Solomon's Stone

Chapter VI.

"But, my dear old corn flake!" wailed Reginald Vance Kramer, "I tell you I don't want your damned kidnaping case! I'm filthy rich from my last one, and I want to work on my book!"

"Go on in!" roared Nash, pushing the tweedy astralite through Alicia Dido Woodson's doorway.

"There's the regular police—"

"I don't want to get mixed up with them! Anyway," he added in a more conciliatory tone, "don't they always have to call you in to solve the hard ones?"

"True," grumbled Kramer."You've got sound instincts, I'm afraid. Let's see. Hm-m-m." The detective began nosing around the room like a cat who smells a mouse."Notice the position of that overturned chair. It fits the psychological pattern of a sheik's retainer." More nosing, then: "I say, I hope you can pay for this. My minimum retainer is five hundred—"

"Not right away," said Nash."When I get a job, and in installments."

"Oh now really, look here—"

"You just said you were filthy rich," argued Nash, "so you can afford to wait a bit for your fee. You wouldn't let a little delay like that stop you from cracking a swell case, would you?"

Kramer's curiosity gradually overcame his cupidity."I'll do it, chevalier. But this time only, mind you. And don't tell anyone I've given you such easy terms." He silently scrutinized the room's tenant's hairbrush. At last he extracted one hair and held it up to the light.

"Blonde," he said."Golden blonde, five-feet-six, weight nine stone seven, fond of sports."

Nash frowned."The blondeness I can see, but how do you infer the other—"

"Sh! Perfectly obvious, but I'll have to tell you later, when the case had been solved. Oh, I say!" The last was a cry of delight as Kramer scooped up a small vase that lay on its side on the floor. He held up the object, turning it."From the Bang Dynasty! This is priceless! And look here; what would you call the instrument this undeniably mammalian wench is playing?"

Nash peered at the picture on the vase."Some kinda harp, I suppose."

"Ah, there you're wrong! That's a quarter-tone plunk-plunk. They weren't supposed to have been invented as early as the Bang Dynasty. That'll be good for a whole chapter in my book." Kramer got out his notebook and began scribbling.

"You can have the plunk-plunk; I'll take the gal," said Nash."Hey, how about the kidnaping?"

"Oh, bother the kidnaping! No, don't be wroth, old man. I'll get back to it as soon as I finish these notes. Run along; you make me nervous fingering your sword that way. I'll send you a report."

Nash protested, but Kramer insisted that he could not do effective work with the chevalier looming over him. Nash was frantic with curiosity to see how a real super-sleuth operated, but for the sake of Alicia Dido Woodson he gave in.

On his way back to the Dumas Club he reflected that the astral plane surely had libraries and scientists—Farnsworth, the blue-clad would-be Interplanetary Patrolman, had implied as much. And weren't there plenty of young men on the mundane plane who imagined themselves as Newton, Darwin, and Einstein rolled into one? He'd stop at the club only long enough to ask for mail and to inquire where one of the prodigies might reside. This time he would tackle the Shamir problem in the systematic, common-sense fashion that his mundane self would have used in running down an error in a trial balance.

The club doorman said: "Ah, M'sieur le Chev—" then broke off, staring woodenly.

"What's—" Nash looked around the lobby. The other cavaliers were looking at him curiously too, not so much with hostility as with excited expectancy. His surprised gaze flitted from face to face until it lighted on that of the Comte de la Tour d'lvoire. The last got up and came over to him, very serious.

"Mon ami," he began, "Athos de Lilly is here—"

"Who's that? And why are you all looking at me that way?"

"You don't know Athos de Lilly? My poor friend! Have your wits—"

"Perhaps the sight of me will refresh the gentleman's memory," said a tense, vibrant voice from the dining room doorway, in which stood a tall, pale, thin-faced cavalier. This person advanced catlike over the carpet. When he was quite close, he thrust his head forward and grated: "You, Jean-Prospère de Nêche, are no gentleman!"

Nash simply stared at him."Well?"

Athos de Lilly jerked his head back as if Nash had made a pass at him."Perhaps, m'sieur, you did not hear me. I said you were no gentleman."

"Sure, I heard you. So what?"

De Lilly's mouth fell open; he mastered himself and said thickly: "I did not think it would be necessary for me to call you a coward."

Nash was silent.

"Coward!" cried de Lilly, voice rising."Do you hear me? You are a coward!"

"O. K., I'm a coward. I knew that already," replied Nash amiably."But what's the idea? I don't know you, m'sieu—"

"You mock me!" screamed de Lilly."This is for you, fripon!" The enraged cavalier pulled off one of his embroidered leather gloves and slapped Nash's face with it.

"Say, m'sieur," growled Nash, taking a step forward and cocking a fist.

Before he could let fly, de la Tour d'lvoire caught his elbow."Ah, my God, Jean-Prospère, not that! After all you are a gentleman—"

"He doesn't seem to think so, so I guess I can take a poke at him... say, is this guy trying to challenge me to a duel?"

"But of course, my old! After all you killed his best friend—"

"I did? The hell you say! I never... I mean, if I did I'm sorry—"

"Not here! Not here!" shouted the club man-ager, running up."In back, and do not push cries to attract the police!"

Nash found himself caught up in a current of men and swept through doors toward the rear, with the Comte still glued to his elbow. The latter said: "It would do me a great honor to be chosen your second—"

"But... but—" expostulated Nash, Nobody paid any attention. The crowd whooped at the prospect of action. He was pushed and hauled out to the lawn behind the club. Athos de Lilly awaited him somberly with drawn sword, flexing his knees every few seconds to limber up.

"Look here, Comte," said Nash, "why have I got to fight this guy? I haven't anything against him—"

"Sh, my dear friend, you have made enough eccentricities for one day! No more, I pray you!"

Nash was about to add candidly that he was frightened, but decided that these stout-hearted and wooden-headed men of honor would misunderstand. They were all spread around the edges of the lawn now except for Nash, de Lilly, the Comte, a cavalier who was acting as de Lilly's second, and another cavalier serving as referee. The last was holding a sword out horizontally in front of him. Athos de Lilly extended his blade so that it crossed the referee's sword a few inches from its tip and lay horizontally upon it. They all waited for Nash to do the same.

Damn Bechard, damn Monty Stark, damn Prosper Nash for getting into such a fix! He tried to summon up the strength of character to tell the assembly that their code duello was archaic nonsense, and walk out on them. But he could not, quite, and presently his rapier crossed the referee's blade too, so that his and de Lilly's swords overlapped by about a foot.

"Allez!" barked the referee, dropping his blade and jumping back. Instantly Athos de Lilly came at him with a hop, skip, and lunge. Nash did not try to control his blade; the Chevalier de Nêche's reflexes took care of that: tzing, tzing! After an instant of parry, riposte, and remise—the blades were heavier and slower than Nash had expected— de Lilly jumped back.

There were voices behind Nash, but if he turned his head this man would stick him. The seconds stepped briskly forward and knocked up the duelists' swords with their own."Quickly!" said a voice."Posez!"

Men were shouldering out of the club, not in the crossed surcoats of Cardinal Richelieu's guards, but in the scarlet tunics of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Their revolvers were out.

"We were just witnessing a fencing exhibition—" said the referee with a feeble smile.

"Oh, yeah?" growled a policeman."We seen what we seen. You're under arrest, you two, for dueling. Come along. You too, Mr. Umpire."

The three prisoners were disarmed and loaded into a horse-drawn paddy-wagon.

Nash made a tentative effort to soften up his recent antagonist: "M'sieu, I'm sorry about your friend, but I've just had a lapse of memory, so you shouldn't hold me responsible—"

De Lilly glared scornfully and turned his head away, and the rest of the trip was made in morose silence.

When the desk sergeant asked Nash his name, he answered promptly: "Jean-Prospère de Nêche."

"Age?"

"Twenty-five."

"Mm, a man of your type doesn't usually last that long. Where were you created?"

"Created?"

"Yes, created."

"I don't know."

The sergeant was incredulous. Nash repeated his now wearing yarn about a lapse of memory, which did not seem to cut much ice either.

"Lock him up," said the sergeant."Justinian Marshal O'Hara can examine him."

"When?" asked Nash.

"Judging by the length of his docket, in about six months."

"But—hey!"

"Will you come quietly," said a firm redcoat, "or must we... that's better!"

"Avast, Frenchy, what are you in for?" Nash's cell mate heaved himself up on the edge of his bed and grinned with snaggleteeth. He was a huge, fierce-mustached man in a striped shirt, with ape-long hairy arms.

"Dueling."

"Dooling, huh? Mighta known. You froggies think you're being he-men, standing up and poking at each other this way and that way." He made ladylike motions with his right fist."Bucko, if you're going to get kilt, why not get kilt taking a treasure ship or something worth while?

"Oh, a life on the ocean wave,

A home on the briny—"

"SHUT UP!" A simultaneous yell arose from adjoining cells and nearby wardens, and cut off the hairy one's bellow.

"That's appreciation for you," grinned the pirate, stretching out on his bunk again."My only regret is that I'll be hung before I had a chance at the obscenity Shamir."

"How would you go about that?" asked Nash eagerly.

"Oho, so lace panties thinks he'd like a crack at the loot too? Better leave that to jolly mariners like us, lad.

"Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, yo-ho—"

"SHUT UP!"

"I might," said Nash reservedly."Got any ideas?"

"It would be a joke on the obscenity cops at that, wouldn't it? My ghost'd laugh to split its liver."

"If it has one."

"Haw, haw! Well, stand by, my bully; the first thing you need is a good magician. That's what we were after when they caught us. Obscenity the whole lot of 'em for using steam and repeating rifles against sail and muzzle-loaders; even so we'd have gotten out of the harbor safe if it hadn't been—"

"Yes, yes, but what about the magician?"

"Our own man, Aeolus Jackson, referred us to one of the local wizards here in New York, since Aeolus specializes in wind-control and didn't think he was up to cracking Tukiphat's crystal ball. So-o-o, we ran in at night, and looked up this wight, one Empedocles MacDonald; but he wouldn't help us—no, sir! Before he'd set up his obscenity island, Tuky had made the rounds of the Manhattan wizards and put the fear of God into them. He made 'em all go through some hocus-pocus that put them in his power, in case one of them should get grand ideas.

"But Tuky hadn't thought to give the same rope's end to the out-of-town magi, and Empedocles MacDonald gave us the names of a few of these. So we schooned back to our saucy ship and were just breaking out skys'ls when the harbor patrol put a light on us, and then the ball began.

"As I went down to the rolling sea, I saw three witches watching me—"

"SHUT UP!"

Nash persisted: "Who were these out-of-town magicians?"

"Lord love you, lad, how should I know? We had 'em wrote down, but the paper got lost in the garboil. Let me think—it seemeth there was a Jerome Cardan Dahlberg of Poughkeepsie, and a Merlin Apollonius Stark of Staten Island, and an Aleister Klingsor van Buren of Yonkers—"

"Wait a minute! Did you say Merlin Apollonius Stark?"

"Aye; of Staten Island, too, though I cannot give you the exact addresses, which were on the obscenity paper. Why, do you know this Stark knave?"

"Yes... uh... in a kind of way." Ten to one Merlin Apollonius Stark was the astral body of Montague Allen Stark.

"Why, then your problem's solved! Set your helm for this magus and persuade, bribe, or threaten him into telling you how to overcome Tukiphat's barrier."

"How about the forces of law and order?"

"They won't stop you, having no love for Tuky since he put up his island in their pond without a by-your-leave. Though if they board you after you've taken the bauble they may find some obscenity law to confiscate it. Of course," the pirate added, "I won't warrant what Tuky himself will do. Empedocles MacDonald seemed fearful afraid of him."

"Then why did they nab you?"

The pirate grinned ferociously."That was for something else. Were we out on the main I'd tell you a tale of gore and perfidy as should make you blanch. But first I must see how I do with Justinian Marshal O'Hara tomorrow. Of all the judges in New York I had to come before him, and he's sworn to try, condemn, and hang me within the hour, so they say."

But the pirate's irrepressible garrulity kept his tongue going all afternoon and evening. He gave Nash plenty of tales of gore and perfidy, merely declining to name himself as a participant, introducing his yarns with: "I once heard a tale—" or "They tell me that when the bark Antigonus was becalmed off Montauk—"

When their supper plates were being removed, a warden sauntered by."De Nêche!"

"Yes, m'sieur?"

"Thought you'd like to know. Judge O'Hara's going to give you your preliminary hearing first thing tomorrow. Seems you've got a friend among the higher-ups."

"Who?"

"A propagandist. Eleanor Thompson Berry. You Frenchies sure got what it takes with the femmes. Mm-mm." The guard rolled a wicked eye and departed.

That started the pirate off again; he asked Nash for amatory details, and when Nash evaded he went off into a full account of his own love life. Nash felt he had a good grounding in the science of comparative anatomy when the buccaneer announced that he intended to make his last night's sleep a good one and fell silent.

Nash awakened later, half-consciously uneasy. The prison was quiet except for the footfalls of guards, and there was a suggestion of pre-dawn grayness.

Then he became aware of a huge apish figure bending over him. Even as he tensed the muscles of his neck to raise his head, great horny hands clamped his throat; thumbs dug agonizingly in. Nash, still half asleep, kicked, swung, and clawed, but the fingers dug deeper and he could not reach to the other end of those terrible arms.

He tried to increase his efforts, but they were weaker. He seemed to be falling into a bottomless black roaring hole, and the throttling grip did not hurt any more—