Free At Swords' Point by Andre Norton Page A

and a thick taste in his mouth. He could hear his watch tick when he held it to his ear. He might have been there ten minutes or ten hours. Bemused and logy with sleep he got up on his knees and swept his arms over his head in search of the light cord.
    Lucky chance found it, and he snapped on the light to sit blinking at the chest of drawers. His watch said quarter to ten, and he wound it absently as he tried to sort out his memories of the night before. He was hungry, and he wondered if he were doomed to molder away here while the outer world went about its business. This room had certainly been intended to hide those who had reason to fear the light of day.
    He got to his feet, noting as he walked that no creakingboards betrayed his movements. On the wall by the door panel he found something surprising — a penciled list of names and half obliterated dates.
    “J. Fulmer, 1942. R. W. Wingfield, 1942. Cauldwill, 1942. Ronston-March, 1943. Henderson, 1943. Wolanski, 1943. De Beauclaire, 1943. Wolfe, 1944 —”
    “Former inmates?” he asked of the emptiness about him. But those dates, 1942, 1943, 1944 — the years of the occupation! This must then have been a way station on the underground trail for fleeing men. He'd heard often enough of the Allied fliers who had escaped through the Netherlands, passed from station to station in disguise, at night, at the risk of their guides’ lives. To have sheltered so many this must have been an extra safe place. On impulse he took out his pocket pen and added, “Roajact, 1952.” Ten years after J. Fulmer and yet the same war was still going on!
    Quinn's watch read eleven-thirty, and he was extremely hungry when Johan looked in on him through the secret panel and shoved a small basket across the floor. He shook his head at Quinn's questions and went. The American was left to empty the basket, and despite the grime on his hands, he made a good meal of the cold meat, cheese, and bread it contained, drinking lukewarm coffee from a bottle to wash it down.
    During the rest of the afternoon he was left to doze. He had a feeling that it might be well to catch up on sleep now — he might not have much time later. There was no supper, and Johan did not appear again as the hours dragged by. At eight Quinn found a sliver of meat he had overlooked in the basket and ate it.
    It was close to midnight when the panel moved and Johan beckoned to him. Again they went down to the office of the Jonkvrouw. Kater sat by the proprietress, alert and interested.
    “Sit down!” She indicated a chair. “We have much todo and little time to do it in, Mijnheer. First there comes news — The police believe that a currency smuggler escaped last night from the de Witt. And they have tentatively identified him with one Quinn Anders. Should that Quinn Anders appear where they may lay hands upon him I believe that it would be some time before he could regain his freedom.”
    Quinn was able to nod agreement. After all that was no worse than he had expected.
    “Quinn Anders — if he wishes to remain free — must disappear!”
    “That is something of a problem, is it not, Jonkvrouw van Nul? If I travel I must produce a passport — my funds are mostly in travelers’ checks —”
    She lit one of her cigars. “In every matter of business there are annoying and time-wasting details, Mijnheer. But no difficulty exists which cannot be surmounted by those who have the patience. This is our business now — let us handle it, Mijnheer.”
    Quinn thought of those names on the wall of the hidden room. Yes, false identities might well be an old story to the people of the Wise Tomcat — they had such a business so well established by now that it must move on oiled wheels.
    “You asked me once concerning the Man Who Sells Memories. It is now plain that you are in need of his ministrations yourself. But of that more later. We have also discovered something concerning the Doppelganger's paymaster. He is one of our—