Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (14 page)

“Do you honestly think, Professor, that the police can give the kind of help we need?”

She walked away, giving him no time to retort.

“Get her,” I said. “Now she’s a believer.”

“Oh, she doesn’t believe in the supernatural, Tony said disgustedly. “Didn’t you watch her at the séance? She’s using the ghost theory for her own ends, and God knows what they are.”

“I know I’m not supposed to be thinking,” George said. “But I’ll throw in this little tidbit as my contribution to general goodwill. Irma is the heiress. This place and everything in it belongs to her.”

The only new thing about that tidbit was that George was aware of it. But until then I hadn’t considered the corollary.

“What happens if Irma dies?” I asked.

“I didn’t think it would be smart to ask that. But I guess the old lady would inherit everything. Which isn’t much—just this old pile of stones and a lot of work. Every object of value has already been sold….”

He stopped. None of us finished the sentence aloud. We didn’t have to.

Except the shrine
.

“The old lady couldn’t possibly know,” Tony began.

“Wanna bet?” I said.

“No. Well, Nolan, let’s get going—if you’re still game. What I’m proposing to do is not only socially unacceptable, it is probably against several laws I can’t call precisely to mind at the moment.”

“I’ve broken a number of laws in my time,” said George—with perfect truth, I felt sure.

It was Sunday. The workmen who had been remodeling the south wing were gone for the day. Tony loaded George down with tools and led the way to the chapel. When we reached the stairs to the crypt, George stopped.

“What are we going to do down there?” he asked suspiciously.

“Just a spot of tomb desecration,” Tony answered.

George dropped a crowbar. He gave Tony a funny look, but bent to retrieve the tool without comment.

When we reached the tomb of Count Harald, Tony knelt down and shone his flashlight along the cracks between the tombstone, with its carved effigy, and the stone floor.

“When I was here before I noticed something different about this tomb. Look. The stones on the other tombs are cemented into place.” He opened a pocket knife and illustrated on the next tomb, that of Count Burckhardt. The knife blade ran along the crack without penetrating, leaving a trail of fine white powder. “But Harald’s stone…” The blade of the knife disappeared, sinking deep into the black line between the tombstone and the next slab.

“Looks as if someone has had it up, once upon a time,” George agreed. His eyes glowed like a cat’s in the dim light. “I don’t envy them the job. That stone weighs hundreds of pounds.”

“That’s why I enlisted you,” Tony said affably. “With my bad arm I can’t lift a pillow.”

George glowered at him, and then burst out laughing.

“All right, old boy. I asked for it.”

Tony did enjoy the next hour. Reclining comfortably, with his back up against the stone feet of Count Burckhardt, he watched George sweat. I didn’t help much. George had the necessary muscle, and he knew what he was doing—first the crowbar, then a series of wedges to prop the slowly rising stone. Finally he had it tilted back like the lid of a box, with about three feet between its lifted edge and the floor.

George sat down and lit a cigarette.

“I don’t think we should risk raising it any more,” he wheezed. “There’s nothing to brace it on the other side if the angle gets too steep. Now what?”

“Now I take over.”

Tony crawled to the edge of the hole. I was already peering in. I couldn’t see anything, though; it was too dark down there.

Besides shoving in wedges, at George’s orders, I had spent the time kicking myself. I should have noticed that crack. Here we were looking for a hiding place, and this was one of the right size. This could be it. I was so excited I forgot to breathe. I even forgot George Nolan, big and brawny and thoroughly unscrupulous, standing over me.

Tony turned his flashlight down into the crypt. But no flash of refracted light from huge jewels dazzled our eyes. No gilded wings glimmered and shone. There seemed to be nothing in the vault but a wooden coffin bound with strips of rusted metal. It rested on the bottom of a hole that was faced and floored with stone. The top of the coffin was about two feet below floor level. It was pushed to one end of the vault, so that there was an empty space at the bottom. Tony turned his light in that direction.

A moment later I was backing hastily away on hands and knees like a puppy that has encountered a porcupine. George stared at me and bent down to look for himself.

“Nolan, go get Blankenhagen,” said Tony, in a funny croak.

George stepped back.

“For that? Believe me, old man,
he
doesn’t need—”

“He doesn’t, but I do.” Tony lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

George peered into the hole again, shrugged, and went to the stairs. When he was out of sight Tony scrambled to his feet.

“Better you than me,” I muttered, as he slid into the pit and bent down, out of sight, below the lifted slab. For a while I could see only agitated but controlled movement as he worked. Then he poked his head out. He was in his shirt sleeves.

“Don’t look if you’d rattier not,” he said, eyeing me.

“Don’t be insulting,” I said, breathing slowly through my nose. “It was just the air down there that got me—made me dizzy for a minute.”

Tony lifted a dark bundle out of the hole and deposited it gently on the chapel floor. It was his jacket, rolled around something that bulged in peculiar places. Tony climbed out beside the bundle and started to open it. I spoke without premeditation.

“It isn’t—it isn’t the old count, is it?”

“No, he’s still resting peacefully in his coffin. At least I hope he is. This is a little something extra.”

He folded his jacket back. I braced myself, but there was no need. Disconnected and jumbled, the bones suggested an anthropological exhibit rather than a human being who had died in agony. But I knew I would not easily forget my first sight of the huddled shape, with its fleshless face turned up as if gasping for the air that had been denied it.

The skull was yellow but intact. A wisp of rusty hair hung over one side. There were other objects in the pile besides bones: bits of tarnished metal, a blackened silver ornament, some scraps of rotting cloth. And under a handful of ribs…

Then I heard footsteps echoing on the floor above and saw George appear at the top of the stairs, a featureless silhouette against the light. Blankenhagen followed him down.

“So you got it out,” George said.

“I felt better after you left,” Tony said blandly. “
Grüss Gott
, Doctor. Maybe you can tell us what to do with this.”

Blankenhagen knelt and began to finger the exhibits.

“He has been dead too long to profit from my services,” he said drily.

“He?” Tony’s nose quivered with curiosity.

“Definitely male. The occipital ridges…” Blankenhagen’s index finger pointed. “Also, the configuration of the pelvis is unmistakable.” He lost himself in professional meditation for a time. “Yes. A male of mature years, but probably under forty. The third molars are present, but not badly worn; the ilium and is-chium—”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Tony interrupted. “No way of telling how he died?”

“That would depend on where you found this.”

Blankenhagen lifted a dagger and balanced it on his palm. The blade was dark and rusted, the hilt elaborately carved.

“It was lying among the ribs.”

“Ah, hmmm.” Blankenhagen sorted ribs. Then he held one up. “Yes, it is possible to see the mark of the blade. It passed along the inner surface. It would then presumably have pierced the heart.”

He dropped the brittle ivory bone back onto the jacket and wiped his hands on his knees.

“A murder?” George said interestedly. “Who’s the victim? Silly question, I guess, after all this time.”

“Oh, no,” said Tony, in a lazy drawl I knew very well. “No doubt about his identity. This was the steward of Count Burckhardt. His name was Nicolas Duvenvoorde.”

He picked up the tarnished ornament.

“This was a clasp or badge worn on the doublet. You can see the Drachenstein arms, and, if you strain your eyes, the initials N. D. Maybe it was a present from the count, for meritorious service. The scraps of clothing are right for the period, and suitable for a man of respectable but non-noble rank. There’s a pair of leather boots down there, too. They are pretty moldy, so I didn’t bring them up, but here are the spurs that went with them. Traveling costume, that’s what he was wearing.” He produced some bits of leather, which did indeed have a mildewed look. “This was a pouch, which was worn at the belt. These coins were probably inside it. Here’s a thirty-kreuzer bit from Würzburg, dated fifteen hundred thirteen, and an imperial florin with a head of Charles the Fifth and a date of fifteen hundred twenty-three. And the last bit of evidence, if we need one, is the dagger itself. On the hilt is the dragon and stone, the Drachenstein crest. The workmanship is too fancy for a servant’s weapon. This curlicue under the crest seems to be Burckhardt’s personal mark. You can see the same design on his tomb.”

He turned the flashlight beam to the right, where it illumined the shield at the shoulder of the reclining knight on the next stone.

“In fact,” Tony concluded, “we can not only identify the victim, but we can hazard a good guess as to the murderer.”

There was a brief, impressed silence, during which Tony vainly tried to look modest.

“By God,” George exclaimed, “I have to hand it to you, Tony. That’s a damned good piece of detective work.”

“Seconded,” I said briefly.

Tony smirked.

“Oh, well, anyone could have done it. Anyone who knew his history and had a logical mind, trained in deductive techniques—”

I interrupted. I hope I am a good sport, but I do not care for blatant egotism.

“Now that we’ve got him, what are we going to do with him?”

“We must notify the
Gräfin
,” Blankenhagen said stiffly. Now that the first excitement was over and his curiosity had been satisfied, he had relapsed into his normal state of cold disapproval. “I do not know what her wishes will be; if it were I, I should call on the good father from Rothenburg.”

“A brief ceremony of exorcism might not hurt,” Tony said obscurely. He rose to his feet. “Ow. I’m as stiff as he is. I’ll go see the
Gräfin
. After all, the poor devil was a faithful family retainer. They ought to be able to spare him a few feet down here in the vault.”

“I will remain here,” Blankenhagen said. “When you return with the
Gräfin
, bring a sheet or blanket.”

“I’ll stay,” George offered. “Why don’t you interview the old lady, Doctor? Tony ought to be in bed—he’s probably strained that arm. And frankly, I’d rather face a whole cemetery of dead bodies than. Elfrida.”

“I am not on good terms with the
Gräfin
,” Blankenhagen said. “Perhaps you can think of an acceptable excuse for your breach of hospitality and good taste here; I certainly cannot, and I see no reason why I should face her indignation when she hears what you have done. But I agree Lawrence should go to bed. I will look at his injury later.”

We left him standing over the bones with bowed head. He could have been praying, but I didn’t think so.

“It wasn’t there,” I said to Tony, who was leaning pathetically on my arm.

“It isn’t there now, anyhow.”

“That was a bright idea, though,” I said generously. “Where do we look next?”

Tony shook his head.

“I’ve used up my hunches. Without a plan of the
Schloss
, I’m lost. I wish we could find those missing maps.”

His voice rose a little on the last sentence, and George turned around.

“Maps? Blankenhagen has some.”

“What kind of maps?”

“Old ones, on parchment, in a big roll. He was looking at them when I knocked on his door. He told me to wait outside, and when he came out the maps were gone.”

“Blankenhagen.” Tony smacked himself on the forehead. “He must be involved in this thing somehow…. Nolan, I’ve got to have those maps. Did he lock his door?”

“Yes, he did. But I think your key will open it. The locks in this place are simple, cheap deals.”

“Okay. Then you go—”

“No,” I said. “Tony is going to beddy-by. George, you get the
Gräfin
and take her straight down to the crypt. Make sure she and Blankenhagen stay there for a while. I’ll get the maps.”

“I’ll get the maps if you interview the
Gräfin
,” George offered.

“What are you so nervous about? I thought you were accustomed to breaking laws with devil-may-care insouciance. I admit what we did was outrageous—”

“Unbelievable,” George agreed heartily. “Why did we do it?”

We both looked at Tony.

“I was mad,” said Tony simply. “Not crazy mad—angry. I hate being stabbed.”

“I’ll tell the old lady that,” said George. “I am sure she’ll understand. Damn it, I don’t like this partnership. I get all the dirty jobs.”

“Then we’ll dissolve the partnership,” Tony said. He looked a little ashamed as George gave him a reproachful look, but he continued, “I didn’t say we were going to share all our clues. You worked like a Trojan today, and I appreciate it; but without me you wouldn’t have found Nicolas. So far, I think we’re quits.”

“Big deal. I didn’t want Nicolas anyhow. What am I supposed to do with him?”

He left, grumbling, and I went on my errand. George was right about the keys. Tony’s key fit Blankenhagen’s door. All the keys probably fit all the doors, which was not a comforting thought.

Blankenhagen hadn’t bothered to hide the maps very well. They were on top of his wardrobe, quite visible to anyone with my inches. I grabbed them and left.

Tony sat up when I came in.

“Got them? Good work.”

“Lie down.” I slid the roll of parchment under his bed. “Blankenhagen is on his way up. I just got out in time.”

There was a knock at the door. Tony flopped back onto his pillow.