Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

Holliday pulled up short, arching back from the swinging blade. The man was no swordsman, but thirty inches of sharpened steel was daunting in anybody’s hand. He caught a better glimpse of his antagonist; not as young as he’d first thought, maybe late thirties, clean shaven, hair hidden under the hood of a black sweatshirt.

Ducking under the swing, Holliday lunged forward, shoulder dropping, and caught the thief in the chest, knocking him backward, half up the embankment. The thief swung the sword again, the blade slashing toward his head in a whistling arc. Holliday threw himself to one side as the sword came close to decapitating him.

The man turned, tossing the sword away, and scrambled up the bank, using both hands to haul himself upward. Holliday lunged again, managing to grip his attacker’s ankle. The man kicked back furiously, this time connecting, catching Holliday in the chin. Holliday fell away, stunned, then tumbled back down the embankment. By the time he got to his feet again the man who’d burned down Uncle Henry’s house and tried to steal the mysterious sword had vanished into the night.

Doc Holliday and Peggy Blackstock showed up at the Main Street offices of Broadbent, Broadbent, Hammersmith, and Howe at nine the following morning after spending a few brief hours sleeping in adjoining rooms at the White Inn. They’d watched as the Fredonia Volunteer Fire Department desperately tried to quench the flames consuming Uncle Henry’s house, but in the end all they could really do was contain the blaze and keep it from spreading to other houses on the street. By three o’clock in the morning the old Queen Anne mansion was nothing more than cinders and ashes.

According to the fire chief, a man named Hoskins, admittedly no expert, the fire was almost certainly arson, originating at the gas stove in the kitchen of the house. To the chief it looked as though someone had blown out the pilot lights, switched the gas on full, and left some sort of timing device attached to a small initiating device, perhaps something as simple as a cardboard tube filled with match heads.

There was no way of telling if the arson was professional or amateur; you could find out anything on the Internet these days, including detailed instructions on how to build a time bomb or burn down a building.

“Miss Blackstock, Colonel Holliday,” said Broadbent, standing up behind his desk as they were ushered into the lawyer’s office by his secretary. “Nice to see you again. So soon.” He didn’t look pleased at all. He extended his hand across the desk. Peggy and Holliday ignored it. “What can I do for you today?”

“My uncle’s house burned down last night.”

They sat down; so did Broadbent.

“Yes,” said the lawyer, affecting a solemn tone. He sounded like an undertaker. “A terrible thing.”

“The fire chief thinks it was arson,” said Holliday.

“Really?” Broadbent said. “Do you have some sort of experience with that kind of thing?”

“Somebody burned down my uncle’s house last night, then ran away. I almost caught him.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Holliday paused. “He was stealing something from the house.”

“What would that be?”

“You know exactly what he was stealing,” said Holliday.

“I do?”

“A sword, Mr. Broadbent. The sword you were so interested in yesterday.”

“So it really does exist then?”

“You know it does.”

“What exactly are you inferring?” Broadbent asked mildly.

“I’m not inferring anything,” snapped Holliday. “I’m telling you straight out: you hired someone to steal the sword and burn down my uncle’s house.”

“I wouldn’t go around saying that sort of thing in public,” the lawyer advised. “You might find yourself staring a lawsuit in the face.”

“So you’re denying it?” Peggy asked angrily.

Broadbent smiled.

“Of course I’m denying it, Miss Blackstock. I’d be a fool not to, even if by some bizarre stretch of the imagination your allegation had any substance or foundation, which it does not.” The lawyer turned to Holliday. “Besides, Colonel, as we are both aware, you have no proof.”

“You were asking about the sword yesterday.”

“Piffle,” said Broadbent, flicking the fingers of one hand into the air. “Coincidence.”

“My uncle found the sword in 1945. He kept his possession of it a secret for more than sixty years. Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea,” answered Broadbent.

“And your father never mentioned it to you.”

“No. As I mentioned to you yesterday, I only discovered its existence when I reviewed the notes my father had made in your uncle’s file when I took over his practice.”

“Why would your father have kept the sword’s existence a secret?”

“I have no idea,” said Broadbent, sighing. “I only know it was very important to him.”

“Yet he never made any attempt to get it back.”

“No. Perhaps he didn’t know that your uncle still had the sword in his possession.”

“He could have asked.”

“Apparently he didn’t, or at least I have no knowledge that he did.”

“You said your father was with my uncle when the sword was found.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you saying he has some degree of ownership?”

“Your uncle stole it from him.”

“So you decided to steal it back?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“What was your father doing at Berchtesgaden?”

“He was a major in the Third Infantry Division, ‘Rock of the Marne.’ He was an adjutant to Major General John W. O’Daniel, the commanding officer.”

“My uncle wasn’t in the Third Division,” argued Holliday. “He wasn’t in the military at all.”

“No,” replied Broadbent. “His cover portrayed him as a civilian consultant to the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Branch. In actual fact he was a spook, a member of Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA.” Broadbent paused. “Presumably he was more interested in protecting or discovering sources of intelligence than he was in recovering stolen artwork.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my uncle.”

“I made it my business to.”

“Why?”

“For one thing he was my father’s client.”

“I don’t get this,” said Peggy. “If my grandfather stole the sword from your father, why would Grandpa have made your father his lawyer?”

“They were friends,” said Broadbent. “From what I understand they had a great deal of shared history.”

“I never heard him mentioned in any other context except being Uncle Henry’s lawyer,” said Holliday. “There was nothing in his correspondence that would lead me to believe that they were friends either.”

“Then I guess you didn’t know your uncle very well,” replied Broadbent with a shrug. “The fact remains that you have something in your possession that rightfully belongs to my family.”

“Prove it,” said Holliday, standing. Peggy followed suit. Broadbent remained in his chair.

“You could make this very simple,” said the lawyer, sighing again. “You could simply sell the sword to me; it can’t have anything but a monetary value to you anyway. It would mean a great deal to my father.”

“I thought he was non compos mentis,” said Peggy. “Alzheimer’s. What would he care?”

“It would mean a great deal to me,” said Broadbent.

“That’s the whole point,” said Holliday, smiling down at the lawyer. “I want to find out exactly why it would mean so much to you. Why you’d burn down somebody’s house to get it.” He turned on his heel and left Broadbent’s office, Peggy right behind him.