Silhouette in Scarlet vbm-3

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘I will keep my promise, Dr Bliss,’ Max said. ‘In a few hours you will be free of us.’

  The stench of burning eggs filled the kitchen. John dumped them onto a platter with such vigour that fragments flew all around. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Max, my lad,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I’m no surveyor. The calculations are going to take a little time.’

  ‘As much time as you can manage,’ Max said with a sneer. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, my friend. Dr Hasseltine will be happy to assist you in your calculations.’

  Georg, devouring burned eggs with the relish of a man whose taste buds are dead and buried, looked up. Apparently he had not been present during the interrogation after all, for he asked, ‘You know the bearings?’

  ‘Rough ones,’ John replied. ‘My informant didn’t have equipment with him; he had to estimate.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Georg said. ‘To obtain accurate measurements on such uneven terrain, one would need levels, transit and tripod, plumb bob . . . I can perhaps rig some sort of makeshift substitute.’

  ‘That would be most accommodating of you,’ Max said. ‘And the sooner we begin, the sooner we will be finished.’

  ‘Why don’t you just kill him now and get it over with?’ I said angrily. ‘This cat-and-mouse nonsense – ’

  ‘Keep your suggestions to yourself,’ John said.

  ‘We must make sure he has not tricked us,’ Max explained. ‘I promised him a pleasant death if he would cooperate. I will keep my word, but if he has deceived me . . .’

  ‘That does it,’ John announced. Picking up the heavy frying pan, he tossed it into the sink with a theatrical gesture. ‘I’ve had it. No more Mr Nice Guy. No more cooking, no more delectable dishes – ’

  ‘Thank heaven for that,’ Max said, poking at the shreds of burned egg. ‘Come. To work.’

  Chapter Nine

  THERE WAS A purposefuless to Max’s procedures that morning that had been lacking before. Until I saw what he could do in the way of organization. I did not fully realize how uncharacteristically indecisive his earlier actions had been. For the past twenty-four hours he had just been marking time. If he hadn’t known it before, one look at the pasture would have told him that random digging was no use. I could think of several reasons why he had been willing to waste time, and I didn’t like any of them. I disliked his brisk, angry efficiency even more. Today was the day. If John’s revelations turned out to be a red herring, Max would pack it up and leave – after he had finished his other business. We had at the most about twelve hours.

  John had reached the same conclusion. His seemingly erratic behaviour had one purpose – delay. He was hoping for darkness – twilight, rather – before making his attempt to escape. I was pessimistic about his chances. Twelve hours is a long time.

  Nagged by Max, Georg collected the equipment he proposed to use. It wasn’t impressive; the stakes and string and other implements resembled gardening tools, and were, in fact, taken from the shed that served that function. At Max’s pressing invitation I joined the group and we left the house.

  The sky threatened, and a chill breeze denied the approach of midsummer. I demanded a coat, and Max let me go up to get it. When I returned he glanced at the purse I had slung over my shoulder, but did not object; he had searched it himself and knew I had no weapon.

  When we reached the pasture, everyone stared expectantly at Max. The wind that ruffled John’s flaxen locks and blew my hair into my eyes didn’t stir a strand of Max’s grey wig. He took a paper out of his breast pocket, studied it, and turned a minatory eye on John.

  ‘Fifteen paces due west from the large boulder at the northeast corner. Fifty paces due south. Sixteen paces west from the dead pine on the southeast corner, fifty paces due north from there. Is that it?’

  ‘I told you it was rough,’ John said defensively.

  It was straight out of ‘The Gold Bug’ or some other fiction. Perhaps Max had not been raised on the classics. He was sceptical, though; as his chilly gaze remained fixed on John, the latter shivered exaggeratedly and wrapped both arms around his body. ‘The Second set of measurements is obviously a cross-bearing,’ he added.

  Georg shook his head and made disapproving noises. ‘It is very inaccurate. How long is a pace? There are too many boulders; which is the correct one? And I cannot believe that none of you had the intelligence to bring a compass.’

  Mine was in my purse at that very moment, disguised as the butt end of a flashlight. At least one of Gus’s boats must have direction-finding apparatus, but since none of the gang had thought of that, I didn’t see any reason to bring it up.

  The men scattered, looking for landmarks. There was no dead pine at the southeast corner. Finally someone found a stump and concluded that must be the remains of the tree. Georg sat down on the stump, took out notebook and pencil, and began making calculations, muttering, ‘If we take it that true north lies that way . . .’

  The proceedings had a certain macabre humour, but I was in no mood to enjoy them. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I told Max. ‘It’s freezing.’

  ‘Stay away from the hut,’ Max said curtly. His eyes were on John, who, closely followed by Rudi, was pretending to look for a boulder. They wouldn’t let him out of their sight from now on.

  The hut didn’t interest me. Gus wasn’t there. The Austrian had been following me the day before. Max had ordered him to give the impression that he was guarding the hut if I seemed to be interested in it, but he had had to run to get there before I did.

  I was almost certain I knew where they were keeping Gus, but almost wasn’t good enough. If I was wrong, there might not be time for a second guess. So I went into the forest.

  It had been eerie before, in the dimness of twilight. Under a stormy sky, with wind lashing the upper branches, it was a perfect setting for a horror film. One expected to see the Frankenstein monster come lurching along between the trees.

  The search didn’t take long, since I was looking for a man-made structure. I found a few blocks of dressed stone, tumbled down by the growth of tree roots that had heaved them to the surface. Man had left his mark, but not in the recent past The blocks might have lined a grave.

  When I emerged from the trees onto the headland above the water, the wind blew my hair back like a banner. It was a north wind, carrying the snowy breath of the high mountains. Thirty feet below, waves attacked the tumbled rocks of a shallow bay. The cliff wasn’t sheer; in fact, it could hardly be called a cliff – just a steep decline, half rock, half earth, with clumps of rough weeds clinging to pockets of soil. I wondered if Gus could get down, with his game leg. It was the only place I had seen that offered possible hiding places, among the wave-washed rocks. As for swimming – the steel-grey water, laced with dirty white froth, was not enticing.

  I started back. I must have been midway through the belt of trees before I suddenly realized that I wasn’t nervous any longer. The shadowed aisles between the trunks promised shelter from wind and storm, not hiding places for monsters. The moan of the boughs overhead stirred my blood instead of chilling it. The trees might guard the crumbling bones of the ancient dead, but the spirits of those antique warriors and herdsmen held no terror for me. They had accepted me as one of their own.

  I arrived at the dig in the middle of a loud, abusive argument. The digging had not yet begun, and the first words I heard, from Max, explained the delay.

  ‘What use are your mathematics?’ he shouted at Georg. ‘You are wrong. Your cross-bearings come nowhere near one another.’

  ‘I made a slight error’ Georg muttered. ‘If you will try these new calculations – ’

  Max slapped his notebook from his hand. ‘The man who found the reliquary did not use exact measurements. We will imitate his method. We will pace off –’

  ‘But you don’t know the length of his stride,’ Georg protested, with some justification.

  ‘No matter. You – no, you, Willy.’ The Austrian started nervously when Max pointed at hi
m. ‘Go to the boulder. Then walk normally. Count as you go and stop when you reach fifteen.’

  It had taken them almost an hour to arrive at this common-sense solution. There is an adage dear to strategists: Divide and conquer. Confuse and conquer is an even better technique.

  ‘I think there’s a cemetery in the woods,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Later, later.’ Max waved me to silence

  ‘I think I’ll go back to the house.’

  ‘Later. Are you at the boulder, Willy? Good. Start walking. One – two – three – ’

  ‘I could make some coffee,’ I said. ‘Mr Smythe looks as if he could use a stimulant.’

  I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. Max had become sensitized; the syllables stung him like a hornet.

  ‘No!’ he cried, turning to me. ‘Don’t speak to him; don’t go near him. Be quiet. You are distracting me. Curse it, Willy; how far have you got?’

  Willy was standing stiffly at attention, arms at his sides. ‘Fifteen, sir.’

  ‘Good. You are sure you counted correctly? Then turn – a right-angle turn. Fifty paces.’

  Willy started off in measured slow step, like the Marines at a funeral procession. The formal deliberation of his movements had a hypnotic effect; I found myself counting in chorus with Max: ‘Forty nine, fifty.’ Max shrieked, ‘Stop!’ with such shrill vehemence that Willy leaped into the air.

  ‘Stand still,’ Max shouted. ‘Don’t move. If you stir one inch, under any circumstances whatever, I will skin you alive. Now.’ He turned a measuring eye on the remainder of his crew. According to their temperaments they shrank or stiffened under his survey. Hans giggled nervously.

  ‘Not you,’ Max said, scowling at him. ‘Rudi, you are the same height. The tree stump. Go to it.’

  Rudi plodded off through the stubble. ‘You are welcome to stay here, Dr Bliss,’ Max said, without looking at me. ‘But you must not try to speak privately with Smythe. Is that clear?’

  ‘It’s clear, yes. But I don’t see why – ’

  ‘Dr Bliss, you cannot suppose – ’

  ‘I am here, Max,’ Rudi called.

  ‘I see you are, cretin. Stay there.’ Max took my arm and led me away from the others. ‘Dr Bliss,’ he said earnestly, ‘don’t suppose that I am unaware of your intentions. You will not give up attempting to save the life of that wretched man until the deed is done. I understand your principles, and I admire them. I don’t want to see you hurt. Do you believe that?’

  ‘Oddly enough, I do believe it,’ I admitted.

  ‘However, I am a man of business. I must obey . . . That is, I must obey the dictates of professional necessity. If you interfere with my plans, I will remove you from my path. Don’t force me to do that.’

  ‘What do you expect me to say, Max?’ I demanded. ‘“Okay, thanks a lot, you just go right ahead and slaughter him”’? You do what you have to do, and I’ll do the same.’

  Max raised his arms and let them fall. ‘I have tried.’

  ‘Right. But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It goes against the grain,’ I said. ‘But – thanks for the warning, Max.’

  He blinked. ‘Why don’t you go back and get something to eat? It must be close to lunchtime.’

  ‘Damned if I will.’

  ‘I promise I won’t touch him while you are gone.’

  ‘No.’ I sat down, cross-legged. ‘I want to watch.’

  Max snapped out an expletive, turned on his heel, and addressed Rudi. ‘Start walking.’

  ‘In which direction, Max?’

  Another argument ensued. Max suggested one direction, John another (which Max instantly dismissed), and Georg offered to calculate the spatial errors that would result from a mistaken bearing of five or ten degrees. Finally Max did what I would have done. He told Rudi to use Willy, still rigid as a flagpole in the middle of the pasture, as his focal point, and walk straight towards him. Somewhat to my surprise the resultant path took Rudi along the line John had indicated. When Rudi finished counting, he and Willy were only a few feet apart.

  Max looked pleased. ‘It appears to work. The error is no more than might be expected.’

  ‘But your method is riddled with errors,’ Georg complained, in a pettish tone. ‘You assume too much; you compound your errors by – ’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Max ordered. ‘The rest of you – dig.’

  Up to this point John had been uncharacteristically quiet, his only contributions consisting of brief comments and suggestions. Max hadn’t forbidden direct communication, so I said to John, ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

  ‘Christ, no, I’m not all right. I’m sick.’

  ‘Serves you right,’ Max said, without turning. ‘Those disgusting eggs of yours have unsettled my stomach as well.’

  ‘I could make a delicious stew,’ John muttered, swaying like a birch in a breeze. ‘Let me go back and lie down for a bit, Max, and I’ll cook – ’

  ‘I allowed you to prepare breakfast because I was watching every move you made,’ was the curt reply. ‘If you are bored, you can give Hans help with the digging. Your upset stomach will be cured soon enough.’

  I honestly don’t believe he knew what he was doing. It was all part of the day’s work to him. But anticipation is agonizing in itself, and offhand references to a man’s imminent demise don’t settle his nerves. John turned a shade greener, and I said angrily, ‘Lay off, Max. He’s going to pass out.’

  ‘No,’ John said wanly. ‘Not until I have to.’ Max took this as a reference to the moment of permanent collapse that was rapidly approaching and gave John a sour smile. I suspected another significance, and took due note of the suggestion.

  The digging went on apace. I counted heads. The only one of the gang who was missing was Pierre. Leif had disappeared. I had not noticed his absence, which is some indication of my state of nerves. When I asked Max where he was, I was told he had gone to get water. Georg was thirsty.

  Thirst wasn’t Georg’s only problem. He sat staring at his notebook, pretending to make his useless calculations. His fingers were shaking badly. No wonder his mathematics had been inaccurate.

  Before long Leif returned, carrying a thermos. He started to offer me the first drink; Georg snatched the cup out of his hands. ‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, wiping dribbles off his chin with his sleeve. ‘A man could die of thirst before you helped him. Give me more.’

  Leif obliged, with an apologetic glance at me. ‘Perhaps you should rest for a while, Georg,’ he suggested.

  ‘The hell with resting. I’m needed here. These morons are digging in the wrong place.’

  ‘I think they aren’t digging deep enough,’ I offered.

  Max bit his lip. ‘Dig deeper,’ he ordered.

  As the pit deepened, so did Max’s impatience. When Hans, whose excavation techiques were obviously unpractised, tossed a shovelful of dirt into Max’s face, the latter lost his temper.

  ‘Enough, enough,’ he sputtered, spitting out mud. ‘This is madness. Smythe – ’

  ‘It’s around here somewhere,’ John insisted. ‘I told you the estimates were rough. What about there? Dig there.’

  He indicated one of the pits that had been dug the day before. Max sneered. ‘A naive effort, Smythe. We have explored that area.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t dig deep enough,’ I said. With a look that eloquently expressed his opinion of my contribution Max thrust a shovel into John’s reluctant hands. ‘You think it is there? You think we did not dig deep enough?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ John protested. ‘She was the one – ’

  ‘Dig.’

  ‘Max, old chum, I’d love to, but my wrist – ’

  ‘Dig!’

  The least I could do was add a few more seconds to the delaying action. John was obviously getting desperate.

  ‘He can’t dig with a sprained wrist,’ I said. ‘Give me the shovel, John.’

  We played tug of war, mutually protesting
, until Max intervened. John started digging, ostentatiously favouring his right arm. As he deposited the third spadeful to one side, I saw something shine.

  Max saw it at the same moment. Our cries blended. ‘Wait. Stop digging.’

  The other diggers, sweating even in the chilly air, were happy to assume the order was directed at them. When Max fished the object out of the dirt and held it up, all eyes were upon him. He let out a little hiss of breath and a slow smile curved his lips.

  ‘It appears I did you an injustice, Smythe.’

  The brooch would be a good three inches in diameter when the crumpled gold was straightened. The tortuous patterns of Anglo-Saxon design formed writhing abstract animal forms around the rim, encircling a rough polished stone. Deep in its garnet depths a sullen glow of crimson glimmered. It was a lovely thing, quite typical of its period. I would have expected nothing less. John dealt with only expert forgers.

  I didn’t doubt for an instant that John had planted the brooch during the night. I was afraid to look at him. Max was as tickled as a kid who sees a fat, bearded man in a red suit coming down the chimney, after he has decided there is no Santa Claus.

  ‘I told you,’ John said.

  ‘Get out of the way.’ Max snatched the shovel from him. In his exuberance he almost went so far as to dig himself. Recollecting himself in time, he handed the shovel to Rudi. ‘Carefully’ he cautioned. ‘Carefully.’

  ‘Shouldn’t use spades,’ Georg muttered thickly. ‘Bad technique. Trowels, brushes . . .’

  Leif, who had pressed forward as eagerly as the others at the seductive gleam of gold, turned anxiously to his brother.

  ‘Georg, you are not well. Come back to the house. I will help you.’

  Georg struck his arm aside. ‘Don’t need your help. Leave me alone, damn it.’ He marched off.

  ‘Maybe you had better go with him,’ I said.

  Leif shook his head. ‘He is angry with me. I can’t help him now. But later – I will take him to a hospital, a sanitarium. They will cure him.’ He looked at me as if expecting agreement. All I could say was ‘I hope so.’