The Saint-Germain Chronicles (15 page)

“Not a sound, Herr Tree,” Madame Kunst said softly as she brought up a Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. Her hands were expertly steady as she took aim at his head. “I will use this if I must.”

Saint-Germain’s warning flashed through James’ mind—if his nervous system were damaged, if his spine or skull were broken, he would die the true death, and his resurrection would have lasted merely a week—and he stood without moving. He began to dread what might happen if Saint-Germain should come into the room.

“You have been curious about the valise, haven’t you? You have all been curious.” She no longer looked high-strung and helpless; that part of her had been peeled away, leaving a determined woman of well-honed ruthlessness. “I have promised to see that it is left in working order, and you will not interfere.” She nodded toward the valise, her aim never wavering. “Open the valise, Herr Tree.”

Slowly, James did as she ordered. He dropped to his knees and pulled open the top of the old leather bag. He stared down at the contraption in it.

“It is a
beacon
, Herr Tree. Take it out, very, very gently, and put it on that brass trunk by the wall, the one under the window. If you trip or jolt the beacon, I will shoot you. Do you understand?”

With more care than he had ever known he possessed, James lifted the beacon. As he carried it toward the trunk she had indicated, he thought to himself that she had told him. Neither of those things was possible, he guessed from put the beacon in place and hoped it was well-balanced.

“Turn around, Herr Tree,” she said, softly, venomously.

James obeyed, hoping that she would not shoot in this little narrow room. “I’m not alone.”

“Herr Comte?” she asked quickly.

“Yes.”

She walked up to him, just far enough to be out of reach. “And the servant?”

“I don’t know,” James lied, praying she would believe him. “He… he was told to get the car ready.” He forced himself to speak in an undervoice though he wanted to shout.

“How helpful,” she muttered. She glared at him, apparently wanting to make up her mind, and finally, she cocked her head toward the door. “You will have to come with me, I think. You and I.”

James all but ground his teeth. He wanted to rush at her, to yell so loudly that she would drop the .38 and flee from him. Neither of those things was possible, he guessed from the hint of a smile she wore. “Where are we going?” he forced himself to ask.

“Out. After that, we’ll see.” She was wearing her salmon-colored knit dress which in the muted light of the room looked more the shade of diseased roses. “Walk past me, Herr Tree. Hands joined behind your head.” She came nearer to him. “What you feel at the base of your skull is the barrel of my pistol. If you move suddenly or try to grapple with me in any way, I will shoot. If you move your hands, I will shoot. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very.”

“You will reach with your left hand, slowly and deliberately, for the door. You will open it as wide as possible and you will release it.”

James did as she ordered, and when she told him to walk out onto the landing, he did that, too, as the muzzle of the .38 lay like a cold kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Now, down the stairs. One at a time. Carefully.” She was speaking softly still, but the sound of her voice rang down the stones, mocking her.

On the fourth step down, James heard a sound behind him that did not come from Madame Kunst’s steps. Apparently she was unaware of it, for she never faltered nor turned. He wondered if she were so confident of her mastery of the situation that she paid no attention to such things. He moved a little faster, trying to remember where the trip stair was.

“Not so fast,” Madame Kunst insisted. “It’s dark in here.”

Obediently, James slowed. He heard the whisper-light tread behind her, and wished he dared to turn. The trip stair was only a few treads below him. He made his way carefully.

Then, just as he passed the trip stair, something tremendously strong swept by him on the narrow curving stair, knocking him to the side and catching Madame Kunst on the most unstable footing in the tower.

She screamed, twisted. She fired once, twice, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls, singing and striking sparks where they touched. One of the bullets struck her in the shoulder and she fell, slid and slid, screaming at first and then whimpering. Her descent stopped only when Saint-Germain reached her.

“You may get up, James,” he said as he lifted Madame Kunst into his arms.

Moving as if he were tenanted in a body that was unfamiliar to him, James rose, testing his legs like an invalid. When he was shakily on his feet again, he looked down at the other man. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
, James. Your methods were reckless but your motive laudable.” He looked down at Madame Kunst, who was half conscious and moaning. “I should bandage her and get her to a physician. There must be a plausible story we can tell him.”

James had not the strength to laugh at this as he came down the stairs.

“But it will arrange itself,” Mirelle said confidently with a nonchalant French shrug. “A refugee woman, she says, came to my farmhouse, and I, what could I do but take her in? I did not know that she was carrying valuables, and when there was a commotion, I investigated.” Her minx’s eyes danced as she looked up at James. “It was very nice of you to give me the pistol, Mister Tree. I would not have been able to defend her if you had not been so generous.” She held out her hand for the pistol.

“How do you explain the rest? The beacon and her wound?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite smiling, but with the corners of his mouth starting to lift.

Mirelle gave this her consideration. “I don’t think I will explain the beacon. I think I will present it to a few of my friends in the Resistance and they will see what kind of game it attracts. For the rest, the thief was holding Madame… Kunst, isn’t it? so tightly that I was not in a position to get a clean shot.” She sat back in the high-backed chair that was the best in her parlor. “The physician in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete will not ask me too many questions, because he likes me and he hates the Germans and the war. Beyond that—who knows? The Germans may take her back, the Resistance may kill her. It does not matter so much, does it?” She folded her hands.

“Mirelle,” Saint-Germain said, with more sadness than she had ever heard in his voice, “you cannot simply abandon her like so much refuse.”

“You say that, after she tried to kill James and would have killed you?” Mirelle shot back at him. “You defend her?”

“Yes,” was the quiet answer.

Mirelle got out of her chair and turned her helpless eyes on James, then looked away from them both. “Perhaps you can afford to feel this way, you who live so long and so closely with others. But I am not going to live long, and I have very few years to do all that I must. Extend her your charity, if you must, but do not expect it of me. My time is too brief for that.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at Saint-Germain.

“You have chosen it,” Saint-Germain reminded her compassionately; he took her hand and kissed it.

“So I have,” she agreed with her impish smile returning. “For the time, I have the best of both, and when that is done, well, we shall see.” She turned toward James. “Would you like to remain here for the evening, James?”

“Thank you, Mirelle, but no.” He glanced out the window to the parked Bugatti.

“Another time then. I will be at Montalia tomorrow night?” Her eyes went flirtatiously from Saint-Germain’s to James’ face. “You would like that, yes?”

“Of course,” Saint-Germain said, answering for James.

“Then, good afternoon, gentlemen, and I will see you later. I have a few old friends who will want to hear from me, and the physician to mollify.” Without any lack of courtesy, she escorted them to the door, and stood waving as the Bugatti pulled away.

James returned the wave, then looked at Saint-Germain. “What
will
happen to Madame Kunst?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

“Does it concern you at all?” James was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt.

“Yes. But it is out of my hands now.” He drove in silence.

“Just that easy, is it?” James demanded some minutes later when he had been alone with his thoughts.

Saint-Germain’s small hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No, James—and it never becomes easy.”

Text of a letter from the Count of Saint-Germain to his manservant Roger.

7 Grovesnor Mews

London, England

22 April, 1950

Sassevert Parc

Lausanne, Switzerland

Roger;

Your report arrived this morning and I am most grateful for it. The succinct compilation is admirable, as always, and tells me a great deal.

It will probably be best to remove the athanor; its design is somewhat outmoded in any case. You may dispose of it in the usual manner, but take care to sell the components in more than one city or one country. I am not eager to sustain another investigation. Doubtless I need not remind you of this precaution, but in such times as these
—
and when have there been other times
?—
we must be circumspect
.

When you return, we will make arrangements to expand my laboratories here and in Italy. It might also be wise to continue work with that young American on his ceramic experiments. What would he think, I wonder, if he knew that those “revolutionary techniques” he and I discussed were as old as the Great Art itself? Or, for that matter, that he was not dealing with a chemical physicist but an alchemist? Do proceed with the licensing of the process, but let me review the terms of the agreements before the contracts are signed.

Be safe, old friend, and accept my sincere thanks.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

Text of a letter from le Comte de Saint-Germain to Henry McMillian of Columbia University.

43 Corso Solitudine

Roma, Italia

15 May, 1952

Professor Henry McMillian

Department of Chemistry

Columbia University

New York City, New York, U. S. A.

Dear Doctor McMillian:

I am somewhat baffled by your letter, but I will do what I can to answer your questions. Yes, it is true that I have conducted some of the experiments you inquire about, but 
I am not now associated with the activities of any government, anywhere in the world. Those of us whose countries are lost through the predations of politics and war are often reluctant to engage in such projects.

It may be that in the future I will visit your country, but at the moment I have no such plans. My business interests there are being handled with great ability by American attorneys and there is no reason I can determine why I should change so worthwhile an arrangement.

As to the equipment you have purchased through the agency
of my company in Switzerland,  I assure you I have no objection whatsoever
to your proposed adaptation of it to your uses. My own experiments have been
concluded and I have no specific interest in the metallic shell you mention.
However, I should warn you that I made no provision to shield it for radiation,
and you may wish to take precautions if you still intend to pursue atomic
research with it. In candor, I must add that I am not sure that it is possible to make an adequate shield with the shell you have. Let me urge caution in that respect.

With cordial good wishes to you and your colleagues, I am

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

«
^
»

O danke nicht für diese Lieder

mir ziemt es, dankbar Dir zu sein;

Du gabst sie mir, ich gebe wieder,

was jetzt und einst und ewig Dein.

I
T
was a small concert hall, holding less than eight hundred people; what it lacked in size it made up for in sumptuousness. The seats were red velvet plush, the carpets had been made to order in France, the murals on the ceiling, showing the whole court of Apollo, were the beautifully restored work of Giorgione. All the railings on the high-stacked balconies were the finest baroque carved wood covered with gold leaf. The orchestra pit was not large, accommodating thirty musicians in a pinch, and for that reason the hall was rarely used for anything other than baroque music.

Tonight was an exception: a concert of art songs with two singers and a piano accompaniment, and the hall was filled, for although the program was fairly unexciting, the baritone and the mezzo-soprano had a large and enthusiastic following, and the charity which the concert
benefited was socially popular.

Baronessa Alexis dalla Piaggia occupied the box immediately to the left of what was still designated the Royal Box. She was a self-possessed forty-four years old, of sleek and lean New England good looks which contrasted oddly but not unattractively with the soft Roman extravagance of her silken peach-colored gown. The Barone was away for a month in Britain, and so for the evening, her escort was Francesco Ragoczy, who sat beside her in evening dress and with the Order of Saint Stephan of Hungary on his formal sash.

“I have to tell you this,” Alexis whispered to him at the first break in the music. She spoke in English, hardly above a whisper. “They are investigating you.”

“They?” Ragoczy murmured as he joined in the applause. “You know, the government. You have dealings with Americans, don’t you?” She turned her head toward the stage as the mezzo came forward. He was reminded of the line from
Don Giovanni: Nella grande maestosa
, oh, the big ones—so majestic, and had to stop himself from mentioning it to Alexis. The mezzo’s voice was warm and creamy and rich, like an exotic sauce. “Francesco, are you listening to me?”