Read Online At Swords' Point by Andre Norton - Free Book Online Page A

experienced man such as Marusaki — not for him to solve. Only he, Quinn Anders, had to find the solution. There was Bevroot. But the antique shop was closed at this hour, and he had no idea where its owner lived. To wander about Dordrecht until Bevroot opened up his place was rank folly.
    In an American city Quinn would have taken refuge for the night in an overland bus station or at the railway concourse. But until he knew more about the customs here he could not venture to seek such shelter.
    So there remained only the Wise Tomcat. If the staff had been reluctant to aid him before, they would probably slam the door in his face now. He would have to forcehimself upon them.
    Keeping his pace down to a walk — though his nerves urged him to run — Quinn began to retrace his path of earlier that evening. But Dordrecht as seen from a taxi window and Dordrecht explored on foot at an hour close to midnight were two different cities. Within twenty minutes he was sure he was completely lost.
    He had to fight down childish panic then, the panic of a townsman lost in deep woods. The dark walls of the closed houses, their stepped roofs making toothed outlines against the sky, seemed to move closer, as if they were edging at him across the deserted sidewalks. He knew again that eerie oneness with the past which he had felt in the Wise Tomcat. He had strayed into another time and place, old, moldering, dangerous — not to be understood by the alien. This was a city in which men had lived and died, fought, hated, loved, for almost three times as many centuries as his own land had been known. This was one of the oldest cities in Europe — Romans had been posted here. And at night — did the past ever live again?
    He stopped short and mentally shook himself, setting his mind to recall Bevroot's instructions. A cast east from that point then brought him luck in the form of a recognizable landmark. Now — he was sure he had it clear.
    A quarter of an hour later he came upon the archway which led to the court of the Wise Tomcat. What was he going to do now if the place was locked up? It would depend largely on luck.
    And that precious commodity must have been right in his pocket for lights still shone dimly in the windows of the dining room. The door was closed, but Quinn tugged the old bell pull three times. Abruptly the lights above went out. Desperate now, Quinn jerked the pull again.
    The door opened.
    “We are closed, Mijnheer!” It was the waiter, and hewas already shutting the door again.
    Quinn thrust the edge of his briefcase in that crack.
    “Not to me!”
    His accented Dutch must have identified him. The door remained open. Quinn pushed in, sweeping the waiter before him with a stiff, outheld hand. Once he was in Quinn slammed the door. A faint light filtered down the stairs. It caught and held on something the waiter carried — an ugly-looking Luger.
    “Out!” The word hissed. The man had dropped his humble harassed pose. Quinn knew that he now faced a deadly menace.
    With his back against the door the American stood firm.
    “No. I must see the Jonkvrouw van Nul!”
    “Out!” The barrel of the Luger moved, all the rays from the staircase focusing upon it.
    Only the knowledge that he had no place else to turn kept Quinn there.
    “I will see the Jonkvrouw,” he repeated stubbornly.
    He could not see the movement, but he believed that the man's trigger finger had begun to tighten.
    “Johan!”
    The Luger did not waver.
    “Ja, Jonkvrouw?”
    “What makes this disturbance?”
    The woman was not in the hall. She must have called from her room.
    “It is that crazy American. He has come —”
    “So? Well then, bring him in, Johan. For craziness in the head there is more than one remedy.”
    For the second time that evening Quinn stepped into the room of the mistress of the Wise Tomcat. She still held her granite image pose under the single light on her desk. She might not have moved since he had stood there some