Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Von Baden, forgotten, had joined the spectators at the far end of the bare room. He stood near Eva, watching her expression, trying without success to decide which of them was her special favorite. He wondered if it would all end like some medieval romance, with the winner riding off with her into the dawn. Or would her heart more likely go out to the loser?

With the next volley of blows, it began to seem for the first time that the contest might end in a draw. First both men dropped their swords simultaneously — to the displeasure of the onlookers — and then Macker recovered to bring his blade up from below to nick Cassan’s jaw. The doctor stepped in once more.

And now a strange thing began to happen. Cassan, the champion, the best swordsman in all Heidelberg, began to falter. His swings were wild, his defenses nonexistent. Macker, smiling in something close to triumph, landed two more cuts in quick succession. Cassan’s face was covered with blood that even the doctor’s firm hand could not stop. One of the Red Corps called for the fight to end, but he was booed down. They had come to see blood and they were seeing it. They might even witness the first defeat of the hated Cassan.

Macker quickly followed up his advantage. He hammered away at Cassan’s head, bringing new blood, and now Von Baden saw the White Corps’ president stagger and grab for support. The seconds rushed in but they were too late. He toppled sideways, the sword flying from his hand, and was still on the floor.

The doctor bent over him as the others crowded around. Only Macker edged away, triumphant but uncertain. The duels did not usually finish like this. “How is he, Doctor?” someone asked.

Von Baden was still watching Eva’s expressionless face when he heard the reply. The doctor looked up and said simply, “He’s dead.”

Winterluck and Von Baden had continued their walk about the yard while the balding man told his story. He had not thought of those far-off events in years, not since long before the war that had made such killing so commonplace. Now, as he finished, the memory sharpened in his mind. It might have happened yesterday, instead of that long-ago time of youth.

“I heard stories,” Winterluck said. “Some claimed that Macker killed him with a poisoned sword, that this was the only way it could have happened.”

“Yes,” Von Baden acknowledged. “I heard the stories too. In truth, poor Cassan was poisoned. The autopsy proved it. But by that time, it was too late to check Macker’s sword. For the rest of his college days, though, he lived in disgrace, under a cloud of suspicion. Eva left him, refused even to speak to him. A few years later he was killed by a train, and some called it suicide.”

“That would pretty much confirm his guilt,” Winterluck said.

Van Baden fingered the scar on his cheek. “On the contrary, old friend, it confirmed his innocence. A man who would poison the blade of his sword would hardly lose much sleep over it afterward. Poisoning is a careful crime. It takes a great deal of thought and premeditation. And of course, the best evidence for his innocence: until the last moment, he thought he was fighting me, not Cassan. After Cassan stepped in to take my place, Macker never left the center of the room. He had no chance then to poison the blade.”

“Then who did? Could the swords have become switched when they were dropped somehow?”

“No, no. The hilts were different colors, remember, to match the corps color.”

“But...” Winterluck puzzled, “no one could have poisoned Macker’s sword once Cassan entered the duel. There must have been fifty pairs of eyes on them both! Certainly Eva couldn’t have done it. And certainly no one would have wanted to poison you!”

“No,” Von Baden agreed. “No one would have wanted to poison me.”

“Then who?”

Von Baden smiled. “There remains only one possibility.”

“You know?”

“I’ve known for years.”

“Of course! I should have realized it! The doctor! He applied the poison while he was swabbing the wounds on Cassan’s face!”

“A good ending for a detective story, old friend, but hardly for real life. The doctor would have no motive.”

“He was really Eva’s father, avenging his daughter’s honor!”

And now Von Baden laughed aloud. “You would make a wonderful writer! I’m sure the doctor could have chosen a far safer and less spectacular method of murder, had that been his desire. Or at the very least, a slower-acting poison.”

“Then where are we left?”

“With the truth,” Von Baden said. “The truth.” He fingered the scar again. “As you can see, I did fight after all, later on. I fought bravely and well, both for the White Corps and for Hitler. I collected my medals, and my ribbons.”

“Tell me,” Winterluck said.

“Sometimes fear can be a terrible, twisted thing. Men will kill for love, or revenge, or in anger, but I sometimes think that fear is the greatest motive for murder. After all, wasn’t it fear of a sort that drove us to kill the Jews?”

“And?”