Broadbent smiled.
“Of course I’m denying it, Miss Blackstock. I’d be a fool not to, even if by some bizarre stretch of the imagination your allegation had any substance or foundation, which it does not.” The lawyer turned to Holliday. “Besides, Colonel, as we are both aware, you have no proof.”
“You were asking about the sword yesterday.”
“Piffle,” said Broadbent, flicking the fingers of one hand into the air. “Coincidence.”
“My uncle found the sword in 1945. He kept his possession of it a secret for more than sixty years. Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” answered Broadbent.
“And your father never mentioned it to you.”
“No. As I mentioned to you yesterday, I only discovered its existence when I reviewed the notes my father had made in your uncle’s file when I took over his practice.”
“Why would your father have kept the sword’s existence a secret?”
“I have no idea,” said Broadbent, sighing. “I only know it was very important to him.”
“Yet he never made any attempt to get it back.”
“No. Perhaps he didn’t know that your uncle still had the sword in his possession.”
“He could have asked.”
“Apparently he didn’t, or at least I have no knowledge that he did.”
“You said your father was with my uncle when the sword was found.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you saying he has some degree of ownership?”
“Your uncle stole it from him.”
“So you decided to steal it back?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“What was your father doing at Berchtesgaden?”
“He was a major in the Third Infantry Division, ‘Rock of the Marne.’ He was an adjutant to Major General John W. O’Daniel, the commanding officer.”
“My uncle wasn’t in the Third Division,” argued Holliday. “He wasn’t in the military at all.”
“No,” replied Broadbent. “His cover portrayed him as a civilian consultant to the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Branch. In actual fact he was a spook, a member of Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services, the precursor to the CIA.” Broadbent paused. “Presumably he was more interested in protecting or discovering sources of intelligence than he was in recovering stolen artwork.”
“You seem to know a great deal about my uncle.”
“I made it my business to.”
“Why?”
“For one thing he was my father’s client.”
“I don’t get this,” said Peggy. “If my grandfather stole the sword from your father, why would Grandpa have made your father his lawyer?”
“They were friends,” said Broadbent. “From what I understand they had a great deal of shared history.”
“I never heard him mentioned in any other context except being Uncle Henry’s lawyer,” said Holliday. “There was nothing in his correspondence that would lead me to believe that they were friends either.”
“Then I guess you didn’t know your uncle very well,” replied Broadbent with a shrug. “The fact remains that you have something in your possession that rightfully belongs to my family.”
“Prove it,” said Holliday, standing. Peggy followed suit. Broadbent remained in his chair.
“You could make this very simple,” said the lawyer, sighing again. “You could simply sell the sword to me; it can’t have anything but a monetary value to you anyway. It would mean a great deal to my father.”
“I thought he was non compos mentis,” said Peggy. “Alzheimer’s. What would he care?”
“It would mean a great deal to me,” said Broadbent.
“That’s the whole point,” said Holliday, smiling down at the lawyer. “I want to find out exactly why it would mean so much to you. Why you’d burn down somebody’s house to get it.” He turned on his heel and left Broadbent’s office, Peggy right behind him.
They went back to the White Inn and ordered breakfast. Holliday had Eggbeaters and dry toast. Peggy had blueberry waffles topped with whipped cream, bacon, and home fries. They both drank coffee.
Holliday watched her eat, awed by the young woman’s capacity for food.
“You never gain an ounce, do you?”
“Nope,” she answered, putting a piece of bacon slice atop a square of syrup-soaked waffle.
“I hate you,” said Holliday fondly.
“I’m your niece,” answered Peggy blithely, popping the food into her mouth and chewing happily. “You’re not allowed to hate me; it’s against the rules.”
“You’re actually my second cousin once removed. They have different rules for that.”
“Only in the Ozarks,” said Peggy. She scooped up some home fries.
“I once had an insurance actuary tell me that there’s a freight train and a level crossing out there for all of us. One way or the other, it’s just a matter of time,” said Holliday. “Maybe you’d better ease off on the cholesterol.”
“I can’t,” said Peggy. “I’m foolish youth, remember? I have a reputation to protect.”
“You have whipped cream on your upper lip.”
She wiped it off with her napkin.
“What do we do about Broadbent?”
“Right now?” Holliday said. “Nothing. He’s right. We don’t have any proof that he was involved with the fire.”
“What about the guy you chased?”
“Fredonia’s police force has one investigative sergeant. I’m not holding out a lot of hope.”
“So we let it drop?”
“No, we do what I said. We find out why Broadbent wants a thousand-year-old sword so badly.”
After breakfast they went up to Holliday’s room and retrieved the sword, which he’d hidden under the mattress of his bed. He laid it out on the table beneath the window.
“Okay,” said Peggy. “It’s an old sword wrapped up in an old flag. Other than the fact that Grandpa found it in Adolf’s living room, what significance could it have?”
“Let’s begin at the beginning,” said Holliday, staring down at the sword. “Uncle Henry’s had the sword for more than half a century-why all the sudden interest now?”
“Something he found out?”
“Like what?” Holliday said. “It’s an old sword, just like you said. It was clearly owned by a wealthy man, probably a knight or even a lord.”
“What’s the country of origin?” Peggy asked.
“There’s no way to tell. It’s not like a painting, it has no provenance, and I doubt if there’s anything in the record to tell us how it got into Hitler’s hands. It’s undoubtedly some kind of plunder, looted by the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the Reichsleiter Rosenberg Institute for the Occupied Territories. Either that or Hermann Gцring’s people. They had a thing for going after Masonic relics; it played into the whole Aryan thing.”
“The Masons had swords?” Peggy asked.
“No, but the Templars did; the Templar mythology and the Masons’ started getting mixed up in the early 1800s.”
“So it could be a Templar sword then.”
“Sure.”
“How can you tell?”
“You can’t.”
“I thought you said the really good swordsmiths left their signatures on their swords.”
“That’s right. Their chop. They engraved it or embossed it.”
“But this sword doesn’t have one.”
“You’d have to take off the wire wrapped around the tang to find out.”
“So?”
Holliday looked at the sword. The leather wrapping that had once covered the wire was virtually nonexistent, and it looked as though the wire was already loose.
“Any good archaeologist would scream blue murder,” he muttered.
“Indiana Jones has left the building,” urged Peggy. “Do it.”
“Foolish youth is right,” he said, but he began to carefully unwrap the wire. By the time he reached the second level down he knew that the wire was gold; the top layer had been stained by the disintegration of the leather covering.
It was a single length made up of at least a dozen shorter pieces welded together. He also realized that someone had done this before now-the wire was too loosely wound to have maintained its integrity for a millennium. It took him the better part of half an hour, but he finally removed the last of it.
“What is that?” Peggy said as the tang was revealed.
“A chop,” said Holliday. “Two of them, as a matter of fact.” One was in the shape of a bee, stamped into the steel. The second was delicately engraved: two knights in armor riding a single horse, the official symbol of the Knights Templar. Below the symbol were the letters D.L.N.M.