Roger Zelazny - The Black Throne

The blow landed and Peters reeled but did not go down. He turned toward the man with the club and the second man leaped upon his back. In the meantime, the man with the broken arm and half an ear drew a knife from a belt sheath with his right hand and lurched toward the grapplers.

Unable to raise myself erect I bent forward, clasped my knees and rolled against the man's legs. He uttered a French oath I added to my collection as he fell upon me. Dazed, I expected to be punctured at any moment, but the thrust did not arrive. I sucked several deep breaths and tried to rise, just as the screaming began.

When I straightened and turned I saw Emerson stuffing the body of one of the men up the chimney.

Peters was twisting the other man's arms into a pretzel-like shape and the man I had knocked over was rising to his feet, knife in his hand, half of his face wet and red, his other arm hanging useless. I heard heavy footsteps on the stair and a cry of "Gendarmerie!" just as bones began snapping in the man Peters was twisting and the other lunged at me. Even as I blocked his thrust and struck him on the point of the chin a heavy blow fell upon the door. Something was obviously wrong in our supposed deal with the police. As another blow fell upon the door Emerson left off stuffing his man up the chimney, bounded across the room, seized the straight razor Von Kempelen had left atop his dresser, departed by way of the window, and vanished across the rooftops.

"Not a bad idea, that," Peters observed, casting his man aside. To Von Kempelen: "Thanks for the tea."

Then he passed through the window and scrabbled away himself.

I cast a glance back at the inventor, who still guarded his work. Another blow fell upon the door.

"Uh, good night," I said "Good luck."

He narrowed those amazing eyes uncertainly, then, just as I departed, "Be careful," he called.

I heard his door burst open before he got to it. The tiles were damp and slippery, and I kept my gaze on the shadowy figures ahead. After a time, the roof grew flat. There were shouts far to the rear. I hurried.

Below us the dogs still complained.

For how long we fled, I am uncertain. At length, I followed Peters through a window into a deserted topfloor apartment. Whether he or Emerson had located it—and whether by chance or some arcane instinct—I never inquired, though it seems we misplaced Emerson at about that time. We lay doggo for several minutes then, listening after sounds of pursuit. None followed, so we let ourselves out, took the stairs to the ground without incident, and entered upon the street.

We wandered for a time then, but the night remained still. Even the dogs had grown silent. Shortly, Peters found us a cafe where we rested over a glass of wine, assessing our injuries—which seemed minor—and repairing our appearance. Miraculously it seemed, he had retained his bear-hide wig withal.

It seemed futile to speculate as to why the Prefect of Police had not done as he was supposed to—or hadn't done as he wasn't, as the case might be. We decided to wait a good while and then drift back to the neighborhood we had vacated so abruptly, to see whether we might be able to learn anything there.

In the meantime, Peters bit off a great chaw of tobacco from a plug he had with him, amazing me with his ability to spit out of the door—a good distance from where we sat—whenever it opened—without touching the person entering or departing. I, in my turn, drank four local tipplers under the table, it taking slightly less than two normal glasses of wine for me to do it. Our performances caused considerable merriment among the other patrons during the couple of hours we spent in the establishment.

A clock somewhere chimed the hour for the third time since our arrival, and so we settled our bill and departed. The night had grown considerably more chill during our interlude indoors, and we turned up our collars and jammed our hands into our pockets before heading back to the scene of our earlier confrontation.

The building was entirely dark. We passed it several times and no one seemed to be about in the vicinity.

Finally, I went up and tried the door. The lock had been broken. It opened easily. I motioned to Peters and we entered.

Moving slowly, treading carefully, we mounted the stair. When we came to the landing outside Von Kempelen's door we halted and listened for a long while. A total silence prevailed. After a time, I reached forward through the darkness and investigated manually. This lock, too, was broken and the door frame splintered.

I pushed the door open and waited. There was no reaction.

I entered. There was moonlight through the broken window to the rear. By this illumination we could see that the place was entirely empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a test tube, spoon, or teacup remained.

Even the bench itself had been removed.

Peters whistled softly. "Most pecooliar," he said. "What do you make of it?"

"Nothing," I said. "It could mean too many things. We must see Dupin first thing in the morning. He may have some answers."

Peters spit out the window.

"May not, too," he said.

We hiked back to the ship where a hairy form greeted us from the rigging.

"Bonjour, damn it!" said the raven, who had perched himself upon the arm of my chair and was studying me as I drank a cup of tea.

"Bonjour yourself, bird or devil," I said.

"He seems to like you," Dupin observed. "You actually got him to say 'nevermore' the other day."

"Rawk! Nevertheless!" Grip cried, spreading his wings and cocking his head.

"Concerning the matter of the letter," I prompted.

"Yes," he replied, smiling. "By means of a ruse involving a gold snuff box I was able to gain access to the minister's letter rack. It contained a number of delightfully incriminating items. But to the case in point, Von Kempelen had proposed selling his secret to the government, and there was indication in the form of a note in the minister's own hand, following the text, that the price was too high but that a robbery might be staged to obtain the man's notes. It was also suggested they act quickly, since others were interested and might come up with the price. This note was initialed by another minister and yesterday's date, the thirty-first, was written beside it."

"The government would do a thing like that?" I exclaimed.

He cocked an eyebrow at me and took a drink of tea.

"And the timely arrival of the police?" I said. "That was just a part of it? Your government now has Von Kempelen and his secret?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I was able to get word of this affair to Monsieur Gisquet, our Police Prefect, who has long been on less than cordial terms with my namesake minister. Barely in time, as it turned out—and there was no time at all to get a message to you, though I understand you acquitted yourselves admirably. The body up the chimney remains a bizarre puzzle, however." Here, he raised his hand as I attempted to speak "No, I don't want to hear about it."

"Actually, I wasn't about to tell you," I said. "I was merely going to ask who, then, has Von Kempelen?"

"Actually nobody has him," he replied. "He and all his equipment are, at this moment, headed for the border. Gisquet's men packed his equipment and his personal belongings while an agent of the man explained the situation to Von Kempelen."

"All of this to spite a government official," I said. "Were you the agent?"

He smiled again. "I wouldn't tell you if I were."

"I know. I did not ask for informational purposes."

"We understand each other," he said.

He refilled our cups. I took a satisfying sip of the scalding brew.

"Which border?" I asked then.

"He is headed for Spain—Toledo," he said. "Though whether this is his actual destination or possibly a clever ruse to confuse pursuit, I could not say. Again, it was one of those matters I did not really wish to know. But as to the literal meaning of your question, I do not know whether he will be crossing the border at the independent Duchy of Aragon or that of Navarre on his way south."