“This is no good, Eliza,” he said despondently. “I’ll never win like this.”
“Don’t give up, my love,” she said. “Here it is, look!”
Then Lucy grabbed my arm. “Look!” she said. “Doctor Cadaverezzi!”
For into the shooting area in front of the platform came the great genius himself—in chains! On one side of him was Constable Winkelburg and on the other Sergeant Snitsch. Many of the spectators, and the contestants as well, had seen his performance in the Jolly Huntsman, and they cheered and clapped to see him again. He turned and tried to bow, but the policemen hustled him forward. Then Lucy ducked under the rope and ran up to him.
“Doctor Cadaverezzi! What’s happening? What are they doing?” she said.
“Princess Nephthys!” he replied, and he did bow this time—a great sweeping gracious bow that had the sergeant and the constable bending too, to avoid letting go, so that they looked like three councillors of state bowing to a little princess. “How enchanting to see you, my dear! I regret that I cannot receive you in the style that I would wish, but—”
“You clear off,” said the sergeant to Lucy, “else I’ll arrest you and all.”
“Sergeant,” said Doctor Cadaverezzi, “may I make a last request?”
Everyone’s eyes were on him now. He knew how to hold an audience, all right; it’s partly skill, I suppose, and partly a sort of godlike cheek.
“A last request?” said the sergeant. “This ain’t an execution.”
“No?” Doctor Cadaverezzi looked around in surprise. “I saw all the muskets, and I thought—but never mind. One day I shall have the chance to escape a firing squad at the last moment…or better still, the guillotine! Ah, what a spectacle that would make! But who is that? My good Max! Are you prospering?”
“No, I ain’t, Doctor, and that’s a fact—”
“Come on, cut it out,” said the sergeant. “You’re under guard, my man. We’ve got a long way to go this morning.”
“Can’t he stop and watch the shooting contest?” said Max.
“Yes, let him watch!” came a voice from the crowd, and others joined in too: “He won’t escape! Let him watch, go on!”
“Go on, Sarge,” said Constable Winkelburg, greatly daring. “I wouldn’t mind watching it meself.”
“Hmm,” said the sergeant. “Very well. But mind you keep a grip on him. He’s as slippery as a serpent.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Doctor Cadaverezzi, bowing again—to the crowd this time. They cheered as the policemen led him to the edge of the platform, and I saw him give a great wink to Lucy.
And then there was a trumpet call and the audience parted to let the officials through.
“Maxie!” said Eliza anxiously. “You haven’t had time to practice on your trombone!”
“It ain’t a trombone, Eliza,” he said, “it’s a—oh, never mind. I’ll just have to do me best.”
And up onto the platform stepped the Mayor, a little plump man called Herr Kessel, and Frau Kessel, his wife, and half a dozen men all dressed in their best, including one wrinkled old huntsman whom I recognized as the man who’d taught Peter to shoot.
“Who’s he?” whispered Eliza.
“Herr Stanger,” I said. “I think he’s the referee.”
The Mayor stepped forward and began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen! I welcome you on behalf of the Municipal Corporation, and Frau Kessel, and Kessel’s Dry Goods Store, to the Grand Shooting Contest, held to determine which of these crack shots, what have assembled here from all parts of the valley and beyond, is the crackest.”
Here he paused for breath, and Charlotte craned upward to see better. There was a stir over at the other side of the crowd, beside the Jolly Huntsman; was that someone else arriving? A coach? It was hard to see, and in any case the Mayor was talking again, having taken a deep breath.
“We are deeply privileged to have with us as official on this occasion one whose exploits with the musket have earned our admiration over many years. I refer, of course, to Herr Josef Stanger, to whom I hand you over now, the referee of this noble contest.”
The wrinkled old huntsman, blinking a little and on his very best behavior for this large crowd, came forward.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Since we don’t hold this contest very often, I shall have to remind you of the rules before we start. Every contestant’s name goes into the hat, and they shoot in the order in which they are drawn out by His Worship the Mayor. One shot only, and—”
“Hang on!” That was Max, struggling forward.
“What is it?” said the referee, bending down to see what the matter was.
“Is it too late to enter?”
“No,” said the referee. “Just write your name on here and give it in.”
Max scribbled on the card the referee handed him, while Herr Stanger explained the rest of the rules. Max ducked under the rope and Eliza blew him a kiss. I thought: They’ll never let him! But Lucy and Charlotte were waving, too. Max rubbed his hands and shaded his eyes to look at the target.
“Right!” said the referee. “And now, if His Worship will be so kind…”
One of the officials held out a cocked hat to Herr Kessel, and he dipped a fat little hand into it and handed a card to the referee.
“The first man to shoot is…Adolf Brandt,” said Herr Stanger.
One of the contestants called out, “That’s me, sir!” and stepped forward and took aim. He fired, and the noise echoed all round the green, but the target didn’t budge. The marksman stepped away, disappointed; so much hanging on just one shot! But now the next man was shooting—and with the same result. The third name to come out of the hat was that of Rudi Gallmeyer from the village, and a cheer went up as he came to take his place and shoot; but he too missed.
“It must be harder than it looks,” said Lucy.
Another two names were called, another two shots echoed round the green, another two disappointed marksmen went back to join their fellows. Then:
“Max Grindoff,” called the referee.
“Ooh! Maxie! It’s you!” cried Eliza, and Lucy and Charlotte shouted, “Good luck!”
Max stepped forward. The spectators could see that he had no musket, and there was a buzz of surprise as he shaded his eyes to look hard at the target, put something (the dried pea, I suppose) in his mouth, and then set the long shiny coach-horn to his lips. He took a great lungful of breath.
“Just a minute,” said the referee. “What’s all this?”
Max put the coach-horn down. “It’s a blowpipe,” he said. “From Brazil.”
Herr Kessel the Mayor came to the edge of the platform and looked down his nose in disapproval. “I can’t have that,” he said. “It’s against all the dignity of the contest.”
Herr Stanger the referee shook his head dubiously. Eliza, beside me, was biting her lip in suspense.
“I’m not sure,” said the old huntsman. “There’s nothing in the rules that says he can’t, Your Worship. We’ve never had a case like this before.”
Max was looking more and more unhappy. He looked at the referee and I could tell what he was thinking. He spat out the pea and put the coach-horn down. “No,” he said, “the Mayor’s right. This contest is too ancient and noble to be won by a peashooter; it wouldn’t be right.”
“You wouldn’t win anyway,” said the Mayor scornfully, “blowing that ridiculous trombone.”
This was too much for Eliza. “It ain’t a trombone, Mr. Mayor,” she said with great dignity, “it’s a coach-pipe.”
“Eh?” said the Mayor.
“No! Sorry! I mean, it ain’t a trompipe, it’s a coach-bone. No! I mean—”
“Never mind, Eliza, give it up,” said Max. The audience was following this with great interest; they’d taken a liking to Max and they approved of his respect for their traditions. He turned to them. “The fact is, gents,” he said, “I ain’t got a musket, owing to me britches c
atching fire—what I won’t go into now—but I withdraw from this contest, not wanting to undignify it, like.”
“Good for you, mate!” came a voice from the crowd.
“Lend him a musket—go on,” suggested another.
The other competitors nodded in agreement, and Rudi Gallmeyer loaded his musket and handed it to Max, who bowed to them all.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “that does you very proud. I takes my hat off to you—sportsmen, every one. Here we go, then!” He raised the musket, took aim—and what happened next isn’t easy to describe.
I think, first of all, that he must have trodden on a stone and turned his foot, because he seemed to slip sideways suddenly, and as he fell, he must have pulled the trigger; and the musket was swinging wildly through the air, so his aim wasn’t quite where it might have been. In fact, the bullet went straight into the Mayor’s hat, and that noble piece of headgear flew off the municipal head as if Doctor Cadaverezzi had put a spring in it. The Mayor clapped his hand to his bare pate with an expression of outraged amazement, which quickly turned to apprehension, for that magnificent bullet hadn’t finished yet. The next thing it did was to sever one of the ropes that held the awning up—and a great sheet of stripy canvas descended gracefully over the Mayor’s wife, who disappeared with a faint shriek.
And attached to the canvas was a stout pole, which swung down and rapped Constable Winkelburg smartly on the helmet. With a squeal of terror, he staggered forward and grabbed at the first thing he could find, to save himself. And the first thing he could find was Sergeant Snitsch’s trousers.
They came down like an avalanche of blue serge. It was a majestic sight; and underneath them, he was wearing a pair of enormous drawers made of some stripy material that looked exactly like the stuff the Mayor’s wife, still shrieking, was threshing and heaving and struggling to get out of.
That took less time to happen than it does to describe. In one moment, the place was in chaos. There was a second or two’s awed silence, as the audience tried to take in what had happened—and then, as one man, they turned to the creator of it all, the incomparable Max, and cheered him to the echo. They laughed, they clapped, they roared their approval—and the most enthusiastic applause of all came from Doctor Cadaverezzi.
“Bravo!” he cried. “Bravissimo! What brilliant shooting, Max!”
The best thing of all was Max’s face. He stood there quite awestruck, scratching his head with amazement as the chaos and the laughter spread. “Well, I’m blowed,” he said at last. “How did that happen?”
“I’m afraid you missed the target,” said the referee, trying to look serious so as not to offend the Mayor.
“Oh, was that it?” said Max. “Well, thanks for the musket, mate.” He handed it back, and came to lean against the barrier where we were standing, while the officials replaced the awning and the Mayor untangled his wife and Sergeant Snitsch retired behind the platform to attend to his trousers. The constable (dazed) and Doctor Cadaverezzi (beaming) had to go with him, as they were all chained together.
And as the next contestant took his place, there came a familiar voice from behind us.
“Good morning, girls!”
They turned in delight.
“Miss Davenport!” said Lucy.
“Oh, thank goodness—” said Charlotte, and then broke off, and curtsied to the old gentleman who stood behind Miss Davenport. He bowed just as politely in return, to the both of them, and I recognized the lawyer, Meister Haifisch, that cool old skeleton who’d come to see Count Karlstein (and it seemed like weeks ago, instead of three or four days).
Miss Davenport could see that we were all bursting with questions. She held up her hand.
“Do not let us interrupt the contest,” she said. “Lucy, your hair is remarkably disordered; and Charlotte, you have not washed your face since the day before yesterday; but otherwise you look quite well, quite well indeed. I am delighted to see you. But let us be quiet. The referee is about to call another contestant.”
The Mayor took a card from the hat and handed it to Herr Stanger.
“Peter Kelmar,” he called.
I gasped. Peter at last—and he wasn’t there! I could sense Ma, behind me, and Hannerl, too, biting their lips and clasping their hands with suspense; and I felt my heart beat a good deal faster, too.
“There he is!” cried Lucy, pointing.
And there he was, strolling around the edge of the platform as cool as you please. At least, he looked cool—and to the spectators, he must have looked downright arrogant. But I knew he’d be strung up as tight as a violin string, and I only hoped the danger and exhaustion of the night hadn’t unsettled whatever steadiness he’d been able to build into himself during his time in the cellar. He came to the mark—I crossed my fingers—he raised the musket—I held my breath—and then there came an interruption.
Sergeant Snitsch, one hand on his trousers and the other brandishing a truncheon, rushed out from behind the platform.
“Stop!” he cried. “Peter Kelmar, you’re under arrest! There’s a price on your head, young man!”
Peter stood quite still for a moment, and then lowered the musket carefully before looking around. What he’d have done next, I don’t know; but it was the referee who spoke.
“No,” he said firmly. “I can’t have that. While he’s taking part in the contest, he must be a free man, since it says in the rules that only free men can take part.”
Sergeant Snitsch was astonished. “But I’ve arrested him!” he said.
“Oh, no, you haven’t,” said Herr Stanger, “because he’d already started. He’s a free man!”
The audience, thanks to Max, was in a good mood and they cheered at this verdict. Sergeant Snitsch had to back down.
“Only till he shoots,” he grumbled. “I’ll have him then.”
“That’s up to you, Sergeant,” said the referee. “Now, stand aside, if you please.”
The sergeant tucked his truncheon under his arm and stood out of the way, fixing his trousers. The audience fell still, and Peter lifted his musket for the second time.
You remember what I said about William Tell? Well, that came back to me again. For Peter wasn’t shooting only for the prize; he was shooting for his freedom, and all the spectators knew it. I’d have shaken like a leaf; most people would. But that’s the difference between you and me, on the one hand, and a champion, on the other. For he held the musket as still and steady as a stone carving, and then he squeezed the trigger; and just as if it had been rehearsed, the feather flew high into the air.
He’d hit the target! He’d won!
It took a moment or two for the audience to realize—and then such a cheer broke out as I’d never heard in my life. They threw their hats in the air, they slapped each other on the back, they laughed and shouted and cheered with joy.
And then the sergeant stepped forward again, and the noise died away. “Right, my lad,” he said with satisfaction, “I’ve got you now.”
“Just a minute,” said Peter. “Haven’t I won the contest, Herr Stanger?”
“You have,” said the referee.
“So I’m Chief Ranger of the Forest?”
“That’s right,” said Herr Stanger, nodding briskly.
“So what?” said Sergeant Snitsch.
“So he’s a free man, that’s what,” said Herr Stanger loudly, “since only a free man can be Chief Ranger of the Forest!”
And if the first cheer was loud, this was louder still. Hannerl was jumping up and down, Ma was wringing her hands and trying to clap them at the same time, Lucy and Charlotte were cheering, and I thought the awning was going to fall again through being shaken loose by the noise. Peter stepped up and shook the Mayor’s hand and was presented with a scroll and a bag of gold, and bowed very respectfully to the Mayor’s wife. You’d never have thought he’d been a desperate criminal, wanted by the police, only five minutes before.
And that, I suppose, would have been that; we’d al
l have gone home and had lunch, and the excitement would have been over. But there was Miss Davenport—and what was she doing? Ducking under the ropes, holding up her hand for silence, standing on the steps of the platform?
“Your Worship,” she said in her best classroom voice: loud, clear, and wake-up-at-the-back-there. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an important announcement to make. I do not like to mar your joy on this happy occasion with somber thoughts, but I have to tell you that Heinrich, Count Karlstein, is no more.”
Even those in the audience who didn’t know who Count Karlstein was—the visitors, those from the other valleys—gathered from the stunned silence that he was someone of importance. And they’d have gathered from the odd quality of the silence—interested more than sorrowful—that he wasn’t wholly loved by those who did know him. Miss Davenport went on:
“As this is an event which concerns you all, I thought it best to announce it now. I call to witness Meister Haifisch.”
The lawyer (everyone could see he was a lawyer; something in the dry, actorish way he took the center of the platform, I expect) bowed to the Mayor, the referee, the Mayor’s wife, and finally Peter (who bowed back with all the authority of his new rank), and spoke.
“The body of Count Karlstein was discovered this morning by one of his servants. He had suffered an apoplectic fit during the night. The question of the Karlstein estate is a very unusual one, which may excuse our dealing with it in this unusual way. To begin with, there are his two nieces—Miss Lucy and Miss Charlotte.”
“Oh!” gasped Eliza. Charlotte’s hand crept into mine; what was going to happen?
“As these two young ladies are without living relatives,” the lawyer continued in his precise, cool way, “they are declared wards of court and taken into custody.”
Charlotte gave a little cry. Lucy took her hand and the two of them shrank together, a little apart from the rest of us. We watched helplessly.
“However,” Meister Haifisch went on, “there is a complication. I have established that the late Count Karlstein had no true title to the estate.”