"Come on up," he said. "And if you see Gheorghe, ask him for something to cover this window. No, forget it. We'll take another room. Oh, if you see a pitcher down there, bring it up."

Ninety seconds later Illya tapped at the door and Napoleon opened it. "Find it?" he asked.

Illya slipped his automatic back into its holster. "We can look for it in the morning," he said. "Is Hilda all right?"

"She's coming around. Now, tell me before she comes to—what do you think you shot at?"

"I don't know. I looked up when I heard the glass shatter, and I saw something outside the window. I know it didn't go down the side of the building or over onto the roof, because I saw it go away from the wall as if it was jumping, but then it went up into the dark."

"Illya, what do you think you shot at?"

The Russian agent sat down heavily and looked at the back of his hands. "Napoleon, we've been friends for a long time. You know I am not given to hallucinations or to letting my imagination run away with me."

"Yes...."

Illya looked up. "And don't mention this in our report—but it looked like a huge bat."

Section II: "Werewolves Can't Climb Trees."

Chapter 5: "Good Lord, Illya—What Was That?"

It should cause relatively little surprise that neither Napoleon nor Illya slept particularly soundly that night. The innkeeper was quick and efficient about transferring them to another room, and made no comment about his valued heirloom being thrown through a window and left in the mud of the street all night. He also showed no inclination to go outside to search for it. "There will be time enough for that in the morning," he said. "My friends are honest, and know to whom it belongs if they find it."

After he had left, there was a brief debate with Hilda, who absolutely refused to return to her own room.

"I don't care what you tell New York," she said, "and I don't care what Gheorghe thinks—I'm spending the night on your sofa. I know what I saw at the window, and I know I won't sleep a wink if I'm alone."

Illya remained aloof from the discussion, and reappeared after a few minutes' absence dressed in pajamas of a plain dark blue. "And I know what I think I saw," he said. "But I refuse to allow it to interfere with my rest. If you two insist on arguing the night away, please do it in lower tones."

He climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and turned his back to them. Napoleon and Hilda looked at him for a few seconds, and then Napoleon heaved a deep sigh of resignation. "All right," he said. "It's your reputation. If there wasn't a third party here as witness..."

"You wouldn't be nearly so hesitant," said Hilda, with an impish grin as her apprehension lessened. "Come with me back to my room while I get a few things."

"And leave me here all alone?" came Illya's muffled voice from the bed.

"Don't worry," said Napoleon comfortingly, "I'll leave the light on for you."

Then he ducked quickly to one side as a pillow flew across the room and slapped against the door.

* * *

A discrete tap at the same place several hours later announced that breakfast was being prepared, and some fifteen minutes after that the three descended the stairs, freshly dressed and looking ready for anything under the sun. Under the moon might be a different matter.

There was no discussion of last night's occurrences over the breakfast sausages and eggs. The conversation moved around local customs and traditions, and only faltered for a few seconds when Gheorghe silently poured fresh milk for them from a freshly cleaned and polished silver pitcher which Napoleon recognized.

At last, over coffee, they got down to the business of the day.

"I could draw you a sketch map," said Hilda, "but I couldn't show you the exact spot except in person."

"How far away is it?" asked Illya.

"A little over a mile from the outskirts of the village. He was running in this direction."

Napoleon frowned. "I suppose the place will be all trampled by curious villagers by this time."

"I don't think so. These people have better things to do with their time than wander about in the woods. And they have lately been more cautious than usual. In fact, I would be surprised if anyone from the village had been near the spot where Carl was found. They consider it a place of ill omen."

"It was for Carl," said Illya.

"When will you be ready to show us the place?" Napoleon asked.

"Any time. The spot's fairly close to the road; if you have any sort of detecting gear to carry or want to avoid a long walk in the forest, we can drive."

"Beats a long walk carrying my magnifying glass. How about you?" Napoleon turned to Illya.

"For myself, I can take nature or leave it alone. The car will probably be quicker, unless the road winds."

"Not that much. I can drive you there in five or ten minutes."

"Make it fifteen," said Napoleon. "I've got to get my pipe and deerstalker hat out of my trunk. If we're going to play detective, I may as well look the part."

* * *

The lumbering old Poboda took the rutted dirt road with only a few complaints, and eight bumpy minutes after leaving the garage behind the City Hall Hilda pulled to a stop in a wide area. There was enough space for a cart to pass, but not much more.

The trees were not thick—perhaps ten feet apart. There was little underbrush. The forest had a well-kept feeling to it, and an almost park-like appearance. There was only the slightest wind breathing among the upper branches of the pines, and the occasional note of a bird rang distantly like a dropped coin.

Napoleon and Illya felt the quiet of the place pressing softly in around them, and even the warm morning sunshine seemed a little chill. Hilda broke the silence.

"This way," she said. "Just over that little rise."

She pointed the tree out to them from a fair distance away, and described without a trace of emotion her own deductions as to the last few minutes of Carl Endros' life.

"He broke out of the underbrush about there," she said, pointing. "I was able to back-trail him about half a mile, and found no indications of anyone or anything on his track. No footprints of any kind."

"What about right around the body?" asked Illya.

"None that I could see. The ground was scuffed up close to the base of the tree, and I couldn't read many signs. I could see where he had tripped over the tree root and dragged himself to where his back was protected, but I couldn't tell whether there were any footprints close to him. There were certainly none approaching."

"Could they have stepped in his footprints?" Napoleon suggested hesitantly, half afraid it would sound foolish.

It did. Hilda regarded him scornfully. "Really, Mr. Solo," she said. "Even if they had been wearing the same type and size of shoes, it is practically impossible to step exactly in an existing footprint. Try it with a print of your own. There will almost always be a double impression of some kind. And while you might match one or even two, ten or twelve consecutive prints would be most unlikely. Especially since they must have rushed him as he was shooting."

"Oh yes," said Illya. "Shooting. Have you checked the trees for slugs? If he emptied his gun, they must have gone somewhere."

"I've made a cursory examination of the nearer trees," she said, "but haven't had the time for a careful and detailed search. Why?"