Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery (23 page)

We kept going up—all the way up. I don’t know what I expected to find up there. I wasn’t thinking coherently. But I felt a mild shock when I came out of the opening onto the roofless top story, and saw what was happening.

The character in the cloak stood at the edge of the platform, with not even a ridge of stone between him and the ground some sixty feet below. Irma lay at his feet. She was drugged or unconscious—probably the former, because her face was quite peaceful and she was breathing heavily through her nose. If the poignancy of the moment had not raised my mind above ordinary cattiness, I would have said she was snoring.

The man who had brought her there was wearing riding breeches and boots. The hood of his dark-gray loden cloak was thrown back, so that his fiery head gleamed in the moonlight. His gun gleamed too. It was big and shiny and it was pointed straight at Tony’s stomach.

“So it was you,” I said unoriginally.

“In part. No, Tony, don’t try anything. A bullet hole in you wouldn’t spoil my plans at all. As soon as I’m finished here, you two go back where you came from. Where’s Blankenhagen?”

Tony sat down, yawning. I couldn’t help admiring his nonchalance. He didn’t even look surprised….

“You knew,” I said to him. “You knew it was George.”

“I knew George was one of the villains. Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one.” Tony looked at the villain. “Blankenhagen? He’s down there someplace. Broke his arm when the staircase gave way.”

“I admire your tenacity,” George said, baring his teeth in one of those toothpaste-ad grins. “I didn’t think you could get out.”

“I’m a little tired,” Tony admitted. He yawned again. “Can I sit over there, against the parapet, without your shooting me?”

“Just don’t stand up.”

Tony obeyed literally; and George raised his eyebrows politely at me. I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit down. I had a feeling I would be lying down only too soon, and permanently.

“Found the shrine yet?” Tony asked.

“Oh, yes. I followed you last night and over-heard Vicky telling Konstanze’s life story. It wasn’t hard to figure out what it meant, so far as the hiding place of the shrine was concerned. I had prepared the tunnel with no specific plan in mind—an emergency reserve, you might say—but I had to get you down there right away, before you could use your information. I had plenty of time after that to search.”

“I hope you haven’t told anyone else where it is,” Tony said.

I wished George would stop grinning. He looked like an Aztec death mask—the kind that is half teeth.

“I’m not such a fool as that.”

Tony wasn’t as calm as he seemed. I could see the tension of bunched-up muscles in his legs and shoulders. I kept very still and watched him. He was leading up to something and I wanted to be ready to back him up, whatever he did.

“I don’t know, Nolan,” he said. “I find your position somewhat shaky. What are you going to do with Irma?”

“Somnambulists are accident-prone, old son. They even have fatal accidents.”

“And you can always go down after you throw her off and make sure.”

“What’s one more?” said George.

It took me a couple of seconds to understand what he meant.

“Now, wait,” I said energetically. “Let’s not be hasty. You haven’t killed anybody yet. We can’t even accuse you of attempted murder; shutting us up in that hole was just a boyish prank, right? Why kill anybody? Just take the shrine and split. We haven’t any proof.”

“Wouldn’t work,” said George promptly. He waved the gun at Tony, who tried not to cringe. “He’s been too nosy. Sending cables all over the place.”

“You’ve been reading my mail!” Tony said angrily.

“Only the cables that arrived today. You know too much about the state of my finances, brother. And you were too inquisitive about Herr Schmidt.”

“You crook,” I said to Tony. “Were those the cables you sent that day it rained? How did you know where to inquire about Schmidt? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You have a lot of nerve talking about cheating,” Tony shouted. “Squatting like a setting hen on all those little tidbits you dug up—”

“Sssh!” George danced irritably up and down. “Somebody will hear you!”

I expected Tony to jump him then; I braced myself, ready to move. There was a nasty cold lump at the pit of my stomach. I had never seen a gun from quite that angle. It is a disconcerting sight, and I had no desire to see it any closer. But we had to do something; I didn’t intend to let myself be herded back into that hellish tunnel without putting up a fight. We would be in a better position to attack if we waited till George had us on the stairs. But we couldn’t wait. He was going to kill Irma first.

Tony settled back.

“Does Schmidt really have a degree from Leipzig?” he inquired conversationally. “I haven’t had a chance to read my mail, you know.”

George laughed.

“I think you’ll be surprised when you find out who Schmidt is. He was using his own name. Not his fault if it’s a common name.”

“One thing I already know,” said Tony. “He was the one who engineered the armor and the séance. What is he, an amateur hypnotist, or just a common garden-variety fortune teller?”

“Both. He hypnotized Irma with some crazy idea that she might have ancestral memories he could tap. Until the great séance he didn’t realize that what he was doing could hurt the wench.”

The gun barrel dropped, casually, to indicate the girl’s motionless form, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Why don’t you shoot her, if that’s what you’re going to do?” Tony said, between his teeth. “Get it over with.”

“No bullet holes in Irma. That would spoil the illusion.”

Tony was rapidly losing his calm. He glanced at me. Then, following his eyes, I finally realized what he was up to. He was trying not to look at the square opening of the stairwell, which was now, thanks to his maneuver, out of George’s direct line of vision. I didn’t share his optimism. Blankenhagen might come, but I doubted it. The man wasn’t superhuman.

“So Schmidt hypnotized Irma,” I said. “He was the one who prompted her with all that stuff about fires and possession.”

“He had help. The old lady has been working on the kid for years.”

“She would,” Tony muttered. “Just for fun.”

“It came in handy, after Schmidt appeared at the
Schloss
with his questions about the shrine. He didn’t realize Irma was the heiress. He went straight to Elfrida and they started searching. He was no match for the old witch; he did just what she told him to.”

“How did he find out about the shrine?” I asked curiously.

“He read the same book you all found, and reached the same conclusion. When you arrived he got panicky. He wanted the shrine and he was afraid you’d beat him to it. I met him prowling the corridors one night and persuaded him to join forces with me to discourage you. But he didn’t realize how far I was prepared to go. The night we staged the armor episode, I had to use the dagger myself, after I tapped Tony on the head. The sight of blood sent the old fool into a tailspin. I had to keep him from yelling, and in the struggle he passed out. I thought I was going to have an attack myself before I got him out of that armor and into his room, so I could rush down to take my part in the drama.”

“And the second attack? Staring eyes, look of horror?”

“Baffling, wasn’t it?” George grinned. “I only meant to scare him. He was threatening to confess all.”

“Then the
Gräfin
is in with you,” I said.

“It’s not fair,” Tony said wildly. “Everybody’s guilty. There’s only supposed to be one criminal. What about Miss Burton?”

“She is innocent, if that consoles you any. Arrogant, stupid, and innocent.”

“Nolan, don’t you see you’re being used?” Tony demanded. “That old bitch is in the clear. She’ll end up with the shrine, after you’ve killed Irma, and you’ll end up in the chair, or whatever they use in this country. You’re a stooge, buddy; a lousy cat’s-paw.”

For the first—and last—time in his life, he hit George where it hurt. The big white grin disappeared. George took a step forward, almost stumbling over Irma, and Tony braced himself. I got ready to jump. Then I saw two things.

One was a hand, whose whitened fingers were curled gruesomely over the edge of the topmost step. The other was Irma’s eyes—wide open.

“No,” I said hysterically. “No, don’t! Don’t kill us!” I threw myself onto my knees, yelped as the gritty stone bit into my lacerated skin, and wriggled gracefully forward until my body was between George and the stairwell.

It was no use. George’s gun stayed smack on Tony’s liver, and Blankenhagen followed his hand out onto the roof.

He looked like death walking—tattered, bloody, smeared with dust and cobwebs. He was an automaton, moving by pure will. It was so awful it was fascinating; I half expected to see him walk stiff-legged into a hail of bullets, like the monster out of Frankenstein.

Everybody has his limits, though, and Blankenhagen reached his. He fell to his knees, his eyes crossed and his mouth half open.

“What do I have to do, use a meat cleaver?” George demanded irritably. “All right; you’ll be out of your misery in just a few seconds.”

I didn’t see exactly what happened. My eyes, like those of the others, were fixed on Blankenhagen. I saw enough, though, to keep my dreams uneasy for some time to come. Suddenly Irma was up on her hands and knees. George’s arms were in the air, flailing frantically. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. The sudden change from triumph to failure, and his awareness of it, were blended with the most ghastly terror. For a moment he tottered on the edge of oblivion. Then he was gone. His scream came up like a shriek of anguish from some bodiless ghost borne through the air by the scudding clouds. It ended in another sound. Then there was silence.

I looked at Irma. She had risen to one knee. Her arm was lifted in the gesture that had just sent a man to a messy death. Her black hair was whipped about her face by the wind, and her eyes were enormous.

“Well,” said Tony weakly, “well, well, well…”

He might have gone on like that indefinitely if Irma had not interrupted.

“He would have killed you,” she cried, gesturing from Tony to the prostrate form of the doctor. “Should I lie still and see him kill you?”

She didn’t mention me. I was in no position to complain; I don’t mind having my life saved as an afterthought.

I cleared my throat. Nobody looked at me. Irma had decided the doctor was the more pathetic of her two heroes, and had taken his bloody head onto her lap. She was crooning over him, and I thought I detected a slight smirk on his face. One of his eyes was open; when he saw me staring, it quickly closed. Tony was trying to look pitiful too, but he couldn’t match Blankenhagen’s performance.

“Somebody should go for help,” I said. “Hey, Tony—”

“
Aber nicht
!” Irma gave me a cold look. “He cannot go, he is bleeding, in pain—near death, in saving our lives. Run! Go at once!”

“Run?” I said. “Me?”

Tony moaned and let his head fall back against the parapet.

“You creep,” I said to him. I looked at Blankenhagen. “The same to you,” I said. With great dignity I crawled to the stairs and started down them.

I covered about half the distance to the
Schloss
before my legs gave out. Shivering with shock and reaction, I squatted in a patch of nettles and let my mind wander.

The outlines of the castle wall wavered like fog in front of my half-closed eyes. I was sick. I was thirsty. I was all covered with dirt, and nobody loved me.

After a while my head cleared a little, and I tried to think. Maybe I should go directly to the police. The idea made me giggle wildly. They would take one look at me and send for a doctor. Meanwhile the
Gräfin
would be on the loose. What if she took a notion to go out and see how George was coming along with his murder? Tony’s groans weren’t altogether phony, he wasn’t in shape to fight anybody, and the
Gräfin
had always scared the hell out of him. She wouldn’t have to shoot him; she would just stare at him. He would shrivel up and blow away. So would I, if I ran into the old lady now. She could demolish me with a breath.

“What I need,” I said aloud, “is an army. Right now.”

Then I remembered a fact out of a past that seemed years away. I hauled myself to my feet and headed for the front door of the castle.

My entrance was public, and as spectacular as any ham actress could have prayed for. In the hall I met one of the blond waitresses on her way to the lounge with a big tray of steins. I grimaced into her horrified face and went on my way, hearing the crash of glassware behind me. In the lounge was the group I had hoped to see—the university kids, brimming over with beer and song and youthful
joie de vivre
. I was incapable of counting them, but the general effect was just what I wanted.

“
Guten Abend
,” I said politely; and saw four…eight…sixteen—good heavens, how many were there?—all those eyes focus in glazed stares. I’m sure they expected me to bend over and extract a knife from my stocking. Only I wasn’t wearing stockings.

“There has been an accident,” I said, in my best German. “We must have the police. And a doctor. And on the top of the keep, behind this place, you will find several people who need to be transported to the
Schloss
. And—could I have a drink?”

I fell flat on my face, but they wouldn’t let me pass out; dozens of enthusiastic arms bore me to a couch and another arm poured the dregs of a glass of beer down my throat. I lapped it up like a dog, and somebody brought a full glass, and somebody else held my head…I have some unpleasant memories about my sojourn at the
Schloss
, but the heavenly coldness of that beer trickling down my dusty gullet compensated for all of them.

I shouldn’t have had it, though; on an empty stomach it was almost disastrous. After a while I found myself lying flat on the couch with my head floating up somewhere near the ceiling and a handsome tanned boy bending over me with a glass of brandy.