Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (13 page)

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 armored 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 armor got down off its pedestal and started walking toward Tony.

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 armor 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 backward, and I didn’t blame him a bit. Unfortunately, his retreat took him into the hidden area under the stairs, and when the armor 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 armor, 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 sniveling 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 armor.”

“I was attacked by a suit of armor,” muttered Tony.

Blankenhagen’s face took on exactly the expression I had visualized. Tony was in no mood to accept skepticism. 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 armor?”

The pedestal was undeniably empty. We were close enough to read the identifying label. It said, “Armor 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 armor?”

“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 armor, 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 armor. 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 armor. 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 shriveled 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 armor, 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 armor? 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 armor, 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 armor? I never tried.”

“More to the point, how long does it take to get
into
a suit of armor? 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 armor. 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 armor 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 armor,” 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 anymore. 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 magnanimously. “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 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 gray 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 sport 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 ax 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.”

“Great.” George stood there beaming, all tanned and white-toothed. “You do the thinking, I do the dirty work. Is that it?”

“Approximately.”

“Then let’s get at it, whatever it is.”

“After breakfast.” Tony rose with a theatrical groan. He avoided my eye, and I wondered what low-down scheme he had in mind now.

During breakfast Tony was honored by a personal call of condolence from the
Gräfin
. She pressed him back in his chair when he started to rise, and he sat back with a thud. Quite by accident, of course, she had her hand on his injured shoulder.

“I am so sorry for your terrible experience,” she said, smiling like a wolf. “I hope it has not made you decide to leave us.”

“On the contrary. I wouldn’t leave a bunch of helpless women alone in this place. Unless,
Gräfin
, you intend to call the police?”