Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3

by Elizabeth Peters

  Whereupon he left the room, having arranged his programme to his satisfaction.

  Aside from a few imponderables – such as locating Gus, overpowering his guards, and knocking all the other villains unconscious – there was one basic flaw in Leif’s scheme. In a few brilliantly conceived sentences, Max had made Georg a confederate. Perhaps Georg had once been a promising archaeologist – his name was vaguely familiar – but Max had two firm holds on him now: the drug he used, which Max could hand out or withhold at his own, discretion, and Georg’s hatred of John. If he had been chasing his bête noire all over Europe, he was not about to shake hands and forget the whole thing. He’d be more than happy to cooperate in Max’s project of extermination, and although I didn’t know the precise details of the part John had played in his disintegration, I wasn’t altogether sure I blamed him.

  The coffee was cold. I swallowed the repulsive dregs and decided I might as well get dressed. I hadn’t had much sleep, but there was no chance of wooing Morpheus, not in my present mood.

  My room was a shambles. Someone had done a thorough job of searching it. Straightening up the mess gave me a chance to work off some pent-up anger; it was also a form of protest against the chaos these thugs had brought into Gus’s harmless, decent life.

  I put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt and tossed a sweater over my shoulder. On my way out I passed John’s door and paused to listen. Not a sound. I eased the door open. He lay curled up like a sleeping baby, an angelic smile on his lips. His lashes, several shades darker than his hair, fringed the closed lids with gold. I slammed the door as hard as I could and went on.

  The echoes of the slam followed me as I trotted along the corridor, fighting a panicky impulse to run. The stillness of the empty house was unnerving. My brain couldn’t seem to get in gear. A succession of shocks had stunned it into stupidity.

  Unless Max struck it lucky, I had a couple of days. He wouldn’t dispose of us until he had no further use for us as hostages or sources of information. In fact, he might have been telling the truth when he said he meant to let us go unharmed. It wasn’t as if we were the only people in the Western Hemisphere who could identify him as a master criminal. After due reflection I decided I had a seventy-thirty chance of survival. But I didn’t like the odds. Where my life is concerned I prefer a sure thing.

  There were two possible methods of procedure. The first was to rescue Gus and then go on from there. The second was to immobilize Max and all his gang. I am sure I need not explain why, after very brief consideration of the second idea, I returned to method number one.

  Method number one depended on my assumption that Gus was somewhere on the island. If he had been transported to the mainland, the whole deal was off. But it would have been risky to move him in broad daylight, after he had announced to his staff that he was entertaining guests. Also, a smart crook like Max would want his hostage accessible, in case I demanded to see him or speak with him.

  Assuming Gus was on the island, assuming I could find him and set him free – what next?

  We could make a run for it, or we could call for help and hold the gang at bay until said help arrived. Holding the gang at bay meant hiding; I wasn’t about to consider anything more adventurous. Gus must know some good hiding places. The burning question was: Could I contact the mainland?

  Just for the hell of it, I tried the telephone. As I had expected, it was dead. Gus probably had an emergency means of communication laid on – a shortwave or CB radio or something of that sort – and if I ever found Gus I would ask him. I decided not to waste time searching, though. Unless it was well concealed, Max had probably dealt with it already.

  Smoke signals, setting the barn on fire, flashing SOS’s with my pocket mirror . . . Too chancy. So much for the idea of communicating with the mainland. The alternative, running for our lives, presented one minor difficulty. We couldn’t run. We were surrounded by water.

  So far my reasoning hadn’t been distinguished for brilliance or originality. If I couldn’t do better than that, I might as well forget the whole thing.

  The silence of the house was getting to me. I headed for the door. It was a relief to be in the sunlight and fresh air. The rain had left everything looking fresh and clean. The wind stung my face. I assumed the thugs were all in the pasture, digging for treasure, but I kept a wary eye peeled as I descended the stairs to the dock. When the boathouse door opened, I got ready to duck. But it was only Leif.

  ‘I have looked,’ he said. ‘Nothing we can use.’

  I was prepared for that discouraging statement; the fact that Max hadn’t bothered to set a guard on the boats was proof positive that they had been put out of commission. Hope dies hard, though. When I advanced, Leif grinned and stood aside to let me see for myself.

  The more I looked, the madder I got. Max hadn’t just destroyed the boats, he had smashed the dreams and memories they symbolized. In his younger days Gus must have been a first-class mariner. Now the canoe and the kayak and the neat little sailboat lay deep underwater, held only by their mooring ropes. The rowboat was a utility craft, big enough to hold several people and a tidy amount of cargo. At least it could have held them if someone hadn’t chopped a hole in the bottom. The cruiser appeared to be undamaged, except for the shortwave, which had been demolished.

  I sat in the cockpit and swore.

  Leif peered in at me. ‘The key is missing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Perhaps there is another key.’

  ‘If we ever find Gus, we can ask him.’ I took Leif’s proffered hand and climbed out. ‘Isn’t there some way of starting her up without a key? I’ve done it with cars, but I’m not familiar with this type of engine.’

  Leif shrugged, looking almost as bland and stupid as Hans, and I snapped, ‘I thought you were an engineer.’

  ‘I am not a mechanic,’ Leif said in an offended voice. ‘But I do know there are many things one can do to an engine to make sure it will not start.’

  ‘They can’t have done anything drastic,’ I argued. ‘This must be the craft they plan to use when they leave.’

  ‘Unless they have arranged for a boat or helicopter to pick them up,’ Leif said.

  I hadn’t thought of that. It didn’t make me feel very good.

  ‘In any case, it would take hours to check the cruiser,’ Leif said. ‘The ignition system, the fuel lines, and so on. Do you suppose Max will stand back and allow us to do that?’

  ‘How did you get here?’ I asked. Leif blinked. ‘I swam.’ Through the open doors I could see the distant shore and the waves that rose and fell in brisk cadence. The water was a deep, rich blue; it looked as cold as a freezer. No wonder Leif’s calf muscles looked like the hawsers of the Q.E. II.

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Leif said admiringly.

  ‘I can’t imagine him swimming.’

  ‘No.’ Leif’s face lengthened. ‘I did not ask how he came. Possibly he hired someone to bring him across. What is the use of this, Vicky? There is no boat we can use.’

  ‘I have to agree with that.’ Hands in my pockets, I went out onto the dock. Leif followed.

  ‘I believe your fears are needless,’ he said. ‘The man, Max, means you no harm. Let him have his gold. What value does it have?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about the treasure,’ I said, not quite truthfully. ‘But I’m not stupid enough to trust Max’s word. Besides, I can’t turn my back on deliberate, cold-blooded murder.’

  ‘Smythe deserves it,’ Leif said.

  I turned away. He grabbed my wrist and spun me around to face him. His eyes glittered like topaz.

  ‘You think I am cruel, like those criminals? No, no. When you hear you will understand why I do not risk my life, or yours, to save such vermin.’

  I knew I had to hear it sooner or later, and I despised myself for being so reluctant to learn the truth. ‘All right, all right,’ I said resignedly. ‘Let’s go up and sit i
n the garden. If I have to listen to a rotten story, I might as well have something pretty to look at.’

  It was as rotten a story as I could have imagined. Even the scent of the flowers didn’t lessen the sickness that mounted as I heard what Leif had to say.

  ‘He is only twenty-six. You would not think it to see him, would you? Even as a child he was brilliant, a genius. He won his doctorate from your Harvard University and was appointed to the dig at Tiryns in Greece. You read, perhaps, of the discovery of the royal tombs?’

  Naturally I had; it had been the archaeological sensation of the year. So that was why Georg Hasseltine’s name was familiar to me.

  ‘It could have been the making of his career,’ Leif said somberly. ‘Instead it was the end of him. By accident the director discovered that one of the treasures – a golden mask, like the ones found at Mycenae – was a clever fake. Georg had stolen and sold the original. You can guess to whom he sold it.’

  Even if I had not known, I would have recognized John’s fine Italian hand. He didn’t go in for blatant breaking and entering. Half the museums in Europe owned fraudulent pieces, left by John in place of the originals he had made off with. I don’t know what perverse instinct made me try to defend him.

  ‘Your brother could have refused his offer,’ I said.

  ‘He was only a boy! And there was a woman – someone Smythe had supplied, I do not doubt, along with the deadly white powder to which Georg is now a slave . . . You know the man’s power over the innocent. He ruined Georg. There was no scandal – universities do not love publicity – but the word was passed. No one would employ him. In despair he turned to petty crime. Whenever I found him and tried to help, he eluded me. And always he has searched for Smythe, to take revenge. I followed him across half the world. Not to help him kill, as you think – no. I would not weep to see that man destroyed, but I could not let my brother commit murder.’

  I patted his arm sympathetically. Georg was a weak fool, who had traded an honourable career for quick profit, but that didn’t excuse what John had done.

  ‘And now he has fallen again.’ With a groan Leif buried his head in his hands. ‘Helping these criminals to rob . . .’

  ‘Maybe he’s only pretending to cooperate – gaining Max’s confidence in order to double-cross him.’

  The phrase was not well chosen. Leif shook his heed desparingly. ‘I wish I could believe it. But I dare not. Do not trust him, Vicky. Tell him nothing of your plans.’

  I was relieved I hadn’t had to make that point myself. ‘I won’t, Leif.’

  ‘You have plans?’ He studied me keenly, then smiled. ‘Yes, you do. You are stubborn. You don’t give in. What is a man to do with such a woman?’

  ‘Just don’t get in my way, Leif.’

  ‘I would be afraid!’ His eyes widened in pretended terror.

  I had to admire his resilience from tragedy to corny jokes in the space of a few seconds. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if you are determined, I must help you. What shall we do?’

  ‘The first thing is to find Gus.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I think he’s here, on the island.’ I explained why I thought so. Leif nodded.

  ‘It is reasonable. But if you are wrong?’

  ‘Then I’m wrong. But what’s the harm in looking? We can’t make a move until Gus is free.’

  ‘What kind of move?’ He put his arm around me.

  I pulled away. ‘Not now, Leif. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Rest and be still for a moment,’ Leif said softly. ‘You are forcing yourself beyond your strength. Your heart is pounding.’

  He had cause to know. I tried to relax. Even my teeth were clenched.

  The wind stitched the water into little white ruffles, and a flock of fleecy clouds glided serenely across the sky. Above the emerald hills snowcapped mountains shone in the sun.

  ‘It’s no use,’ I said, wriggling out from Leif’s embrace. ‘I can’t relax, I can’t sit still, and I don’t want you to pat me and ask stupid questions. I want you to do something.’

  ‘I will do whatever you want. Only tell me.’

  ‘I’m trying to think. With the boats out of commission, there’s no way of getting off the island. Maybe you could swim to shore; maybe I could. But I doubt that Gus is able, not with that leg of his.’

  ‘That is right. I have a plan.’

  ‘Yes?’ I turned hopefully.

  ‘We find the old man.’ Leif tossed this off as if it were a matter of locating a pair of misplaced spectacles. ‘Then you take him to a hiding place. In the trees, or – or somewhere. I will swim the lake and go for help.’

  ‘What about your brother?’

  Leif didn’t answer immediately. Lips pressed tightly together, forehead furrowed, he appeared to be wrestling with thoughts too painful for utterance. Finally he said, ‘I will take care of Georg. But, Vicky – tell him nothing. Tell Smythe nothing. We can trust no one except our two selves.’

  Much as I hate having the narrative interrupted by long paragraphs of description, I guess I had better give you some idea of the terrain, since it figures prominently in suceeding events. As I said, the shape of the island was roughly triangular, the sides longer than the base, and the end blunted. The house was located on this blunt end. Behind the house the land rose, culminating in a plateau of rough pasture that formed the central portion of the island. The western side of the triangle was heavily wooded, in a belt that curved northward and expanded to fill the base of the triangle. On the east the land sloped down to the water, ending in a boggy section of swampland. Searching for Gus, and for any other useful piece of information we might encounter, Leif and I followed a gravelled path that encircled the house. Behind the main building lay a group of sheds and stables, a big beautiful stone barn, and, in their own hedged enclosure, several small cottages that had probably housed servants in the days when the main house was fully staffed. Though their tiny yards were free of weeds, and their windows shone cleanly, they appeared to be unoccupied – even by a prisoner.

  As we approached the barn, a man stepped out from behind the wall. He had the swarthy, brachycephalic look of a southern Italian or Sicilian, but I was unable to confirm this identification by his speech, since he said not a word.

  He simply showed us his rifle. We took the hint.

  ‘Could Gus be in one of those sheds?’ I asked, when we were out of earshot.

  ‘More likely the man is guarding tools that we might use as weapons.’

  Our path led through a gate in a high stone wall, into a grove of trees. Unlike the natural woodland that fringed much of the island, these giant firs appeared to have been planted as a windbreak. They were well tended, and the ground was free of underbrush. The breeze murmured in the high branches; the sound of our footsteps was deadened by a thick layer of fallen needles.

  Coming out of the trees, we climbed a steep slope and found ourselves on the plateau. In the middle of the pasture I saw a group of men – or, to put it more accurately, the torsos of a group of men. The high grass hid the lower parts of their bodies.

  At one time the pasture had been cultivated. Nobody had ploughed it recently, though. It had been allowed to revert to grass, weeds, and wild flowers. The growth seemed unusually luxuriant for the climate and the season. Perhaps Gus’s grandpa’s experiments had involved a lavish use of fertilizer.

  Leif pushed gallantly ahead, trampling down the grass and muttering about snakes. I doubted there were any, but I stored the idea away for the purposes of harassment. City slickers, who take muggers, traffic, and pollution for granted, tend to panic when faced with rural perils.

  Never had I seen so obvious a collection of urbanites. Georg was the only one who wasn’t staring uneasily at the wide-open spaces. The false euphoria of the drug he used was at its peak; he was talking animatedly, punctuating his speech with expansive gestures. As we drew closer I heard him say:

  ‘It will take at least a month. With only six men, and no proper
tools perhaps longer. Surely you must have more specific information.’ Max must have seen us – singly, Leif and I were hard to miss, and as a pair we were outstanding – but since he paid me no attention, I saw no reason why I should favour him with a ‘Good morning.’ I sat down on a boulder and watched with malicious pleasure as Max helplessly surveyed the sea of grass stretching out all around. If you have ever tried to dig a garden – a moderate-sized plot, thirty feet on a side – you can understand the little man’s distress.

  ‘The pasture behind the house,’ he said finally. ‘That is all I know.’

  ‘But you have nothing!’ Georg waved his arms. ‘Not the most rudimentary equipment for a dig.’

  Max indicated a wheelbarrow. ‘Picks, shovels, hoes – ’

  ‘And a metal detector.’ Georg lifted the instrument off the wheelbarrow and sneered at it. ‘Excellent for finding tin cans on beaches. Hopeless for your purpose. Now if you had brought a proton magnetometer, or an electrical resistivity instrument . . .’

  ‘I can get them,’ Max said eagerly. ‘I will send Hans – ’

  ‘No use.’ Georg waved the offer aside. ‘Oh, perhaps if the circumstances were different . . . But you have no trained personnel. I cannot do everything myself.’

  Max’s eyes wandered in my direction. I waved a casual hand. ‘Count me out, Max. I’m no archaeologist. I wouldn’t know a proton whatchamacallit from a toaster.’

  ‘Also,’ Georg went on, ‘in such a stony soil, and an area of heavy rainfall . . .’

  Max gritted his teeth. ‘How long would such a survey take, with these instruments?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Georg fondled his beard. ‘We would need a source of electricity, naturally. The probes of the resistivity meter should be placed no more than one metre apart – ’

  A bleat of fury came from Max. ‘One metre? Do you know the size of this field?’

  ‘About three acres, I would suppose,’ was the calm reply.

  ‘We dig,’ Max said shortly. ‘All of us.’