‘George is tall enough, but he has an alibi, if you believe the Gräfin.’
‘Nobody has a good-enough alibi for anything,’ Tony said sweepingly – but I could see his point. ‘Remember what is at stake, in terms of cold hard cash. The value of the shrine is literally incalculable – a hundred thousand, two hundred, maybe half a million bucks. That’s a lot of dough, even for a man who considers African safaris and original Rembrandts among the necessities of life. I know Nolan is rich – so he says. How do I know how much he’s got and how much more he may fancy he needs? The day after he suggested an alliance I got stabbed. Not seriously, just badly enough to make me require help. No, I don’t accept the Gräfin’s word, or anybody else’s.’
‘Tony . . . Are you sure any person is behind all this?’
‘Don’t tell me you, of all people, are going over to the spiritualists.’
‘A scholar is supposed to keep an open mind. All our instincts are against a supernormal explanation, but instincts aren’t logic. How do we know?’
‘Well.’ Tony brushed raindrops off his face and thought. ‘For one thing, this business is too corny to be supernatural.’
‘Corny?’
‘So far we have had a séance, with spirit possession, a White Lady walking by night, a perambulating suit of armour, a diabolical character in a black cloak, and even a semi-dead man with a look of stark staring horror. It isn’t even good horror fiction; it’s straight out of The Mysteries of Udolpho. By some straining of the brain I could believe in ghosts; but I can’t believe in a ghost that acts like Terror Comics.’
Thanks. I just wanted someone to talk me out of it. It is corny. Do you suppose that’s a clue – to the way the criminal’s mind works?’
‘No. The obvious interpretation is that the criminal is as corny as his plot – a retarded adolescent who is naïve enough to believe people will be intimidated by his pulp-fiction ghosts. But he may be just the opposite – a sophisticate with a sardonic sense of humour, who is smart enough to know that people are intimidated by pulp-fiction ghosts. Or he may have practical down-to-earth motives for all the things he’s done, motives that escape us now, but that – ’
A large raindrop tobogganed off his nose and fell straight down his throat. Cut off in full eloquence, Tony gargled and clutched at his Adam’s apple. I laughed.
Maybe it was the laugh, or maybe I overdid my attempt to boost his ego. Anyhow, Tony got very defensive and mean. He had not suggested going out because he wanted to walk in the rain with me. He had an errand. It led us to the telephone-telegraph office, and the rat wouldn’t tell me what he intended to do there.
In view of the rain he consented to let me enter the office, but he sat me in a corner and I couldn’t hear a word of his conversation with the girl behind the counter. The conference took some time and ended with the dispatch of several cables. When we left the office together the rain had stopped, although the skies were still grey. Naturally I didn’t ask any questions. I have my pride.
We found a Bierstube on a back street, and ordered beer.
‘Look,’ said Tony abruptly. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
I made encouraging noises. More ego boosting was obviously in order if I wanted to get anything out of him.
‘You were saying the other day that we seem to be obsessed with ancient history instead of concentrating on the shrine. It’s true. I can’t get these people out of my mind – Burckhardt, Nicolas, Konstanze. But there’s some method in this particular madness. Our reconstruction of what happened in the crypt that night in fifteen twenty-five is not just antiquarian hobbying. It has helped us in our search. We know now that the shrine was in Count Harald’s tomb at one time. We don’t know whether it was Burckhardt or the steward who put it there, but that’s not important. What matters is who took it out. And we know it wasn’t Nicolas.’
I was inclined to agree with that.
‘Burckhardt was on the loose that night; it’s almost certain that he murdered Nicolas. So he must have been the one who disposed of the shrine. Therefore we can make a few deductions as to where he may have hidden it.’
Tony summoned the waitress and ordered more beer.
‘The hiding place can’t be too obscure,’ he continued. ‘Burckhardt wasn’t a man of great subtlety, and I don’t imagine he intended to find a permanent hiding place. Only his sudden death prevented him from disposing of the shrine.’
‘I’ll bet he didn’t plan to give it to the church.’
‘It’s a safe bet. Why hide it, if that was his intention? Now there aren’t that many places where it could have been hidden. I’ve made a list. Maybe you can think of some more.’
Tony pulled out his notebook.
‘The crypt is one place. I don’t see why the old boy should have removed the treasure from one tomb only to put it in another, but it won’t take long to check. I’ll examine the other tombs this afternoon. The chapel was remodelled in the eighteenth century, so that’s out. You’ve looked at the library, and didn’t find anything. Burckhardt wouldn’t choose his wife’s room, or the servants’ quarters, or any of the public rooms such as the kitchen, scullery, etcetera. It seems to me that the best possibilities are Burckhardt’s room and the cellars. I’m going to check the cellars first because of the fact that the plan of that part of the Schloss is missing. Does this make any sense to you?’
‘It does. But I can think of one other place.’
‘Where?’
‘The Wachtturm.’
We looked there.’
‘Not thoroughly. Another point. The Schloss seems to be riddled with secret passages. Maybe there is one from the crypt to the tower. Or the crypt to – almost anywhere. I can’t see Burckhardt carrying an object the size of the shrine through the public corridors on that fateful night.’
‘It’s a point. Well, we won’t find anything sitting here dinking beer.’
He stood up and the waitress swooped down on him with the bill. I stayed put.
‘Do I understand you are inviting me to join you in your investigations?’ I inquired.
‘Understand whatever you like.’ Tony hesitated. Then he blurted, ‘I don’t want you poking around in those lonesome places by yourself. You’re dumb enough to go exploring on your own, even after what has been happening. If I have to take you with me to keep you out of mischief, that’s what I’m prepared to do.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You’re so sweet to little helpless me. I don’t know how to thank you. I’m just all a-twitter . . .’
‘I’ll even put up with your smart-aleck remarks,’ Tony said shortly. ‘Come on.’
I had been trying to decide whether to tell him about the secret passage and my discovery of the missing armour. I decided not to.
A little later, dressed in working clothes and equipped with flashlights, we descended into the crypt. After an hour of eyestrain and general wear and tear, Tony rose stiffly to his feet.
‘If any other stone has been moved within the past five hundred years I’ll – well, I don’t think it has. Have you got a cigarette?’
We sat against the pillar and rested for a short time. But before his cigarette was half finished, Tony stood up.
‘I can’t sit, I’m too restless.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I followed as he headed for the far end of the long, shadowy chamber. ‘Like the clouds overhead, a feeling of impending doom . . .’
‘Stop that.’
The beam of his flashlight darted frivolously around the room, glancing off ponderous stone pillars, illuminating a carved face or two bronze hands clasped around the hilt of a sword.