The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Read online

  The guards still advanced, pausing every ten paces to fire a volley blindly into the cavern, while the five men inside were preparing for a rapid departure. They each fastened a five gallon can of gasoline behind the seat, and when the ammunition was divider up among them, each put his allotment in the saddle bags on the motorcycles. They mounted their machines, and just as the guards gained the entrance to the cavern all five motors “took hold” at once. The surprise of the guards was wondrous to see, but none stayed to investigate. Not wishing to be encumbered by any excess baggage they dropped their muskets, hats and a surprising array of personal equipment as they fled for the bushes, the motorcycles right at their heels. Directly in his path, Clive saw a beautiful sword that had been dropped by one of the fleeing guards, and without thinking of any possible consequences he reached down and picked it up as he swept by.

  The musketeers were well out of range before any of the guards had recovered his faculties enough to retrieve his musket and fire after the vanishing quarry. The latter were now approaching the outskirts of Amiens, and as they proceeded peasants along the way were deeply impressed. Some of the women became hysterical, others collapsed, still others dropped to their knees and prayed, while the greatest number of people ran until they felt they were safe, and then gazed after the “monsters,” with protruding eyes, and mouths agape. The effect upon domesticated animals along the way was practically universal—they wanted to leave, and without delay.

  “Let us stop at the inn and inquire about our lackeys,” shouted Porthos. The others agreed, much to Clive’s surprise, for he knew that the musketeers believed the lackeys to be under arrest by the cardinal’s guards, and the inn would probably be swarming with guards.

  Following d’Artagnan, they rode their motorcycles right into the main dining hall of the inn. The occupants of the room had scarcely more courage than had the peasants along the road, and in a moment the room was a shambles. In the confusion Clive looked up and saw a uniformed guard on a balcony at the end of the room unlimber a musket and point it in the direction of the musketeers. In true western fashion Clive whipped out his revolver, it spoke twice and on the second shot the guard fell to the floor. Soon other guards had muskets in their hands, and were falling under the poorly aimed but effective revolver shots of the musketeers. Although the guards were seasoned warriors, picked from among the best in France, this onslaught with deadly revolvers was more than a match for their awkward muskets, and they quickly withdrew. This respite for the five men was short-lived, however, for scarcely had the last man vanished through the rear door than a number of guards that had been at another inn charged in the front door with swords drawn. Clive leveled his revolver and pulled the trigger, but he had already fired the sixth shot.

  “Your sword,” he heard Athos cry; “defend yourself,” and the musketeer stepped in front of him in time to intercept an onrushing guard, giving Clive a chance to draw his saber.

  Clive’s heart was pounding wildly as he stepped in line with the musketeers, and crossed swords with one of the guards; he realized that this time not the reputation of his alma mater, but his own life was at stake, and he tried to calculate his chances of winning against a seasoned swordsman. Much to his own surprise he found himself parrying the thrusts of his opponent, and as he gained confidence he assumed the offensive, while his opponent was forced to fall back to a strictly defensive technique.

  “After all,” he told himself; “the art of fencing has had three hundred years to improve itself since this fellow learned how,” and he sprang with double enthusiasm at his opponent. This last thrust disarmed the latter, and before he could recover his sword Clive had picked it up. The guard stood with folded arms:

  “Slay me Monsieur, or return my sword, for I will not surrender.”

  To Clive this was an awkward situation. He tried to remember from his readings what was done in a case like this. He glanced at his companions, and saw that d’Artagnan and Aramis were each engaging two opponents, and at that moment Athos and Porthos eliminated their men with thrusts through the body. This left one guard apiece for the musketeers, and Clive turned back to his man.

  “I hate to do this, brother,” he said in English; “but as the old saying goes, ‘it’s for your own good,” and he floored the guard with a right to the chin. Acting quickly, he reloaded the revolvers of the musketeers, and then taking his rifle from the scabbard that hung on his motorcycle he stood guard over the two doors to the room, while the musketeers completed their business.

  Athos was first to dispatch his adversary, and going to the kitchen he dragged the inn-keeper from the floor where he had fallen, trembling, at the beginning of the engagement. Giving him a preliminary shaking he said:

  “If you value your beggarly life you will tell what has become of our lackeys.”

  “They set out on their horses yesterday, shortly after Monsieur and his companions left.”

  “You lie,” said Athos, getting a firmer grip abut the fellow’s throat, and shaking him even more vigorously than before. “Tell me the truth or I shall, see that your head parts company with your body.”

  “Mercy, Monsieur, mercy!” groaned the poor fellow. “They said they would kill my little ones.” Athos discontinued the shaking.

  “Quick, fool, lead me to our servants or your little ones will lose their father.”

  By this time d’Artagnan and Aramis had joined Athos, and the three followed the inn-keeper to the cellar. Clive and Porthos remained in the main dining room of the inn to prevent any further interruptions.

  “What sword is that you have so carefully fastened to your machine?” asked Porthos, indicating the sword Clive had picked up as he left the cavern. Clive removed the sword from its improvised scabbard, explaining where he got it. Porthos contemplated the sword for a moment, and then speaking as though to himself:

  “Du Bois is very proud of that sword, and perhaps the sword should be proud of its master. Outside of the ranks of the musketeers there isn’t a better swordsman in all France,” and then to Clive: “After the way you conducted yourself in the affair with the guards you will, perhaps, be a match for him.”

  “A match for him?”

  “Of course, when you present him with his sword. You knew, didn’t you, that what you have done constitutes a challenge to duel?”

  “Oh, yes,” Clive said weakly. This was an unexpected turn of events, he had taken the sword more as a college boy prank than for any other reason, and had intended leaving it thrust into a post along the way with a note attached. He knew now that if he was to stay in this country he must fight a duel with du Bois—and win.

  Clive’s musings were interrupted by the sound of gunfire coming from the region of the cellar. Porthos immediately sprang toward the cellar door, and Clive was about to follow, but he stopped a moment to listen to the shots. So far only revolver shots had been fired, and he decided that he would be of much greater value guarding the machines and the entrance to the cellar than by mixing in the fight in the crowded basement. This proved to be a wise decision, because the sound of the shooting was attracting considerable attention, and Clive found it necessary to keep the would-be interventionists at bay by means of a few well-placed rifle shots. Between shots he started the motors on all five machines, and in a few moments the sound of firing ceased in the cellar, and almost immediately the sound of heavy boots running up the wooden stairs could be heard.

  Four men burst through the cellar door, followed immediately by the musketeers who closed and bolted the door after them, and then made for their respective “mounts.” The lackeys (for it was they who had first appeared) were somewhat bewildered by the machines, and not a little frightened, but at a sign from their masters, and hearing a vigorous pounding coming from the bolted door, they decided the motorcycles were the lesser evil, and mounted ahead of the gasoline can that each machine carried.


  It was growing dark when this small, but formidable, group of warriors emerged upon the high road to Paris. The scattering of musket shots that were fired after them, therefore, went wild, and only tended to heighten the spirits of the adventurers. The lackeys soon became accustomed to the “tremendous” speed at which they were traveling, and even began to enjoy the ride, but nevertheless they kept turning around to see if the devil were chasing them to recover his horses.

  * * * *

  They sped through darkened villages lights blinked on in the windows, and looking back the travelers could see lights pour out of houses and dance around like fireflies in the streets. And in those towns there was excited talk about Satan and his legions who had passed through on the way to Paris to wreak vengeance upon the corrupt court. Soon women were found who were possessed of evil spirits, and bells over the countryside began tolling that was to continue all night. Holy men, and women, worked feverishly to cast out the evil spirits, but by morning Satan had taken his toll, and there were many funeral processions in the villages between Amiens and Paris.

  Two hours after leaving the inn at Amiens, “Satan’s Legions” entered the heart of Paris. Here they separated, and each made his way to his own quarters. Clive followed Athos, for he apparently was the only one of the musketeers that could furnish adequate lodging—Aramis saying he was expecting a messenger and did not wish to disturb Monsieur Clive, d’Artagnan’s quarters were too small, and Porthos not giving any good excuse. Clive followed Athos, therefore, and as they sped through the practically deserted streets of Paris they evoked almost the same reaction as had occurred on the high road. This was hardly what they wanted, so in order to avoid undue publicity they cut their motors when they turned into the street upon which Athos’ lodgings stood, and coasted to his door. They immediately hustled the machines inside, and closed the door against any prying eyes.

  Athos and the lackey were soon asleep, but in spite of the strenuous day Clive was unable to doze off. He lay tossing on his couch, animated by the excitement of the day, and that in prospect. When the first gray blurring of dawn found the one window in the room, Clive pulled a chair up to this seventeenth century facsimile of glass, and attempted to view any activity that might be going on in the street.

  “This must be a pretty quiet neighborhood,” he thought. “Looks like it’s deserted.” At that moment he heard a loud pounding coming from the street. Looking in the direction of the sound Clive saw a group of uniformed men standing before the doorway of a house near the intersection where they had cut their motors the preceding night.

  “Open up in there!” he heard a voice command. “It’s his Majesty’s Police.” The door was opened by an anxious looking little man who was wearing a night-shirt, and night-cap, and the police entered, pushing him aside. As they disappeared in the doorway, a second group rounded the corner and paused before the door of the next house, where this scene was reenacted.

  “Looks like the dragnet is out for someone,” Clive thought, and then an idea suddenly struck him. “Maybe it is for us! Anyway, it wouldn’t do for them to find these motorcycles.” He turned to awaken Athos, and found him already dressing. Grimaud had also arisen, and was preparing breakfast.

  “Monsieur the Lieutenant of Police arose early to chase devils,” said Athos, coming to the window. “It appears as though Monsieur the cardinal has a hand in the chase—otherwise we would not have been disturbed for another hour.”

  “It’s going to be rather hard to hide those motorcycles,” said Clive, “and they’ll know I’m not French the minute I open my mouth, even if they don’t notice my clothes.”

  “If my plans succeed they will not come in,” said Athos in a very calm, almost light-hearted manner which Clive was to learn the musketeer assumed in tense situations. “If my plans do not succeed they will come in here where we will demand their swords, and if they do not wish to give them to us we will have to kill them or be killed by them.” He paused and glanced at Clive, who had not moved a muscle on his face. “Or if Monsieur Clive does not wish to see it through he is free now to take his motorcycle and ride back the way he came, with our gratitude for what he has done…”

  Clive smiled. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said.

  “Bravo! You speak like a true Musketeer,” said Athos, enthusiastically. “But we must finish dressing now so that we may not embarrass the police.”

  * * * *

  Clive had forgotten for the moment that he was not dressed, and after having a quick sponge bath with water that Grimaud had brought for him he donned his uniform. They had barely started breakfast when the inevitable pounding sounded at the door. Grimaud glanced at his master, who by means of a sign told him to continue with his work, while he continued his breakfast. The knock was heard again, this time it was louder, and was accompanied by the voice of one of the police who offered to remove the door if it were not immediately opened. Athos arose and buckled his sword at his side, then walking leisurely to the door, opened it just as a battering ram was about to be brought into play. Seeing a gentleman standing in the doorway, fully armed, and wearing the uniform of the king’s musketeers, the attitude of the police was somewhat softened.

  “Pardon, Monsieur, but we must search your house,” said the one who seemed to be the leader of the group.

  “And what do you expect to find?” asked Athos in his most dignified manner. The police officer removed his hat and scratched his head.

  “We don’t exactly know,” he answered. “Last night it was reported that the devil was riding through the countryside, and this neighborhood is reported as being one of the places he stopped. We know, Monsieur, that it is foolish to search for the devil, but Monsieur the cardinal has ordered a complete investigation.”

  “Does Monsieur then believe that I could harbor the devil in my poor lodgings, when he has so many residences of his own in Paris?” Athos’ attitude had changed, he was now smiling at the minions of the law. It was several moments before these men understood what Athos meant, but when they did they laughed heartily.

  “We are sorry to bother Monsieur,” said the spokesman, “but we have orders.”

  Athos took the spokesman aside. “Would you wish to compromise a person of quality just to carry out your stupid orders?” he asked. A knowing look spread over the face of the officer. He turned to the others:

  “Next house!” he ordered.

  Clive, who was watching through the window, allowed a sigh of relief to escape when he saw the police march to the next door, and when Athos told him how he had swung the deal, Clive decided that corruption had its points. The two returned to their breakfast.

  “What’s next on the program?” asked Clive as he finished eating.

  “I have sent Grimaud out to the lodgings of our friends to request them to attend us here before we do anything further.”

  D’Artagnan, living nearest to the lodgings of Athos, was the first to arrive, Porthos was close on his heels, and a short time later Aramis appeared—explaining that he had stopped by the hotel of M. de Treville to request an audience for the five men.

  “Well done,” cried d’Artagnan; “it will be well if he sees the king before the cardinal’s messenger arrives from Amiens.”

  “Yes, and it will be well if we complete our mission before the Lieutenant of Police misses the guards he sent to my house,” said Porthos.

  The others looked at him with undisguised amazement.

  “I hope you haven’t done anything rash; Porthos,” said Aramis, impatiently. “Or is this one of your jokes?”

  “Well what could I do?” asked Porthos. “My bourgeois neighbors told the police that they had seen the devil enter my house, so when they came to search, I had to detain them. I didn’t kill them, although I had to run my sword through the thigh of one, and the arm of the second, and I am afrai
d I cracked the skull of the third with my fist.”

  “But what have you done with them now?” asked Athos.

  “I have bound them firmly and placed them on my bed, where Mousqueton is dressing their wounds.”

  “In that case, there is only one thing to do,” said d’Artagnan. “We must prevent these men from telling what they know, but at the same time we can not let them stay in Porthos’ lodgings.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Porthos.

  “Very simple, we will send our lackeys to your lodgings with wine— cheap, powerful wine. Our lackeys will see to it that the police drink the wine until overcome by it, and then set them free. Who will believe the story of a drunkard? They will be discharged immediately, and we will not be troubled by them again.”

  “Bravo!” cried Aramis.

  “I still say d’Artagnan has the wisest head of the four of us,” said Athos. He gave Grimaud a signal with his hand, and the lackey immediately began to carry out the plan, assisted by Planchet and Bazin.

  “I see you have brought your portmanteau, d’Artagnan,” said Athos when the lackeys had left. “Are you sure it still contains the precious picture and those so important documents?” D’Artagnan blanched slightly at these words, and quickly opened the small leather case he was carrying, and then closed it again with an expression of relief.

  “Yes, I still have them,” he said, “but I would like to get them into the proper hands without any more delay.”

  “Then let us go to see M. de Treville at once,” said Athos.

  Clive had been watching this scene in silence. It was beginning to appear as though his usefulness had about ended, and consequently he lingered behind as the others went to the door. Athos turned with a questioning look on his face: