouldn’t come up.”

He led the way along the corridor outside the kitchen, dismissing a series of closed doors with the comment, “More storerooms.”

At the end of the corridor we found something that couldn’t be dismissed so casually.

Stairs led down into Stygian darkness, far below ground level. Below was a short corridor with three doors opening onto it. The doors were of iron, with bolts as thick as Tony’s arm. In the upper half of each door was a small barred opening that could be closed by a sliding iron plate.

We didn’t need Tony’s keys. The doors had not been locked for centuries, not since the last Count of Drachenstein had given up his seignorial privileges of imprisonment and execution to the state. But the doors looked functional, even now.

“They will squeak,” Tony warned, and pushed on the first door.

Squeak was hardly the word. The hinges screamed like a wounded animal.

I was secretly relieved when the flashlight showed no heap of moldering bones, no grinning skeleton held erect by rusted chains. There was nothing in the cell, not even a bench or a shard from a broken water bowl. It was simply a square, windowless stone box about eight feet by eight. Yet there was an aura in that room which would have made human bones seem like meaningless stage props. The cell stank of fear and despair; a miasma of ancient agony shrouded the walls like fog. It required all the courage I possessed to step into that evil little room. From the sound of Tony’s breathing I suspected he didn’t like it either.

The walls and floors seemed to be solid. The second cell was a duplicate of the first, and the third, which was so small that neither of us could stand erect in it, was equally unproductive. Tony let me precede him in a retreat which closely resembled flight, and neither of us stopped running until we stood panting in the Great Hall, with a closed door between us and the grim medieval kitchen.