Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

The Vorpal Blade by Edward D. Hoch

It is almost a year since EQMM lost one of the greatest mystery short story writers of all time, Edward D. Hoch. We have been publishing an assortment of remaining new Hoch stories and Hoch reprints since his death, in order to complete another full year in the unbroken streak of publication he’s had in this magazine since 1973. Fan Steve Steinbock suggested this story as a good way to conclude Ed Hoch’s 36-year streak. There will be periodic Hoch reprints in future.

Winterluck had been living with Von Baden for some five years before he ever raised the subject of the Heidelberg killing. It was on a mild April day — one of the first pleasant days of spring — and they were strolling around the big yard as they so often did when the weather was good. Overhead, the sky was blue with promise, and already the first small buds were clustering on branches.

“The German spring is a wonderful time,” Winterluck said that morning.

“Spring is always wonderful,” Von Baden said. “I remember only one bad spring — in ’forty-five, when it meant the Allies would begin their final drive along the western front. That year, I cursed the birds as they sang in the trees, and wished I could hold back the blossoms with my hands. But the snow melted, and the tanks rumbled on.”

“They would have come in any event,” Winterluck said. “Hitler was finished. We were all finished.” He stared for a time at the distant trees. “It was like some great tragedy by Shakespeare, though I suppose the other side didn’t see it that way.”

Von Baden nodded his balding head, and the light caught the curving scar on his left cheek. “Perhaps Hitler was a sort of Hamlet, at least to us. Perhaps he should have died by a poisoned sword.”

Winterluck was still staring at the trees. “That reminds me of the Heidelberg thing. Remember it?”

“How could I forget? I was there.”

“Cassan was a sort of Hamlet, and he was struck down by a poisoned sword.”

But Von Baden shook his head. “To borrow from our late enemies the English, he was much more a Jabberwock, struck down by a vorpal blade.”

“How did it happen?” Winterluck asked. “I never heard the full details.”

“Very few people did. The crime — if crime it was — happened at a time when young Cassan was the most hated, and feared, student in all of Heidelberg. No one very much wanted to see the boy who killed him punished. In those days, such things were easy to hush up, and after all, Cassan was not the first to die in the dueling clubs of Heidelberg. Or the last.”

“But some said he was murdered, killed by a poisoned sword. At least that was the talk at the time.”

“That was the talk, yes.” Von Baden’s eyes clouded, as if he were trying to remember the exact feeling of that day. “It was such a long time ago, a lifetime ago. The world has seen so much violence since, I wonder if what happened there could still have any importance.”

“It was important to Cassan. It was the end of his life.”

“Yes, yes,” Von Baden agreed, scratching the smooth skin of his aging head. “It was surely important to Cassan.”

In that time, when Germany was only just recovering from one war, and the figure of Adolf Hitler was known only to the jailers of Landsberg and a handful of followers, Heidelberg was still the university town with its singing students and beer-drinking frolic. Von Baden had entered the university in 1921, the same year that Joseph Goebbels was receiving his Ph.D. at the age of twenty-four. He did not know Goebbels then, and was not to meet him until much later.

For Von Baden, Heidelberg University was a dream realized. Away from the confines of a strict home for the first time, he plunged into the daily student life and joined almost at once one of the five dueling clubs that were the center of university social life. At the beginning, and during all of his freshman year, he thought very little about the actual fact of dueling, the main reason for the clubs’ existence. He had seen the scarred faces about the campus and in the classroom, of course, and he was often present at the semiweekly matches in the large whitewashed apartment on the second floor of the public house. But to him it remained a thing apart, not nearly so important as the annual election of a beer king among the dueling corps.

Since first-year members of the five clubs were not obliged to fight, it was not until his second year at the university that the pressure to take part in the bloody spectacles became intense. Von Baden was a member of the White Corps, and its president that year was Cassan, a sulking bully who proudly wore his silken ribbon awarded after three duels. He’d fought thirty times the previous year, more than any other student, and the presidency of the White Corps had come to him by acclamation. He was a wizard with the blade, and once during a particularly brutal duel he’d sliced off the tip of an opponent’s nose. Many people hated Rudolf Cassan, but more people feared him.

It was the affair over Eva, the sensuous barmaid at the Three Crowns, that finally brought matters to a head. Generally, the members of the White Corps ignored the other four clubs and kept to themselves on their beer-drinking excursions. Even if the only seats in the tavern were at a table occupied by a few red-capped youths, the White Corps would not join them, preferring to go instead to another of the beer gardens or rathskellers that dotted the area.

But this night the white-capped Cassan happened into the Three Crowns just as Eva was going off duty. He’d been seeing a good deal of her during the preceding months, even spending a weekend with her on a raft trip down the Neckar. No one doubted that Eva was a girl of loose virtue, but oddly enough she seemed the only one capable of bringing out the tender, human side of Cassan’s nature. When he was with her, he was almost a different person. And this night, as he walked into the crowded, smoky confines of the tavern, he saw that Eva was sitting at a table with members of the Red Corps, laughing and drinking, with her arm actually around Gunner Macker’s waist. Macker was a top athlete and excellent swordsman himself, and there’d been bad blood before between him and Cassan.

Von Baden was with Cassan as he entered the Three Crowns, and the president was just telling him of his duties as a second-year man. “You must fight, boy, because that is our only purpose. We did not take you into our ranks so you could merely amuse yourself at beer parties and wenching.”

“I will fight,” Von Baden managed to say, hating the smooth, dominant figure Cassan made as he walked among the crowded tables. “But when I’m ready.”

Cassan smiled over his shoulder. “You will fight next week, boy. Be ready. It is time you tasted blood. Your own, if necessary.”

“Not so soon!”

“I am your president. You fight when I order you to or you leave the corps in disgrace.” But then, before he could add anything, he saw Eva at the table with Macker. He left Von Baden standing there as he fought his way to the Red Corps group.

Macker glanced up at him with a disdainful smirk and deliberately placed his hand on Eva’s breast. “Well, Cassan, you arrived a bit late this night!”

The president of the White Corps stood his ground while the flush crept up his neck. “What is this, Eva?” he asked.

The girl was embarrassed. She brushed Macker’s hand away and stood up. “Nothing. It is nothing, Rudolf. I was waiting for you.”

At the table Macker gave a snort. “She waits for the first one in pants. It’s all the same to her.”

Cassan’s palm shot out and slapped the youth across the face. Macker’s skin went white, with only the red of the blow to mark his cheek. “You will feel those words,” Cassan said, his voice barely a whisper.

Through it all, Macker had remained seated. Now he rose slowly to his feet. “We have never met with the swords, Cassan. Perhaps the time has come.”

But Cassan’s answer was to spit on the floor at the other’s feet. “I would not soil my blade with you.” And then he turned, and spoke the terrifying words. “Young Von Baden here will uphold the honor of the White Corps. Tuesday night.”

To Von Baden, the words were like the voice of doom. He stared at Macker, who only laughed. “This runt! I will slice his nose off and then come after you!”

“You think so? The newest member of the White Corps could take you, Macker. That will be the ultimate indignity — when you grovel in defeat before this boy.” Then he turned, without a word to Eva, and stalked out. Von Baden followed, aware that every eye in the room was upon him: Aware that Tuesday was only three nights away.

* * * *

All of Sunday was spent in sword practice, and Von Baden felt his padded body pummeled and pulled by the blows. They practiced with canes, and with the riding whips that many of the students carried. And on Monday, they brought out the swords themselves: long, ugly weapons with blunt points but sharpened edges, the blades some half-inch in width, the hilts a pure white to match the caps of the young men. Von Baden looked, hefted the weapon, and was horrified. Watching these spectacles twice a week was one thing, but to actually fight in one himself, to feel the razor-sharp blows raining down on his face and scalp, that was something else. He knew too well the bandaged faces of the combatants, the lifelong scars and disfigurements that battle brought.

But there was no way out without disgrace.

Pondering it, he even considered informing the authorities. Though the members of the five corps were allowed to keep swords, the dueling itself was strictly forbidden by German law. Unfortunately, Von Baden knew as well as anyone that the law was never enforced. The police would only laugh at his call, and do nothing.

So Tuesday came, and the twenty-odd members of each corps gathered in the upstairs room where the duel would take place. Some sipped wine or played cards while they waited for the evening’s first duel to take place. Von Baden and Macker were scheduled to fight first, and he found himself led to another room to be dressed for battle. His eyes were protected by iron goggles, with leather straps that also served to hold his ears flat against his head. His neck was wound with thick wrappings, and layers of padding covered his arms, body, and legs. At the end, only his goggled face and head were free of the padded black suit.

Several fellows helped him walk to the center of the big room with his sword, while the spectators clustered at the far end. Two helmeted seconds had taken up their positions, swords ready to interrupt the contest if blood was drawn or a weapon broken. An umpire and timekeeper also stood by, along with a gray-haired doctor with a tray of ointment and bandages. The duel would last fifteen minutes, with time out for injuries and the like — in all, usually twenty minutes or more.

Von Baden stood facing Macker, the beads of sweat standing out on his face above the muffling neckpiece. Then, standing near the doorway behind the spectators, the girl Eva suddenly appeared, muffled herself in a coat that did nothing to disguise her appearance. By tradition, the duels were for men only, but he knew it was not the first time a girl had watched them. And he knew that Rudolf Cassan had seen her too. The superior expression with which he had viewed the proceedings thus far seemed to dissolve like a smashed mirror when he spotted her.

He hesitated only an instant, and then some twinge of remaining pride forced him to step forward, between the two would-be combatants. “Get out of that suit, Von Baden,” he snapped. “I will fight Macker myself.”

There came a gasp from the seconds and spectators alike, but already Cassan had taken the sword from Von Baden’s limp fingers. Three young men from the White Corps hurried forward to remove the black padding from one and place it on the other, and through it all Rudolf Cassan stood his ground staring into the face of Gunner Macker — a face now suddenly white with the unexpectedness of this new challenge.

Many of the spectators’ eyes now turned toward Eva, as if weighing the physical attributes that made such a duel a necessity. Von Baden, freed of the encumbering padding, almost expected her to leave now that she was so suddenly the obvious center of attention. But she stood her ground, apparently determined to see the thing through.

Finally, after endless minutes of adjustment, Cassan was ready to fight. The seconds gave the signal, the umpire spoke a word, and instantly both padded young men sprang forward, raining blows on each other with a fury Von Baden had rarely seen before. Each was aiming for the face and head, but both were skilled swordsmen. After thirty seconds of furious clanging, the swords had only met each other. Then, as Macker blocked a particularly deadly swing by Cassan, the White president’s blade broke near its tip, nicking Cassan’s hairline as it sailed off. The seconds immediately raised their own swords to interrupt the contest, and the doctor hurried forward.

“It’s nothing,” Cassan insisted as the wound was touched up. “A scratch. His blade has yet to find my flesh.”

The timekeeper started his counting once more, and Cassan struck back with a new sword, raining blows with renewed fury. This time it was Macker who took the cut, a decided hit from Cassan’s blade that loosened a flap of his cheek. Again the seconds intervened and the doctor stepped forward. Cassan allowed himself a faint smile. He was getting the upper hand, and he was still unmarked by Macker’s sword.

Von Baden, forgotten, had joined the spectators at the far end of the bare room. He stood near Eva, watching her expression, trying without success to decide which of them was her special favorite. He wondered if it would all end like some medieval romance, with the winner riding off with her into the dawn. Or would her heart more likely go out to the loser?

With the next volley of blows, it began to seem for the first time that the contest might end in a draw. First both men dropped their swords simultaneously — to the displeasure of the onlookers — and then Macker recovered to bring his blade up from below to nick Cassan’s jaw. The doctor stepped in once more.

And now a strange thing began to happen. Cassan, the champion, the best swordsman in all Heidelberg, began to falter. His swings were wild, his defenses nonexistent. Macker, smiling in something close to triumph, landed two more cuts in quick succession. Cassan’s face was covered with blood that even the doctor’s firm hand could not stop. One of the Red Corps called for the fight to end, but he was booed down. They had come to see blood and they were seeing it. They might even witness the first defeat of the hated Cassan.

Macker quickly followed up his advantage. He hammered away at Cassan’s head, bringing new blood, and now Von Baden saw the White Corps’ president stagger and grab for support. The seconds rushed in but they were too late. He toppled sideways, the sword flying from his hand, and was still on the floor.

The doctor bent over him as the others crowded around. Only Macker edged away, triumphant but uncertain. The duels did not usually finish like this. “How is he, Doctor?” someone asked.

Von Baden was still watching Eva’s expressionless face when he heard the reply. The doctor looked up and said simply, “He’s dead.”

Winterluck and Von Baden had continued their walk about the yard while the balding man told his story. He had not thought of those far-off events in years, not since long before the war that had made such killing so commonplace. Now, as he finished, the memory sharpened in his mind. It might have happened yesterday, instead of that long-ago time of youth.

“I heard stories,” Winterluck said. “Some claimed that Macker killed him with a poisoned sword, that this was the only way it could have happened.”

“Yes,” Von Baden acknowledged. “I heard the stories too. In truth, poor Cassan was poisoned. The autopsy proved it. But by that time, it was too late to check Macker’s sword. For the rest of his college days, though, he lived in disgrace, under a cloud of suspicion. Eva left him, refused even to speak to him. A few years later he was killed by a train, and some called it suicide.”

“That would pretty much confirm his guilt,” Winterluck said.

Van Baden fingered the scar on his cheek. “On the contrary, old friend, it confirmed his innocence. A man who would poison the blade of his sword would hardly lose much sleep over it afterward. Poisoning is a careful crime. It takes a great deal of thought and premeditation. And of course, the best evidence for his innocence: until the last moment, he thought he was fighting me, not Cassan. After Cassan stepped in to take my place, Macker never left the center of the room. He had no chance then to poison the blade.”

“Then who did? Could the swords have become switched when they were dropped somehow?”

“No, no. The hilts were different colors, remember, to match the corps color.”

“But...” Winterluck puzzled, “no one could have poisoned Macker’s sword once Cassan entered the duel. There must have been fifty pairs of eyes on them both! Certainly Eva couldn’t have done it. And certainly no one would have wanted to poison you!”

“No,” Von Baden agreed. “No one would have wanted to poison me.”

“Then who?”

Von Baden smiled. “There remains only one possibility.”

“You know?”

“I’ve known for years.”

“Of course! I should have realized it! The doctor! He applied the poison while he was swabbing the wounds on Cassan’s face!”

“A good ending for a detective story, old friend, but hardly for real life. The doctor would have no motive.”

“He was really Eva’s father, avenging his daughter’s honor!”

And now Von Baden laughed aloud. “You would make a wonderful writer! I’m sure the doctor could have chosen a far safer and less spectacular method of murder, had that been his desire. Or at the very least, a slower-acting poison.”

“Then where are we left?”

“With the truth,” Von Baden said. “The truth.” He fingered the scar again. “As you can see, I did fight after all, later on. I fought bravely and well, both for the White Corps and for Hitler. I collected my medals, and my ribbons.”

“Tell me,” Winterluck said.

“Sometimes fear can be a terrible, twisted thing. Men will kill for love, or revenge, or in anger, but I sometimes think that fear is the greatest motive for murder. After all, wasn’t it fear of a sort that drove us to kill the Jews?”

“And?”

“I was afraid to fight Macker,” he said, looking away. “Afraid for my life, or my face, or my honor. Afraid. Terrified! I coated the blade of my sword with poison from the chemistry lab, to kill Macker, or at least sicken him and let me win the duel. But then Cassan fought with my sword, and when it broke a piece flew back to nick his scalp. And kill him.”

“My God!”

“A foolish thing, a senseless thing. As I said, a vorpal blade.”

They had reached the farthest point of the prison yard, and now the uniformed guard was motioning them back. The exercise period was over, and they must return to their cells. “It is something of a paradox, I suppose,” Von Baden observed as they walked slowly back. “We are caged here because they call us war criminals, and yet I killed this first man because I feared to fight. Was I perhaps a peace criminal in those days?”

But the guard separated them at the entrance and the question went unanswered.