Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3

by Elizabeth Peters

  John appeared to be a trifle put out, but he had not lost his grasp on essentials. He snatched up a heavy brass candlestick and headed for Leif, who was grunting and gasping and trying to get his wind back I scrambled to my feet and wrapped myself around John in time to stop the blow.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he gasped, trying to free his arm. ‘I want to – ’

  ‘I know what you want.’ He got his left hand free. Leif struggled to his knees, shaking his head dizzily. John curled his fingers into his palm and hit me under the ear. I sat down again. Leif sat up. John weighed the new developments and opted for flight He was halfway to the door when a fresh complication appeared.

  The man was pretty big, but not as big as Leif. In this case, however, size did not matter. He’d have been just as effective if he had been four feet tall. He pointed the gun at John and said, ‘Halt.’

  John halted. The man with the gun advanced into the room. John retreated, tactfully avoiding Leif and the body which was making uncouth noises and jerking its limbs. A second man followed, also carrying a gun.

  ‘Mais quel contretempts,’ he remarked, surveying the chaos. ‘Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé ?’

  ‘Die Kerle haben sich geschlagen,’ his companion explained. ‘Was sollen wir mit ihnen anfangen?’

  ‘Je demanderai.’

  He went out.

  The body rolled over. It was the man John had described. He looked deathly ill, his cheekbones jutting sharply, his skin sallow. When he opened his eyes the nature of his complaint was evident. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot. From his sagging mouth a trickle of saliva ran down into his matted beard.

  I made a little noise of pity and revulsion. Leif lifted the limp body so that it was supported against his shoulder.

  ‘Behold the work of your friend, whom you were so careful to protect,’ he said bitterly. ‘A pretty sight, nicht?’

  John’s stare held no pity, only disgust. With a shrug he turned to the guard and said calmly, ‘I’d like to put on my dressing gown, Hansel. Watch that trigger finger, eh?’

  The Frenchman returned. ‘Là-bas, tout de suite,’ he said briskly.

  I demanded my robe and was allowed to get it, with the Frenchman as an escort. They were quite an international crowd. I suppose I should have been scared, but everything had happened so fast, I couldn’t take it in. All those people turning up out of nowhere . . . There was only one character missing.

  He was waiting for us in Gus’s study, leaning back in the desk chair as if he were the owner of the house. He wore the thick grey wig, but he had replaced his sweater with an expensive-looking three-piece-suit As we were ushered into the room, he rose politely.

  ‘A pleasure to see you again, Dr Bliss. Will you join me for breakfast? The good housekeeper of Mr Jonsson was kind enough to prepare it before she left, and I promise you it will be excellent.’

  The food was set out on a table by the window, doilies and all. Dazedly I sank into the chair the grey-haired man held for me.

  ‘Perhaps I may impose on you to pour,’ he went on. ‘Gentlemen, don’t be shy – take your places.’

  John was the first to obey. He kept a wary eye on Leif, but the latter was occupied with the man whose twitching, muttering body he supported.

  ‘Where is Mr Jonsson?’ I asked.

  The grey man smiled approvingly. ‘I am happy to see you accept the situation sensibly, Dr Bliss. Mr Jonsson is in our hands. He will be released unharmed as soon as we finish our work here – unless one of you does something foolish. At my request, he has given his staff a little holiday. He was easily persuaded to do so when I pointed out that their safety might depend on their ignorance of the situation. They are accustomed to his eccentricities, and unquestioningly accepted his statement that we will be engaged in certain experiments that require privacy and solitude.’

  ‘You seem to have thought of everything, Mr. . . . I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Please call me Max. It is not my real name, of course, but that is the rule in this group; you are the only one of us who has not been travelling under a pseudonym.’

  ‘You mean Leif – ’ I began.

  ‘Is a Geman engineer named Hasseltine,’ Max said. ‘The disgusting apparition he tends so lovingly is his brother Georg – once a promising young archaeologist.’

  They didn’t look like brothers, but Max’s explanation accounted for several things that had puzzled me. I said, ‘I should have known Leif wasn’t your real name.’

  His hand on his brother’s shoulder, he gave me a strained smile. ‘The friends of my youth sometimes called me that.’

  ‘I was pretty sure you weren’t a Swede, though. You slipped a few times, used a German word.’

  ‘I am a simple man,’ Leif said simply. ‘Intrigue and deceit are not easy for me. I have business in Munich, that is how I knew of you, Vicky. I am ashamed I did not tell you the truth, but. . .’

  He indicated his brother, who was mumbling in German and making ineffectual attempts to rise.

  ‘I understand,’ I said.

  Leif turned to Max. ‘I must take care of him. He wants his rucksack. He needs . . . He must have . . .’

  ‘He does indeed.’ Max studied the mumbling object with dispassionate contempt. ‘Well, why not? Pierre – the luggage, please.’

  It was brought from our rooms – John’s expensive matched calfskin bags, my battered plastic ditto, a big leather two-suiter, and a canvas backpack. At the sight of the latter Georg Hasseltine made sick, mewing noises. Max gestured. The Frenchman opened the pack and dumped its contents onto the floor.

  In addition to the usual toilet articles and clothing, the bag contained two interesting items – a wicked-looking knife and a tin box that rattled when Max nudged it with a fastidious toe. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirty socks, Max snapped out directions. Pierre confiscated the knife; Leif got the box, and his brother. He carried both out of the room. The other objects were cramned back into the pack, and John’s suitcases were brought forward. Pierre dropped them at Max’s feet like a dog presenting his master with a fat rat.

  There wasn’t much left of the bags or their contents by the time Pierre finished searching them. He ripped seams and tore out linings with zealous pleasure. John winced every time a garment was desecrated; once he made a mild protest. ‘You know I never carry a weapon, Max. Have a heart. That shirt cost me – ’

  ‘What is this?’ Max pounced on a monogrammed leather case.

  ‘Hair dryer,’ John said, without even blushing.

  ‘How decadent,’ Max muttered, adding it to the pile of confiscated objects – a set of ivory-handled razors, a pair of small dumbbells (whose evil significance eludes me to this day), and a manicure set exquisitely encoiffed in morocco leather and red plush, which included several lockpicks.

  By contrast, my beat-up cases were handled with gentlemanly tenderness. The clothes I had unpacked the night before had been replaced in the suitcases – not too neatly, but I had no real cause for complaint, since I am a notoriously sloppy packer. Max inspected each garment, except for the underwear. Even his nasty, suspicious mind couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a weapon in a pair of bikini panties. When he had finished with the suitcases, he reached for my purse.

  A man can’t understand why a woman’s handbag is such a sensitive object – almost an extension of her person. I don’t fully understand it myself. Maybe it’s because we keep so many private, intimate possessions in our purses – love letters, cosmetics, jelly doughnuts . . . Maybe a purse is a symbol of the womb, or something equally Freudian. I can’t explain it, but I know I hate the idea of a stranger’s hands rummaging in my bag. I had to bite back a yelp of protest when Max dumped the contents out onto the desk.

  He made a few jokes, naturally. I suppose he thought they relieved the tension. He grinned and raised his eyebrows over the little black book in which I had, unwisely, made some personal comments beside certain addresses. Some of t
he cosmetics raised a ridiculous amount of mirth. What’s so funny about eyelash curlers, for heaven’s sake?

  He was not so amused as to neglect his precautions. My Swiss pocket knife went into the verboten pile, along with my can of Mace. Occasionally he asked quizzically, ‘And what is the purpose of this item?’ I snapped out answers. ‘Tape measure. In case I see a picture frame that might fit one of my prints. Stockings. In case I want to try on shoes. Sewing kit. In case I rip my clothes. Flashlight. Do I have to explain why I carry a flashlight?’

  Leif’s suitcase contained nothing of interest. He was allowed to keep his razor; it was electric.

  The henchmen tossed our belongings back into the suitcases. Then there was an expectant pause.

  They searched John first. Hans’s pudgy fingers went over every inch of his body. He didn’t complain until Hans messed up his exquisitely brushed hair. ‘Damn it, Hansel . . . Don’t overlook anything, I beg. What about the cyanide pill and the teeny-tiny knife wedged between my back molars?’

  He opened his mouth to its widest extent. Hans was actually peering into the cavity when Max snapped, ‘Enough.’

  All eyes turned towards me. I stood up and untied the belt of my robe.

  Max said sharply, ‘Turn your backs.’

  The henchmen exchanged eloquent glances, but obeyed. ‘You, too,’ Max said to John. His face preternaturally grave, John executed a smart right-about wheel and stood at attention, the back of his ruffled head fairly radiating amusement.

  I took off my robe. In deference to Gus I was wearing the least revealing of my nightgowns. It bared my shoulders and arms and my legs below the knee – well, actually, below mid-thigh.

  Max studied the exposed parts of me with shrinking fastidiousness. He was clearly torn between personal distaste and professional thoroughness, so I decided to help him out.

  ‘How’s this?’ I asked, bunching up the gown in back and pulling it tight against my front

  Max looked relieved. ‘Yes, that is adequate. If you will turn. . .’

  He stayed behind the desk while I pivoted and pulled and adjusted the fabric. I suppose, in a way, it was a more perverse performance than stripping to the buff, and it certainly took longer, but I realized that in his own weird way Max believed he was respecting my maidenly modesty. He made me put my robe back on before he let the boys turn around.

  Hans trotted out with the luggage and Max returned to the role of gracious host. He offered me a plate of pastries. I took one, but the first bite tasted like sand, so I put it on my plate. ‘Why are you going to all this trouble?’ I asked bluntly. ‘I don’t know what’s out there, but unless you have more information than I do, you must know it can’t be worth the time and trouble you will have to expend on it. Surely there are enough accessible objects, in museurns and collections, to occupy your time, without resorting to excavation.’

  ‘Mr Jonsson’s pasture may prove more productive than you think,’ Max said. ‘However, you are quite right in your assessment. Under normal circumstances our organization deals only with products that are already on the market, so to speak. However, there are times when even a hard-headed businessman may be moved by personal motives.’

  The muscles of his neck stretched to a degree I had thought possible only in certain reptiles. His eyes focused on John.

  John was expecting it. His hand was quite steady as he reached for his coffee cup. ‘Max, old chum – ’

  ‘You have annoyed us for a long time,’ Max said softly. ‘We expect and tolerate a certain amount of competition, but your methods go beyond the level of tolerance. This last affair – you made a fatal error, my friend. Now you have compounded it. Why did you not heed my warning?’

  Over the rim of John’s cup a pair of cornflower-blue eyes gazed soulfully at me. Before I could protest, Max murmured, ‘I wondered if that might not be the case.’

  ‘There is no reason for us to be at odds,’ John said. ‘I don’t know what Albert told you – ’

  ‘Everything,’ said Max, closing his lips with a snap on the last syllable.

  John went a shade paler. ‘I see.’

  ‘You mean you – ’ I began.

  ‘Please, Dr Bliss. Let us not dwell on distasteful subjects.’

  ‘Poor old Al,’ John muttered. ‘I knew him well . . . Yes, but look here, Max. Al couldn’t have given you a precise location, because he didn’t have it. I’ve worked out a few theories that might help. That’s a largish stretch of pasture; what do you say we collaborate?’

  Max did not respond to this naive proposal. We were sitting in silence when the brothers Hasseltine returned.

  I had seen ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures, but the transformation in the younger man made me stare. He was still haggard and worn, but now his step was firm and his eyes were aware. The therapy that had cured Georg (only too temporarily) had had the reverse effect on Leif. When he saw John, he made a grating noise deep in his throat and started for him, hands flexing.

  Max got between them. ‘Sit down, Mr Hasseltine. I understand your feelings, but you must wait your turn. There is a chance he may yet be helpful to us.’

  ‘He does not deserve to live,’ Leif muttered. ‘He should die slowly, with the same agony he brought to others.’

  ‘No doubt he will.’ Max flicked an invisible speck of dust from his coat sleeve. ‘But not until he has served his purpose.’

  His icy calm had the desired effect. Leif’s distorted face relaxed. ‘I don’t know what you want here,’ he said slowly. ‘It is not my business. An enemy of Smythe is no enemy of mine – so long as you mean no harm to this lady and her friend.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Max said. ‘Let me make it quite clear, so there will be no unfortunate misunderstandings. None of you is to leave the island or attempt to communicate with the mainland. I hold Mr Jonsson as security for your good behaviour, Dr Bliss; I feel sure you will not risk his safety by acting foolishly. You – ’ He looked at John. ‘You may try to escape. Please feel free to try.’

  John wasn’t the only one to shiver at that speech. ‘I presume,’ he said, ‘that you will exterminate the others if one of us gets away. You count on the fact that I wouldn’t abandon Dr Bliss.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,’ I said earnestly to Max. ‘I really wouldn’t.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, my dear.’ His smile was paternal. ‘Do not fear; where Sir John is concerned, I count on nothing. I have other methods of controlling him. As for you two . . .’

  ‘I have told you where I stand,’ Leif said. ‘This lady is hostage for me.’

  Georg had seated himself at the table and was wolfing down food. He looked up. ‘I haven’t been exactly with it lately,’ he said coolly. ‘Just what are you after, Mr – Max, is it?’

  Max leaned back in his chair, fingertips together, and studied the speaker. Georg returned his gaze composedly I wondered what he was hooked on. It was amazing stuff, whatever it was.

  ‘Our project should interest you, Dr Hasseltine,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe that there is a fifth-century hoard of gold and silver buried in the pasture behind this house.’

  ‘Migration Period?’ Georg looked interested. Then he shrugged. ‘Not my field. I’m a classical archaeologist.’

  ‘But you have had excavation experience.’

  ‘Oh, certainly. I’m a first-rate excavator.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  ‘I suppose you want my help,’ Georg went on airily. ‘You’re no archaeologist. I knew that as soon as I saw the fellows with the guns.’ He laughed heartily at his own wit.

  ‘We could certainly use the assistance of a scholar with your reputation,’ Max said. Leif winced, but Georg appeared not to notice the double entendre. He was flying high. With another cheery laugh he leaned over and clapped Max on the shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps we can come to an agreement.’

  ‘Georg,’ Leif exclaimed. ‘Please – ’

  ‘Shut up!’ Georg turned
on him. ‘Always you interfere with me, always you play the big brother. Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Max said. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Dr Hasseltine, and I will show you the site.’

  ‘Great’. Georg tossed down a half-eaten roll and rose. Hans and Pierre followed the pair out.

  ‘Now we escape,’ Leif said. ‘While they leave us unguarded.’

  John gave him a peculiar look. ‘He doesn’t need to guard us, you idiot. He has us by the short hairs.’

  ‘He means what he says – that he will kill the old man?’

  ‘He means it.’

  ‘Then we must free the old man.’

  ‘Splendid idea. Brilliant plan. How do you propose we go about it?’

  ‘First,’ said Leif, ‘we must find where they are keeping him.’

  John sighed. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  He sauntered out, his leisurely stride a calculated insult. Leif glowered at his retreating back. ‘Someday I smash his face.’

  ‘Max is planning to take care of that little matter for you,’ I said.

  ‘And you object.’

  ‘I object to murder. It’s just a silly girlish prejudice.’

  Sarcasm was wasted on Leif. He gave me a blank stare. ‘Besides,’ I went on, ‘we can’t depend on Max’s guarantees. How do we know he won’t kill all of us when he’s finished here?’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Because he’s a crimnal,’ I said patiently. ‘His organization specializes in grand theft, blackmail, torture, and murder. For God’s sake, Leif, you can’t be that naive.’

  ‘Then what do you want to do?’ Leif asked, frowning.

  ‘Well, I sure as hell don’t want to sit around waiting for Max to make up his mind whether or not to kill me.’

  ‘You wish to escape from him?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘All of us?’

  ‘All of us.’

  ‘Smythe too?’

  ‘Smythe too.’

  ‘You wish me to help?’

  ‘That would be very nice.’

  Leif thought about it, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. Then he nodded. ‘Very well. First we find the old man. Then we escape – all of us, even Smythe. Then I smash Mr Smythe’s face.’