John managed to parry the first pass. The next three opened up cuts on his cheek, forearm, and side. He avoided some of Alan’s thrusts by various moves that looked unorthodox even to my uneducated eyes, ducking and twisting and weaving, but he was breathing hard and he kept retreating. Schmidt had finally located another clip and was trying to slide it into the gun. He was swearing. Alan was laughing. That laugh was one of the ugliest sounds I had ever heard. I picked up a poker and tried to get behind Alan. He whipped round and knocked the poker out of my hand before turning back to John and parrying his clumsy thrust with insulting ease.
“Touche,” he yelled and ran John through the right arm.
The blade fell from John’s hand. His back against the wall, he slid slowly down to a sitting position. He was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, none of them except the last serious, and he was too out of breath to speak. I ran to him and knelt beside him, supporting his sagging body.
“Shoot, Schmidt,” I yelled.
“
There was still noise somewhere in the background, but none of it penetrated my horrified brain. All I could think was that Schmidt, the self-proclaimed greatest swordsman in Europe, had finally lost his mind. And he wasn’t even drunk.
Struggling to sit up, John gasped, “No, Schmidt, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t—” Schmidt assumed the position—I guess it was the position—and bellowed challenges in various languages, ending with
I can’t describe what happened. All I saw was a whirlwind of flashing steel, all I heard was the ring of metal on metal. When it stopped, Alan had fallen back, out of range of Schmidt’s weapon. He wasn’t laughing anymore. His eyes were big as saucers and his mouth hung open. Schmidt stood planted in the exact same spot, teeth bared and mustache bristling. “Ha!” he shouted. “Have at you!”
It went slower this time. Alan poked his sword at Schmidt and Schmidt knocked it away with contemptuous ease, before poking back at Alan. John started squirming, trying to pull away from my tenderly supportive arms. “Damn it, Vicky, get out of the way! I can’t see.” His voice rose in a howl of delight. “Get him, Schmidt! Let him have it!”
When the two broke apart this time, blood was streaming down Alan’s left arm. With slow dignity Schmidt took a single step forward and went at it again, forcing Alan back. I was vaguely aware of a voice babbling close to my ear. Every sentence ended in an exclamation point.
“The greatest swordsman in Europe! He was, by God, he was! A-to-Z Schmidt, Alphabet Schmidt—Olympic gold medalist, world champion! We were made to watch the films! I ought to have known! But it was almost twenty years ago, and he’s always been good old Schmidt…”
Schmidt’s fat old arm moved with the quick precision of a metronome. Alan was streaming blood from multiple cuts. Schmidt’s revenge, I thought wildly. He’s doing the same thing to Alan that Alan did to John.
This time it was Schmidt who stepped back. His breathing was ragged, but Alan was also gasping for breath, more from disbelief than exertion, I thought.
Schmidt intoned, “Do you yield?”
Melodramatic to the end, Alan cried, “Never!” and attacked.
Two quick passes; then Schmidt dropped to one knee and lunged, arm and sword in a single straight line. The point entered Alan’s chest.
For several long seconds there wasn’t a sound, not even that of exhaled breath. I will never forget the look on Alan’s face. Not pain, not anger—utter disbelief. He fell slowly, first to his knees, then onto his side, pulling the weapon from Schmidt’s hand.
John removed himself from my limp embrace and staggered to his feet. “Schmidt,” he said softly. “Schmidt, I…You…” and then, almost prayerfully, “Christ.”
He knelt by Alan and turned him onto his back. The hilt of the sword swayed gently, like a flower on a stem. Schmidt hadn’t moved. Still on one knee, he said, between gasps, “Vicky, will you please give me a hand?”
“Schmidt, are you hurt?” I hurried to him.
“No. It is…Well, you understand, it is my knee. Just help me up, please.”
I took his hand and pulled. Accompanied by a series of popping noises, Schmidt rose like a wounded whale.
“He’s not dead,” John said. “But he’s in bad shape. Call for an ambulance.”
“It’s on the way,” said a voice I hadn’t heard for some time.
Sans auburn wig and avec gun, Suzi stood in the door of the library. Behind her I saw several other familiar faces. I don’t know how long they had been there. I wouldn’t have noticed a stampede of buffalo.
“Typical,” I said bitterly. “Where were you when I needed you?”
“I came as soon as I received your message,” Suzi said.
“Swell,” I said. “There’s your thief, Suzi. And there, wounded but undaunted, is the man whom you wrongly suspected.” I flung my arm out. Never one to miss a cue, John got slowly to his feet. I went on with mounting passion, “If you ever bother us again, I’ll make sure your bosses hear how you screwed this one up. You weren’t looking for the perpetrator, you were blinded by your desire to nail John. He might have been killed if it hadn’t been for—”
“Schmidt,” John said, swaying theatrically. “Anton Z. Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe.”
T he lunge, you see, becomes difficult with middle age,” Schmidt explained. “The knee joints do not cooperate so well. Hence a fencer must rely on the strength of his arm and his expertise. He knew that, and did not think I would attempt it.”
The words “middle age” didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Schmidt could have described himself as “a mere youth” and none of his adoring fans would have contradicted him. Especially me.
“Oh, Schmidt,” I said. “I do love you.”
“You have said that before.” Schmidt’s eyes twinkled. “But you can say it as often as you like.” He examined his empty glass. “I believe I will have more beer.”
John beat me to the minibar. I was ahead on points, though, since I had phoned the hotel to order the beer before we left the battlefield.
The word was not inapropos. Alan’s allies had put up a pretty good fight, barricading most of the windows and defending the doors. Loyalty probably had little to do with it; anyone trying to leave the house, with or without a white flag, might have been mowed down. People with guns like to shoot them. They don’t always shoot straight when they are excited, though, and miraculously, no one had been killed.
Our allies, summoned by Schmidt, had waited for my signal before moving in. (Schmidt was in command because he was the only one who knew where I had gone.) They were a motley lot and it’s a wonder they didn’t start fighting among themselves—Suzi and Ashraf and their “assistants,” Feisal and a band of men from the village, and, of course, Saida. Schmidt was the glue that had held them all together. Feisal said he sounded like a French revolutionary stirring up the mob. “Avenge the murder of Ali! Retrieve the stolen treasures of Egypt! Rescue the beautiful American girl and save her lover!” I don’t know where they got all the guns and I had sense enough not to ask. Feisal wouldn’t let Saida have one, so she threw rocks. She claimed to have brained at least two of the enemy.
She and Feisal had come back with us to our now dear and familiar home away from home at the Winter Palace, leaving Ashraf and Suzi to direct the cleanup operations. John flatly refused the assistance of the ambulance personnel. “It’s a nice neat stab,” he said approvingly. “And I need a clean shirt. Alan has frightful taste.”
“That’s one of Alan’s?” I asked.
“Did you suppose I had another wardrobe hidden away in Luxor?”
His voice wasn’t exactly accusing, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. “What was I supposed to suppose?” I demanded.
“Never mind, darling, I forgive you. I will tell all in due course. In the meantime I could do with a little first aid.”
“And beer,” said Schmidt.
