Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure? He could have shaved the beard – ’

  ‘No chance. Mine is blond, seven feet tall.’

  ‘Hmmm. Do I perchance scent a rival?’

  ‘Definitely. Speaking of scent, what is that perfume?’

  ‘Like it?’ John turned a ruffled shoulder to me and batted his eyelashes. They weren’t false. His eyelashes are one of his best features, and he knows it.

  ‘Love it.’

  ‘Then I know what to get you for your birthday. Gather up your gear and get lost, darling. I’ll see you tonight.’

  ‘But I want to know – ’

  ‘Later.’ He began picking up my scattered possessions. Instead of kneeling, he moved in a shuffling squat – afraid to dirty the knees of his white slacks, I suppose. I was about to join the pursuit when all of a sudden he went absolutely rigid. His knees hit the floor. Stiff as a marble statue of a supplicant he knelt, staring at the papers he held.

  During the course of our Roman adventure I had seen John face assorted perils – guns, dogs, maniacal killers with relative aplomb. His appearance of Best British sangfroid was not due to courage but to his insane sense of humour; he couldn’t resist making smart remarks even when the subject of his ridicule was brandishing a knife under his nose. When the wisecracks gave out, he reverted to type, groaning over every little scratch and trying to hide behind any object in the neighbourhood, including my skirts. I’d seen him turn pale green with fright and livid with terror. I had never seen him look the way he looked now.

  I let out a muffled croak. John leaped up as if he had knelt on a scorpion. Thrusting the papers into my lap, he reached the doorway in three long leaps and disappeared.

  There were three papers in the lot he had handed me. One was the message from Schmidt, on the back of which I had scribbled Gustaf Jonsson’s home address. One was a receipt from the store where I had bought my sweater. The last was my silhouette.

  I put them in my purse. I was looking around to make sure John hadn’t missed something when I heard a harsh cough. Someone was coming. Slow, shuffling footsteps, heavy asthmatic breathing . . .

  The man who appeared in the doorway wore a uniform like that of a guard. That’s what he was – a museum guard. He glanced incuriously at me and walked slowly around the room inspecting the cases.

  He was the only person I saw on the way out. The museum was about to close. Everyone else had gone. No seven-foot-tall Vikings, no short, bearded men with horn-rimmed glasses, no overdeveloped females wearing flaxen wigs. I ought to have been relieved. I felt squirmy all over, as if hundreds of eyes were watching me.

  After I had walked a few blocks in the bright summer sunlight the feeling dissipated. Maybe John’s wide-eyed horror had been one of his peculiar jokes, a gimmick designed to allow him to get away before I could ask any more questions.

  The most interesting question of all was the one I had failed to pick up on because I was distracted by his disguise. He had been there before me. He might have followed me and reached the treasure room by another route. But his first words had been a compliment on my astuteness. ‘I felt sure you would figure it out.’ Figure what out? Had he known I would find my way to the Hansson collection? The chalice did mean something.

  I found a cafe and ordered coffee. Taking the catalogue of the Hansson collection from my purse, I turned to the description of the chalice.

  The answer jumped out of the surrounding print as if it were outlined in red – one word that linked the jumbled fragments together into a coherent whole. The name of the chalice.

  Yes, it had a name. Many unique objects do – the Ardagh chalice, the Kingston brooch, the Sutton Hoo treasure. They are called after the places where they were found, in tombs and barrows and fields. The proper name of my treasure was the Karlsholm chalice.

  My eyes had passed over that word a dozen times without noting its significance, but my good old reliable subconscious had made the connection – that inward eye that is the bliss of solitude and, upon occasion, the salvation of Bliss. Wordsworth’s inward eye had turned up daffodils. Mine had produced the chalice itself, without outré symbolism or Freudian nonsense. And I had missed it again. This time I couldn’t miss it. Only moments earlier I had glanced at the paper with Gustaf’s address. That’s where he lived – in Karlsholm.

  Chapter Four

  I DECIDED TO GO back to the hotel instead of struggling with the intricacies of a pay phone. I found several messages waiting for me. Two were from Schmidt, one was from Leif. The latter had called at eleven-ten, right after I left the hotel. He had not left a number, but said he would call back at six.

  I looked at my watch. It was already after five, too late for some of the calls I needed to make. Served me right, too. I should have taken action that morning instead of trying to play ostrich. Nasty things don’t go away when you hide your head, that just gives them a chance to sneak up on you.

  I tried the bank first, on the off chance, but there was no answer. Bankers’ hours are the same everywhere. Next I called Schmidt. His messages were always marked ‘Urgent,’ but in view of the revelations of the previous evening I thought I had better take these ‘Urgents’ seriously. Schmidt kept erratic hours – being the director, he could keep any hours he liked – and, having neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, he often stayed late at the office.

  I almost dropped the phone when I heard the voice of Schmidt’s secretary. Gerda’s punctual departures are a staff joke; it is claimed that the wind of her passage out of the office can knock a strong man flat. I said, ‘What did you do, sit on a tube of glue?’

  Gerda was not amused. She said stiffly, ‘Herr Professor Dr Director Schmidt has departed. He asked me to remain to deliver a message.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Aber natürlich,’ Gerda said. It is also a staff joke that I am Schmidt’s pet. I’m not supposed to know that, but of course I do.

  ‘That was kind of you,’ I said, in my most ingratiating voice. ‘What’s the message?’

  Gerda switched to English. Her self-conscious voice and stumbling pronunciation showed she was reading aloud.

  ‘“Cousin Gustaf checks out with carillon. Golden boys say he is night attire of felines, Empress of Germany.”’

  After a moment I said, ‘You had better give me that again.’

  She gave it to me again. I scribbled. Then I said, ‘I appreciate it, Gerda. Thanks a lot. You run on home. Oh were there any calls for me today?’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Gerda, are you mad at me?’

  ‘Nein.’

  ‘Then why do you sound like the Ice Queen?’

  ‘Herr Director Schmidt has said, “Read the message, then shut up.”’ The phrase she used was German slang, not exactly vulgar, but definitely not the kind of language she was accustomed to hearing from Schmidt, who treated women with the courtliness of a vanished age.

  I thought it over. Then I said cunningly, ‘If he had not said that, is there anything you would tell me?’

  Gerda giggled. ‘Nein,’ she said.

  I tried a few more subtle tricks and got a few more nein’s. It was unlikely that Schmidt would confide in her; he hadn’t a high opinion of her intelligence or discretion.

  So I bade her goodnight and turned to Schmidt’s message. It was mystification for the fun of it, serving no useful purpose. Gerda wouldn’t understand outdated American slang, but there was no earthly reason why he had to give it to her in code.

  All I said was that Cousin Gustaf was in the clear. With bells on. Schmidt had called the bank references (damn his nosy, interfering ways) and had been told that Mr Jonsson was the cat’s pyjamas – or words to that effect. I had heard the phrase, probably from my grandmother, and knew it implied approbation. The final comment confirmed that meaning. The Empress of Germany was the Kaiser’s wife, and as we all know, Caesar’s wife is above reproach. Which was more than I could say for Schmidt’s literary style.

  The informati
on was reassuring, and it fitted the theory I had begun to construct. Even so, I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath before I made the next call.

  Did you ever fall in love with a voice? I don’t mean the voice of a singer, like Elvis or Lennon or Luciano Pavarotti. Just an ordinary speaking voice, saying ordinary words: ‘Hello. This is Gustaf Jonsson.’

  I assumed that was what he said. He spoke Swedish. It’s hard to describe the quality of his voice. It was deep and gentle and calm, with a remarkable timbre, like a clear humming. It sounded like my father, though it didn’t resemble Dad’s gruff, grumbly tones. It sounded like everybody’s father. Oh, hell, I can’t describe it; all I can say is that the moment he spoke I forgot any lingering suspicions of Gustaf Jonsson.

  ‘Mr Jonsson?’ I stammered ‘Hi. Hello, there. This is Vicky. Victoria Bliss.’

  ‘Victoria!’ He didn’t raise his voice, but it sang with delight. ‘I am so glad! You are so good to telephone me. You are well? You are not ill or injured?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I – er – ’ I couldn’t ask Everybody’s Dad the questions I had intended to ask. ‘Who the hell are you, Mr Jonsson? Where did you get the crazy idea I was your cousin?’

  ‘There was some confusion,’ I said finally. ‘I – uh – I changed hotels

  ‘Yes, I am so glad. The Grand is a good hotel.’

  ‘How did you know I was staying at the Grand?’

  He hesitated, then said even more softly, ‘I apologize to you. When I found you were not at the Excelsior, I inquired of several other hotels. I feared there had been an accident.’

  ‘You knew I was here, but you didn’t call me?’

  ‘It would have been to intrude,’ Gustaf said simply. ‘Your Aunt Ingeborg said you desired to visit me, but a young lady does not always desire what her aged aunt believes she desires. I am aged too, and dull. I understand if you do not wish to waste time with me.’

  I had hoped that if he talked long enough, he would give me the information I needed without having to dig for it, but this speech turned my brain numb. I felt like a computer feeding back what someone has put into it. I said feebly, ‘Aunt – Aunt Ingeborg?’

  ‘Yes; it was so good of her to write to me. She found me through a genealogist, when tracing the history of your family. Genealogy is my hobby too – quite a coincidence, would you not say? Always I meant to investigate the American branch. It must stem, I believe, from Great-great-uncle Johann, who ran away from home at the young age of fifteen and was not heard of again. His grieving mother believed he had drowned, but I always wondered . . .’ He broke off, with a grandfatherly chuckle. ‘You see how it is? When I speak of my hobby I forget good manners. As I wrote to Miss Ingeborg, it would make me so very glad to see you. I do not entertain – I am a grouchy old recluse, in fact – ’

  ‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t intrude.’

  ‘No, no, I say it badly, I am so stupid. I mean only to warn you that you may be bored. But you are not a stranger, you are kin. For those of the same blood my door is always open.’

  ‘I’d love to come.’

  ‘You are sure? I do not force you?’

  ‘You’d have to use force to keep me away,’ I said grimly.

  ‘I am so glad! Tomorrow, is it too soon? I am so glad! I will send my car. It is only a five, perhaps six, hours’ drive. Will nine o’clock in the morning be too early?’

  The bank references should have warned me that Cousin Gustaf was the kind of man who sent cars to pick up unknown relatives. ‘Nine o’clock?’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘It is too early?’

  It definitely was too early – not only for me, but for the unfortunate chauffeur who would have to get up at three am. As I hesitated, Gustaf went on, ‘Ten o’clock? Eleven o’clock? Twelve – ’

  ‘Twelve o’clock would be fine.’

  ‘I am so glad. You will know the car . . . No, best I should give Tomas a letter. You will read it before you get in the car, then you will know he is the right person. That is the proper way to do it. You will be safe with Tomas. He is a married man, very dependable, very honest.’

  I assured him that I was not at all worried about being sold into white slavery by Tomas, though not in those precise words, and hung up with his reiterated expressions of gladness ringing in my ears.

  Talking to Cousin Gustaf had been quite an experience. I felt so undone that I collapsed across the bed. So he had heard from Aunt Ingeborg. He must have employed a good medium. Aunt Ingeborg had died the previous October.

  The main outlines of the plot were fairly clear now. If my surmises were correct, and I felt sure they were, it was absolutely imperative that I visit Gustaf Jonsson. That sweet, kindly old man had to be warned.

  I was still prone, picturing medieval torture devices with a certain smirking Englishman as the central feature, when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch. Six o’clock, on the dot.

  ‘Where have you been all the day?’ he demanded.

  ‘“Henry, my son,”’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know where I went today?’

  ‘How could I know? When I telephoned you had left the hotel I believed we were to meet for lunch.’

  ‘You should have shared your belief with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you want, Leif?’

  ‘To take you to dinner,’ said Leif.

  ‘You just want to pump me about Smythe.’

  ‘You have seen him?’

  ‘No,’ I said flatly.

  ‘Oh. Anyway, I will take you to dinner.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I will come at six-thirty.’

  ‘You will come at seven. I’ll be downstairs.’

  I went down at twenty to seven and settled in a quiet corner of the lobby near the bar, where I could keep an eye on the door. Before Leif arrived I had turned down two pressing invitations to have a drink. Neither came from a middle-sized man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. I saw several people who fit that general description; it made me realize how vague it was.

  At precisely seven o’clock Leif came through the door. The suit he had worn the previous day had been a cheap ready-made, and rather too small; I suppose he’d have trouble finding something that fit even in a shop that catered to ‘tall, large men.’ That evening he featured wrinkled cotton khaki pants and a short-sleeved knit shirt that had seen better days. I deduced that we were dining informally.

  If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was glad to see me – myself, not a potential informer. A smile replaced his abstracted frown when he saw me and his eyes moved from my face to my feet and back again with the proper degree of appreciation. As I was begnning to preen myself, he said, ‘No word from Smythe?’

  ‘You might at least pretend you’re interested,’ I said.

  ‘In you? I am, of course. If I cared only about Smythe, I would seek information by telephone instead of taking you to dinner.’

  He offered a stiff bent elbow. Stifling a smile, I took it. On the whole I was more inclined to believe Leif’s blunt comments than the florid endearments of certain other people.

  I suggested we go back to the same restaurant so I could ask about my notebook, but Leif was firm. He had another place in mind. It was a pretty cafe, with tables on a balcony overlooking some stretch of water or other, but the prices on the menu were considerably lower than those of the other restaurant. Studying it, I muttered, “Why is it no one ever sent me yet, One perfect limousine, do you suppose?”

  Predictably, Leif said, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I wondered whether this evening’s outing would go on his expense account. The prices didn’t prove anything one way or the other The only people I know who enjoy lavish expense accounts are politicians and business executives.

  Covertly I studied my companion over the top of my menu. He wasn’t looking at me. One finger ner
vously stroked his moustache; the other hand beat a restless tattoo on the table as his eyes moved around the room, inspecting the faces of the diners. I had been too preoccupied with my own thoughts to notice that he had something on his mind too. He was looking for someone – possibly John, possibly someone else. But if he was a policeman of any variety, I was a Short Person.

  He just didn’t have the right look. I’m not referring to his physical appearance; as we all know from movies and television, undercover cops aren’t supposed to look like cops; they are supposed to look like pushers or hookers or crooks. But all of them have one thing in common – professionalism. They wouldn’t live long if they didn’t know their trade. Leif’s performance as a member of the Special Branch had a few glaring flaws. The way he picked me up, for instance – pretty crude, for a pro. Yet he knew me, my reputation and my background, including the fact that I was on good terms with members of the Munich police. So why didn’t he take me into his confidence if he wanted me to help him? And if he didn’t want my help, why was he hanging around?

  There was an obvious answer to that question, but I wasn’t conceited enough to believe it. He was mildly interested, but it was only too apparent that he was even more interested in John. Surely he didn’t suspect me of being John’s confederate. Even if he knew about the Paris affair . . . If he was a police official, he probably did know about it; the whole damned embarrassing business was on record at the Sûreté. However, the French police had cleared me completely, and if Leif was familiar with that episode he would have every reason to assume I wanted to get even with John. There was only one thing I could think of that might arouse official suspicions of my present trip, and that was the message John had sent. I had flushed it down the toilet in a fit of pique – but the package had been opened before I received it.

  Maybe Leif was a cop after all. It isn’t easy for a private citizen to interfere with the mails.

  I decided it was time to get a few things off my chest ‘You owe me an explanation,’ I said.

  Leif started. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. All you’ve told me is that you are following John . . . No, damn it, you haven’t even told me that much. Were you following him? Is that why you were at the airport – or were you waiting for me to show up? Why didn’t you arrest him when I identified him? Do you suspect me? Was one of your men following me today, and is six to midnight your shift?’