he kept trying for the heart when he should have gone for an exposed wrist or arm . his tie was flapping loose now ; his hat was gone and his shoes were dusty . his face was shiny and sweating ; so was mine , no doubt . he came in again , and as I parried I realized that he was tiring : his point was far out of line . there &apos;s an old trick whereby you can , theoretically , disarm a man if he &apos;ll stand still for it . I do n&apos;t suppose it was ever used in actual combat , any more than any of the old western gunmen ever used such fancy stunts as the highwayman &apos;s roll or the border shift . you do n&apos;t generally do juggling tricks when your life &apos;s at stake . but still , it was a theoretical possibility , and he was right in position for it , and I had to do something with him that was n&apos;t lethal . I made a sharp counter-clockwise circle with the cane - I &apos;ve forgotten the technical name of the manoeuvre - catching that wide point and spinning it around , twisting the weapon in his grasp &amp;hellip; . an alert swordsman , in good condition , would simply have come smoothly around my blade , or cane , and continued his attack ; but the little man &apos;s reflexes were slowing , his wrist was tired , and the sudden wrench caught him by surprise , took the sword away from him , and sent it flying across the road . he stood there for a moment , disarmed and vulnerable , and I could n&apos;t decide what the hell to do with him . I guess I was a bit tired , too . when I moved , it was a bit too late . he gave a kind of sob and ran after his weapon . he beat me to it and picked it up and came at me again , but he was n&apos;t fencing any more . he had the sword in both hands and he was wielding it like a club , beating at my head and shoulders . he was crying with frustration and anger as he whacked away , trying to chop me down like a tree . it was all I could do to defend myself against the crazy attack . I could kill him , all right - he was wide open , with his arms above his head like that , and one straight-armed lunge would have driven the brass-tipped cane through the cartilages of his throat - but I was n&apos;t supposed to kill anybody . under no circumstances . this is an order . this is an order . suddenly I had too many weapons . my hands were full ; I had to get rid of something if I was going to take him alive , although this seemed to have most of the pleasant aspects of getting a living , spitting bobcat out of a tree . I parried a two-handed cut with the sword that would have laid my scalp open even if the weapon did n&apos;t have a edge on it . I threw my arms about the little man , dropped everything and , clutching him desperately - if he got free now , he could run me through in an instant - I gave him the knee just as hard and dirty as I could . when he doubled up , I clubbed him on the back of the head , not with the edge of the hand to break his neck , but just with the heel of my fist , like a hammer , to drive him down into the road . he went down , and curled up like a baby , hugging himself where it hurt . breathing hard , I retrieved my knife . I picked up the sword , and the cane sheath , and fitted them back together . it was a beautiful job of workmanship : you could n&apos;t see the joint at all . I picked up the Homburg hat and dusted it off , and carried it back to the little guy , who was still lying there . my left hand ached , and I did n&apos;t feel a bit sorry for him , although I had to admit , in all honesty , that he &apos;d put on a damn good show . whether it was genuine or phony remained to be determined . I bent over to hear what he was moaning . I caught a name , and leaned closer . Sara , he was whimpering . I did my best , Sara . I am sorry . then he looked up at me . I am ready , he said more clearly . if I were just a little bigger &amp;hellip; . but I am ready now . kill me , murderer , as you did her ! chapter thirteen . it took us a while to get things straightened out . when he &apos;d finally become reconciled to not dying heroically at my hands , the little man told me he was Sara Lundgren &apos;s fiance , Raoul Carlsson , of the house of Carlsson and LeClaire , women &apos;s clothing , Stockholm , Paris , London , Rome . he &apos;d met Sara at her dress shop in the line of business , it seemed , and romance had flowered . he &apos;d been worried about his Sara lately , however . she &apos;d seemed preoccupied and unhappy , he said . finally , when she stood him up for lunch and then called up later the same day from a certain hotel to cancel their dinner engagement for reasons that did n&apos;t ring quite true , he &apos;d taken it upon himself to go there and &amp;hellip; well , to tell the truth , he &apos;d spied on her . for her own good , of course , not because he was the least bit jealous . he merely wanted to know what was troubling her so that he could help . watching her surreptitiously as she waited in the hotel lobby , he &apos;d soon realized that she , in turn , was busy watching for somebody else . he &apos;d seen me come through the lobby with Lou Taylor . Sara had followed us , and he &apos;d followed Sara . after dinner , he &apos;d trailed us all back to the hotel . then Sara had got her car and driven into the park . he &apos;d been behind her until she stopped . she got away from him briefly while he was looking for a suitable place to leave his own car . when he got back to the parking lot on foot , her fancy Volkswagen was standing there empty . he &apos;d waited in the bushes for her to return . he &apos;d seen her come back to the car with me . we &apos;d had a long conversation not as friendly as it might have been , he thought . I &apos;d left abruptly , he thought in anger , and disappeared into the darkness . almost immediately , as if dispatched by me , two men had come and dragged Sara out of her car and carried her off in the direction I &apos;d taken . while he , Carlsson , was still trying to make his way after her through the trees and darkness , there had been shots . he &apos;d come to the edge of the clearing and seen me standing there , looking grim and terrible . at my feet was his beloved , his Sara , lying on the ground , brutally beaten and shot to death . he &apos;d started forward , but the police had come &amp;hellip; . why did n&apos;t you tell them about me ? I asked , when he stopped . he shrugged his shoulders expressively . they would have put you in prison where I could not reach you . I was crazy with grief and anger . I was going to punish you myself , not give you to some stupid policeman ! after a moment , he went on : I slipped away . I learned your name at the hotel . when you left , in the morning , it was easy to determine your destination . I followed . with your little sword-cane , I said dryly . he shrugged again . pistols are not so common here as they are in your country , Herr Helm . it was the only weapon I owned . I thought it would suffice . I did not expect to meet a swordsman with an American passport . he grimaced . you are skilful , sir , but that little knife , I do not think that was quite fair . after a moment , he said , you can not tell me this secret business in which , you say , my Sara was engaged , that led to her death ? you can not tell me who killed her ? I said , no , but I can assure you the man will be taken care of . that was big talk , for someone whose hands were tied by official orders , but I had to say something to get this little firebrand out of my hair . the situation was complex enough without being loused up further by vengeful amateurs . I finally got him to promise to go back to Stockholm and leave everything to me . I took his home address and telephone number , and promised to notify him when I had something to notify him about . I watched him get into his big American car and drive away . then I got into my little Volvo , drove back to the hotel , stuck some bandaids on my fingers , and went to bed . in the morning , I had my breakfast in a corner of the hotel dining room , which I shared , for the moment , only with a pair of railroad workers and a tourist couple from Norway - the language sounds like badly garbled Swedish , to a Swede . outside the windows , it was a bright , clear fall day . I hoped it would stay that way , for photography &apos;s sake . I sipped my coffee , and nibbled at the stuff on my plate , and thought about Mr Raoul Carlsson , which was a waste of time . if the little man was kidding me , I &apos;d know more about it when Vance made his report , I hoped within the next day or two . a shadow fell across the table . are you thinking deep thoughts ? Lou Taylor asked . if so , I &apos;ll go away . I rose and helped her with her chair . she was wearing the same rust-brown skirt and sweater as yesterday , with the same sturdy walking shoes . she had a trench coat with her , but she &apos;d dropped it on a chair . as far as I &apos;m concerned , a trench coat looks fine on Alan Ladd , and not bad on Marlene Dietrich , but she was n&apos;t either one . she smiled at me across the table , and stopped smiling abruptly . what happened to your hand ? I glanced at my bandaged fingers . I cut it , I said . I dropped a glass and cut myself picking up the pieces . she said dryly , I think you &apos;d better get yourself another girl , Matt . I frowned . what does that mean ? are you bowing out ? oh , I was n&apos;t referring to myself , she said , laughing quickly . I mean , your night girl , the one who plays so rough . a black eye yesterday , two cut fingers today - or did she bite you ? keep it clean , now . well , what do you do nights , to get yourself all beat up like that , if it is n&apos;t a girl ? the secret life of Matthew Helm &amp;hellip; Helm ? she said . is that a Swedish name ? more or less , I said . it used to be fancier , but Dad whittled it down to something even Yankees could pronounce . I thought you must have some Scandinavian blood , or you would n&apos;t be sitting there eating that stuff so calmly . fish for breakfast , my God ! she glanced at her watch . well , we &apos;d better hurry ; they &apos;ll be here in ten minutes . do you think I could possibly promote a simple cup of black coffee and some toast ? rostat bro&quot;d , they call it , she said . that means , literally , roasted bread &amp;hellip; . it was hard to figure her . if she was on the other team , she was very good indeed . she &apos;d have been told I knew Swedish perfectly well , yet here she was calmly instructing me in the language of my ancestors , as she &apos;d taught me their system of measurement the day before . well , it was always nice to deal with people who knew their business . when the company car arrived , right on schedule , it turned out to be a long , black , dignified-looking old Chrysler limousine complete with one middle-aged gent in a chauffeur &apos;s cap to drive it , and one young guy named Lindstro&quot;m to answer our questions and keep us out of trouble . the two men helped me load my paraphernalia aboard ; then we drove to the mine entrance , less than a mile from the hotel , and were passed through the gate with some formality . we took a road up the side of a mountain named Kirnnavaara - vaara means mountain in Finnish , Lou informed me . 