Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [76]
Also, Tony had the light. I was still thinking in percentages, and there was a fifty-fifty chance that the clearly defined trail was a decoy. I had no desire to meet the knifethrower in the dark cellar as I groped my way towards my room. I squatted by the opening, trying to make up my mind what to do.
I didn’t have to make the choice. Matters were taken out of my hands.
Blankenhagen had reached the bottom of the shaft. I could hear him cautioning Tony, who was partway down. Tony had the light directed downwards so he could pick his footing on the rickety stairs. It was very dark up there where I was. It got even darker. Somebody dropped a sack over my head, picked me up and – while I was still stiff with surprise – dropped me down the shaft feet first like a clothes-pin into a bottle.
I fell on Tony and swept him neatly off the staircase, which promptly collapsed. Blankenhagen, down below, had no chance to move. We both landed on him, as did the splintered pieces of the staircase. Oddly enough, I remember the noise as being the most hellish thing of all. In that narrow space the echoes of crashes and screams and yells and thuds were magnified into a roaring chaos.
Being on top, I came out best. I didn’t even lose consciousness. I had my lumps; a strategic section of my anatomy had bounced off the wall as I fell, and my whole lower surface was full of splinters. But compared to the two men I was in good shape.
They were both out cold. I discovered that by feel; for all practical purposes I was blind. Tony’s flashlight had gone with him. There was no light from up above. Nor was there any flow of air.
That realization stopped my humanitarian activities for a second or two. I should have suspeced it; if someone had put me down the shaft it was because he wanted me there, and naturally he would make sure I stayed there.
The stone up above had been closed and, no doubt, secured in some fashion.
I went back to my fumbling. There were arms and legs all over the place, and at first I couldn’t figure out which belonged to whom. Then I found Tony’s face, which my hands know as well as my eyes. He mumbled something when I touched his cheek. I was so relieved I might have cried, if I’d had the time. Instead I located his pockets and found what I was hoping to find – two packets of matches.
I lit one of the matches. While it burned I made a quick examination.
Tony was semi-conscious and cursing. That was good. Blankenhagen, on whose chest Tony’s head was pillowed, had a broken arm. It wasn’t hard to diagnose, since I could see the bone sticking out. Both men were dirty and torn and bloody.
The match burned my fingers. I blew it out and went on examining in the dark. Blankenhagen’s face was a bloody mess, but after running my fingers over his head I decided his skull had not been fractured.
At that point Tony woke up completely, and we had a rather emotional session for a minute or two. I lit another match, then, while Tony confirmed my diagnosis of the doctor’s injuries.
‘I don’t dare move him,’ he said, as the match flickered out. ‘Something else could be broken.’
‘See if we can wake him up. Maybe he can diagnose himself.’
We worked over the unconscious man until I started to get scared. Finally he stirred.
‘Don’t move yet, Blankenhagen,’ Tony ordered. ‘You’ve got a broken arm and God knows what else. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes . . . What has happened?’
‘The stairs gave way,’ I said. ‘And the trapdoor above is closed.’
The silence that followed this cheering summary was so prolonged that I began to think I had overestimated Blankenhagen’s stamina and shocked him back into unconsciousness. Finally he said, in a gloomy voice, ‘You are here too? I wish you were not.’
‘So do I.’
‘I will see what is wrong with me,’ said Blankenhagen.
‘I’m glad somebody around here is a doctor,’ said Tony.
I offered to light