Divide and Rule Read online

  "You know, How," said Haas, "that's one reason I never liked those iron hats much. For wearing, that is; I don't say nothing against them for flowerpots. I always figured, suppose a guy was to offer me a drink, sudden, and I had to wrassle all those visors and trapdoors and things out of the way. When I got ready to drink, the guy might have changed his mind." He took a sip and sighed happily. "You Yanks sure know how to mix cocktails. Out in Wyoming the cocktails are so lousy we take our poison mostly straight.

  "It's a right handsome river, this Mohawk," he continued. "Wish I could say the same for some of the towns along it. I come up from New York through Connecticut; they got some real pretty towns in Connecticut. But the river's okay. I like to watch the canal boats. Those canal-boat drivers sure know how to handle their horses."

  Somebody down the bar said loudly: "I still claim it ain't decent!" Heads were turned toward him. Somebody shushed him, but he went on: "We all know he's been doing it for years, but he don't have to wave it in our faces like that. He might have taken her around a back alley, 'stead of dragging her right down the main street."

  "Who dragged whom down what street?" Sir Howard asked a neighbor.

  "Kelly's been girling again," the man replied. "Only this time he had his gang grab her right here in town. Then they tied her on a horse, and Kelly led the procession right through the heart of town. I saw it; she sat up very straight on the horse, like a soldier. She couldn't say anything on account of the gag, of course. The people were sore. I think if somebody'd had a can opener he'd have taken a crack at Kelly, even though he had his lobsters with him. I would have."

  "Huh?" said Haas blankly.

  "He means," the knight explained, "that if he'd had a billhook or a poleax he'd have gone for this Kelly, in spite of his having a gang of full-armored men at his back. A half-armored man is a crab."

  "You use some of the dangedest English here in the East," said Haas. "Who's this Kelly? Sounds kinda tough."

  Their informant looked at Haas' clothes and Sir Howard's trade-mark. "Strangers, aren't you? Warren Kelly's tough, all right. He sells the townspeople 'protection.' You know, pay up or else. We're supposed to be part of Baron Schenectady's fee, but Scheneck spends his time in New York, and there's nobody to do anything. Kelly has a big castle up near Broadalbin; that'll be where he's taken this poor girl. He hasn't got a title, though at the present rate he's apt to before long—meaning no offense to the nobility," he added hastily. "Gentlemen, have you ever thought of the importance of insurance? My card, if you don't mind. My company has a special arrangement for active men-at-arms—"

  Sir Howard and Haas looked at one another, slow grins forming. "Just like in storybooks," said the knight, "Lyman, I think we might do a little inquiring around about this castle and its super-tough owner. Are you with me?"

  "Sure, I'm way ahead of you. They'll be a hardware store open after we finish dinner, won't they? I want to buy some paint. I got an idea."

  "We'll need a lot of ideas, my friend. You can't just huff and puff and blow a concrete castle in, you know. Strategy is indicated."

  The horse's hoofs clattered up to the side of the moat; the rider blew a whistle. A searchlight beam stabbed out from the walls, accompanied by a challenge. The light bathed Sir Howard van Slyck and his mount—with a difference. Paul Jones' feet had become white, and his black forehead had developed a big white diamond. On the rider's breastplate the Van Slyck maple-leaf insignia was concealed under a green circle with a black triangle painted in the middle of it. The red-and-white flag was gone from the lance.

  "I am Sir William Scranton of Wilkes-Barre!" shouted the knight. (He knew that northeastern Pennsylvania was full of noble Scrantons, and there ought to be several Williams among them.) "I'm passing through, and I've heard of Warren Kelly and should like to make his acquaintance!"

  "Wait there," called the watcher. Sir Howard waited, listening to the croak of frogs in the moat and hoping his alias would stand inspection. He was in high spirits. He'd had a moment of qualms about violating his promise to his father, but decided that, after all, rescuing a damsel in distress couldn't be fairly called "joining up in a local war."

  The hinges of the drawbridge groaned as the cables supporting it were unreeled. He clattered into the yard. A blank-faced man said: "I'm Warren Kelly. Pleased to meetcha." The man was not very big, but quick in his movements. He had a long nose and prominent, slightly bloodshot eyes. He needed a haircut. Sir Howard saw him wince slightly when he squeezed his hand. He thought, why I could knock that little—but wait a minute; he must have something to make himself so feared. He's probably a clever scoundrel.

  They were in the hall, and Sir Howard had accepted the offer of a drink. "How's things down your way?" asked Kelly noncommittally. His expression was neither friendly nor otherwise. Sir Howard opened wide the throttle of his famous charm, no mean asset. He didn't want a kicker bolt between the shoulder blades before his enterprise was well started. He gave scraps of such gossip as he heard from Pennsylvania, praised his host's brandy, and told tall tales of the dread in which he had heard Kelly was held. Little by little the man thawed, and presently they were swapping stories. Sir Howard dredged up the foulest he could remember, but Kelly always went him one better. Some of them were a bit strong for even the knight's catholic taste, but he bellowed appreciatively. "Now," said Kelly with a bleak little smile, "let me tell you what we did to that hock-shop guy. This'll kill you; it's the funniest thing you ever heard. You know nitric acid? Well, we took a glass tube, with some glass wool inside for a wick—"

  Some of Kelly's men were lounging about, listening to the radio and shooting crap. A bridge game was going in one corner. Sir Howard thought, it's time it happened. I mustn't glance up as if I were expecting something. If this doesn't work—He had no illusions about being able to seize the girl and hew his way through a score of experienced fighting men.

  A faint tinkle of glass came from somewhere above. Kelly glanced up, frowned, and went on with his story. Then there was another tinkle. Something fell over and over, to land on the rug. It was a steel-tube arrow with duralumin vanes. The head had been thrust through a small bag of something that burned bluely with a horrible, choking stench.

  "What the hell!" exclaimed Kelly, getting up. "Who's the funny guy?" He picked up the arrow, making a face and coughing as he did so. He walked over to the wall and barked into a voice tube: "Hey, you up there! Somebody's dropping sulphur bombs in here. Pick him off, nitwit!" A hollow voice responded something with: "Can't see him!" A man was running downstairs with another arrow. "Say chief, some bastitch shot this into my room, with a sulphur bag on it—"

  They were all up now, swearing and wiping their eyes. "All the lousy nerve—" "This'll fumigate the place, anyway. The cockroaches is gettin'—" "Shuddup, lug, the sulphur don't stink no worse'n you." Sir Howard, coughing, pressed his handkerchief to his streaming eyes. Kelly blew three short blasts on the loudest whistle the knight had ever heard.

  The men went into action like trained firemen. Doors in the wall were snatched open; behind each door was a suit of minor. The men scrambled into their suits with a speed Sir Howard wouldn't have believed possible. "Wanna come along,Wilkes-Barre?" asked Kelly. "If we catch this guy, I'll show you some real fun. I got a new idea I want to try, with burning pine slivers. Hey, you guys! First squadron only come with me; the rest stay here. Stand to arms; it may be some trick." Then they were half running, half walking to the court, where their horses already awaited them. They mounted with a great metallic clanging and thundered across the drawbridge.

  "Spread out," snapped Kelly. "Butler, you take the north—"

  "Yeeeeow!" came a shriek from the darkness. "Damn Yank robbers! Hey, Kelly, who's your father? Betcha don't know yourself!" Then they were off on the Broadalbin road, after a small shadowy form that seemed to float rather than gallop ahead of them.

  Sir Howard pulled Paul Jones in slightly, so that man after man pounded past him, meanwhile loudly
cursing his puzzled mount for his slowness. By the time they reached a turn he was in the tail. He pulled up sharply and whirled the gelding around on his hind legs—

  In three minutes he was back at the castle, giving an excellent imitation of a man reeling in the saddle. Something red was splashed on his suit and on Paul Jones, and dripped from his left solleret to the ground. "Ambush!" he yelled. "Kelly's surrounded just this side of Broadalbin! I was in the tail and cut my way clear!" He gasped convincingly. "Everybody out, quick!" In a minute the castle had disgorged another mob of gangsters. Again the black gelding didn't seem able to keep up with the headlong pace—

  This time Sir Howard, when he reached the castle, tethered his mount to a tree outside the moat. There would be a few serving men in the castle yet, and they'd run out to take his horse and ask questions if he rode in. The sentries would be on duty, too. He peered into the dark, and couldn't make out either one in the battlements. It was now or never. Thank God, they'd left the drawbridge down.

  The court was empty. So was the hall. So was the dining room. Jeepers, he thought, isn't anybody home? I've got to find at least one man! He tiptoed toward the kitchen, a rather futile performance, as the suit gave out little scrapes and clashings no matter what he did.

  Inside the door a fat, sweaty man wearing a high white cap was wiping a glass with a dish towel. His mouth fell open, and he started to run at the sight of the naked sword, the glass shattering on the tiles. "No, you don't!" growled the knight, and in four long strides he had the cook by the collar and the sword point over the man's right kidney. "One squeak and it'll be your last. Where is everybody?"

  "Y-yessir, chef's in bed with a cold, and the others have went to a movie in town."

  "Where is she?"

  "She? I dunno who you—eek!" The point had been dug in an eighth of an inch. "She's in the guest room on the second floor—"

  "All right, show me. March!"

  The guest room had a massive oak door, held shut by a stout Yale lock. The lock was in a bronze mounting, and was evidently designed to keep people in the room rather than out.

  "Where's the key?"

  "I dunno, sir—I mean, Mr. Kelly's got it—"

  Sir Howard thought. He'd been congratulating himself on having thought of everything—and now this! He decided correctly that he'd only get a bruised shoulder trying to break down the door. He didn't know how to pick locks, even assuming that a cylinder lock was pickable. He'd have to hurry—hurry— Was that the hoofs of the returning troop? No, but they might be back any minute. If something happened to Haas—or if the second squadron caught up with the first—

  "Lie down on your face next to the door," he snapped.

  "Yessir—you won't kill me, sir? I ain't done nothing."

  "Not yet, anyway." He rested his sword point on the man's back. "One move, and I'll just lean on this." With his free hand he took out his dagger and began unscrewing the four screws that held the lock mounting. If only the narrow blade would hold—

  It took an interminable time. As the last screw came out, the lock dropped with a soft thump onto the cook. Sir Howard opened the door.

  "Who are you?" asked the girl, standing behind a chair. She was rather on the tall side, he thought. That was nice. She wore the conventional pajamalike clothes, and seemed more defiant than frightened. Her lightish hair was cut shorter and her skin was more tanned than was considered fashionable.

  "Never mind that; I've come to get you out. Come on, quick!"

  "But who are you? I don't trust—"

  "You want to get out, don't you?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then stow the chatter and come along. Kelly'll be back any minute. I won't eat you. Yeowp, damn, that's done it!" The cook had rolled suddenly to his feet, and his cries of "He-elp!" were diminishing down the corridor. "Come on, for God's sake!"

  When they reached the hall, a man in half-armor was coming down the other stair—the one that led to the sentry walk. He was coming two steps at a time, holding a poleax at port arms.

  Stand clear!" Sir Howard flung at the girl, slapping his visor down. A second man appeared at the head of the stair; the first was halfway cross the room. The first lunged with his can opener. Sir Howard swayed his body to let the point go over his shoulder; then their bodies met with a clang. The knight snapped his right fist up to the man's jaw, using the massive sword guard as a knuckle duster. The man went down, and the other was upon him. He was even bigger than Sir Howard, and he brandished his poleax like a switch. At the business end the weapon had a blade like that of a cleaver. From the back side of the blade projected a hook—for pulling men off horses—and from the end extended a foot-long spike.

  Sir Howard, skipping away from a stab at his foot, thought, if there's anyone else in the castle this anvil chorus of ours will bring them out quickly. There was a particularly melodious bonggg as the blade struck his helmet; he saw stars and wondered whether his neck had been broken. Then the butt end whirled around to trip him. He staggered and went down on one knee; as he started to recover, the point was coming at his visor. He ducked under it and swung. He couldn't hope to cut through the duralumin shaft but his blade bit into the tendons on the back of the man's unprotected left hand. Now!

  But the man, dropping his poleax, was dancing back out of reach, flicking blood from his wounded hand. His sword came out with a wheep almost before the knight had regained his feet. Then they were at it again. Feint-lunge-parry-riposte-recover-cut-parry-jab-double-lunge. Ting-clang-swish-bong-zing. Sir Howard, sweating, realized he'd been backing. Another step back—another—the fellow was getting him in a corner. The fellow was a better swordsman than he. Damn! The sentry's point had just failed to slide between the bib and plastorn into his throat. The fellow was appallingly good. You couldn't touch him. Another step back—he couldn't take many more or he'd be against the walls.

  The girl had picked up one of the light chairs around the card table. She tiptoed over and swung the chair against the back of the sentry's legs. He yelled, threw up his arms, and fell into a ridiculous squatting position, with his hands on the floor behind him. Sir Howard aimed for his face and put his full weight behind the lunge; felt the point crunch through the sinuses.

  "The other one!" she cried. The other sentry was on his hands and knees across the room, feeling around for his weapon. "Hadn't you better kill him, too?"

  "No time; run!" They went, clank, clank, clank, into the dark. "Never . . . mind . . . him," the knight panted. "Much . . . as . . . I . . . admire . . . your . . . spirit. Damn!" He had almost run off the edge of the drawbridge. "Be . . . smart . . . to . . . drown . . . myself . . . in . . . moat . . . now."

  5

  "Good heavens, I must have slept all morning! What time is it, please, Sir Knight?"

  Sir Howard glanced at his wrist, then remembered that his watch was under his gauntlet and vambrace. It was a good watch, and the knight's economical soul would have squirmed at the idea of wearing it outside when there was a prospect of a fight. He got up and looked at the clock built into the pommel of his saddle. "Eleven-thirty," he announced. "Sleep well?"

  "Like a top. I suppose your friend hasn't appeared yet?"

  Sir Howard looked through the pines at the gently rolling, sandy landscape. Nothing moved in it save an occasional bird. "No," he replied, "but that doesn't mean anything. We're to wait till dark. If he doesn't show up by then we'll move on to—wherever we're going."

  The girl was looking, too. "I see you picked a place without a house in sight for your rendezvous. I . . . uh . . . don't suppose there's anything to eat, is there?"

  "Nope; and I feel as though I could eat a horse and chase the driver. We'll just have to wait."

  She looked at the ground. "I don't mean to look a gift rescuer in the mouth, if you know what I mean . . . but . . . I don't suppose you'd want to tell me your real name?"

  Sir Howard came to with a snort. "My real . . . how the devil did you know?"

  "I hope
you don't mind, but in the sunlight you can see that that trademark's been painted on over another one. Even with all that blood on your suit."

  Sir Howard grinned broadly. "The gore of miscreants is more beautiful than a sunset, as it says in a book somewhere. I'll make you an offer: I'll tell you my real name if you'll tell me yours!"

  It was the girl's turn to start, deny, and interrogate. "Simple, my dear young lady. You say you're Mary Clark, but you have the letters SM embroidered on your blouse, and an S on your handkerchief. Fair enough, huh?"

  "Oh, very well, my name is Sara Waite Mitten. Now how about yours, smarty?"

  "You've heard of the Poughkeepsie Van Slycks?" Sir Howard gave a precis of his position in that noble family. As he was doing so, Paul Jones ambled over and poked the girl with his nose. She started to scratch his forehead, but jerked her hand away. "What's his name?" she asked. The knight told her.

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Oh, I don't know; it's been a name for horses in our family for a long time. I suppose there was a man by that name once; an important man, that is."

  "Yes," she said, "there was. He was a romantic sort of man, just the sort that would have gone around rescuing maidens from captivity, if there'd been any maidens in captivity. He had a sense of humor, too. Once when the ship he commanded was being chased by an enemy, he kept his ship just out of range, so that the broadsides from the enemy's guns fell just short. Jones posted a man in the stern of his ship with orders to return each broadside with one musket shot. A musket was a kind of light gun they had in those days."

  "He sounds like a good guy. Was he handsome, too?"

  "Well"—the girl cocked her head to one side—"that depends on the point of view. If you consider apes handsome, Paul Jones was undoubtedly good-looking. By the way, I notice that your Paul Jones' coloring comes off when you rub him." She held up a paint-smeared hand. The gelding had no desire to be scratched or petted; he was hoping for sugar. As none was forthcoming, he walked off. Sally Mitten continued: "When I first met you, I decided you were just a big, active young man with no particular talents except for chopping up people you didn't like. But the whole way the rescue was planned, and your noticing the initials on my clothes, seem to show real intelligence."