“I am not a lover of cats,” Müller admitted. “And this one does not love me; she misses Anton. But we respect one another.”
“That’s about the most you can expect from a cat,” I said, holding out my hand. I didn’t expect the aristocratic animal to respond; in fact, her initial reaction was a long hard stare from eyes as blue and brilliant as—as other eyes I knew. After she had finished the ham, she sauntered toward me and butted my hand with her head.
“She does remember me,” I said, flattered.
“No doubt. She is very intelligent, and very choosy about her friends. It is a compliment.”
The cat began to purr as my fingers moved across its head and behind its ears. “Would you like to have her?” Müller asked.
I pulled my hand away. Deeply affronted, the cat turned its back and sat down with a thump. “Good God, no. I mean—I can’t. I have a dog—a Doberman. They wouldn’t get along.”
“She is company for me,” the old man admitted, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the cat would hear and take advantage. “But she will outlive me—she is not two years old. I would like to think she will find a home when I am gone.”
“Oh, that won’t be for a long time,” I said firmly.
I gave him my card, and he promised to let me know when the Schrank was ready. Clara relented and allowed me to scratch her chin. I was almost at the door when Müller’s quiet voice stopped me.
“There is some reason why you came, isn’t there? Something beyond coincidence and kindness.”
“I don’t want…” I began.
“I don’t want either.” He grinned broadly. “At my age I have not the time or the strength for distractions. There is work I must finish before I die. But if there is a thing I can do for my friend, you must tell me.”
“I will tell you,” I said.
“That is good. Go with God, Fräulein. I hope you will not have need of His help.”
I hoped so, too, but the picture was looking blacker and blacker. Müller’s description of Hoffman’s death had shocked me badly. Hit and run? There was no evidence of anything more sinister, but it was, to say the least, an ugly coincidence that Hoffman had actually been on his way to mail the letter to me when he was struck down.
I was so distracted I almost walked past my car. Pausing, I heard my empty stomach protest; Herr Müller’s ham sandwich had reminded it that lunchtime was long past. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to eat in Bad Steinbach or drive on to Garmisch. Then I saw something that decided me. It was a familiar maroon Mercedes, parked, with unbelievable effrontery, only a short distance from my car.
I marched straight into the restaurant without going through the lobby; and there he was, at one of the best tables near the window. The table was piled with platters, some empty, some in the process of being emptied. He had been watching for me; he raised his hand and waved furiously.
“I saved you a place,” he announced, indicating a chair.
“A chair you have saved, but not a square inch on the table.” I sat down. “Don’t tell me you followed me, Schmidt, because I know you didn’t. How did you get here?”
Schmidt waved at the waitress. She responded a lot faster than she had done for me. “What will you have?” he asked. “The Bavarian burger is very interessant.”
“I’ll bet it is.” There was enough food left on the table to feed a platoon. I ordered beer, then changed it to coffee, and began browsing among Schmidt’s remaining entrees. He protested, but I told him it was for his own good. He ate too much anyway.
“So,” I said, reaching for a sausage. “You haven’t answered my question.”
He was so pleased with himself he didn’t bother bawling me out for trying to elude him. “Pure deduction,” he said, grinning greasily. “Sheer, brilliant detective work. Ratiocination of the most superb intellectual—”
“Specifically?” I suggested.
“I recognized the man in the photograph you showed me.” Schmidt snatched the sausage out of my hand. “I told you I had seen him before. You thought I boasted, but it was the truth. Never do I forget a face, or a name.”
“Schmidt—” I began.
“I thought about it as I drove home last night,” Schmidt went blithely on. “It worried at me, you understand. I thought he must be connected with art or antiquities, or I would not know him, and I had also on my mind this matter of the Trojan treasure; and suddenly, snap, click, the pieces went together. I had seen articles by this man in old journals. After I got home I found them. Guess, Vicky, what the articles were about?”
“Schmidt, please don’t—”
There was no stopping him, he was so pleased with himself; his voice got louder and louder as he continued. “Troy! Yes, you will not believe it, but it is true, he was on the staff of Blegen during the excavations of the late thirties. To make it certain, I looked up the excavation reports and found in them a group photograph. He was there, standing next to Blegen himself—much changed, yes, but the same man, only a student at the time, but appointed in 1939 to the post of assistant in pre-Hellenic art at the Staatliches—”
His voice rose in a triumphant bellow. Half the people in the restaurant were staring. I picked up a piece of celery and shoved it into his mouth.
Schmidt’s eyes popped indignantly. He hates celery, and any other food that is good for him.
“For God’s sake, Schmidt, don’t broadcast it to the whole town,” I hissed. “You shouldn’t have come here. They are already suspicious of me, and now you’ve made matters worse.”
Schmidt swallowed the chunk of celery he had inadvertently bitten off, grimaced at the rest of the stalk and pushed it aside. He looked a little subdued.
“How can I help but make a mistake when you lie to me?” he demanded. “You tell me the hotel is in Garmisch, which is not true; I must ask at the tourist bureau, to find the Hotel Hexenhut in Bad Steinbach. The earliest this morning I have telephoned you, to tell you what I have learned, and there is no answer. I rush to your house and no one is there—the poor dog, he is crying in the basement—”
“I called Carl and asked him to stop by after work, to feed Caesar and take him for a walk,” I said. Schmidt had me on the defensive, and not just on Caesar’s account.
“He needs a friend,” Schmidt said seriously. “You should have another dog.”
“Two dogs like Caesar and I wouldn’t have a house,” I said. “Don’t change the subject, Schmidt. I didn’t know about Hoffman’s academic background.”
“Ha, is it true?” Schmidt’s pout changed to a broad, pleased grin. “Has Papa Schmidt put over one on the clever detective?”
“It’s true,” I admitted. “I underestimated you, Schmidt, and I apologize. That information answers one of the questions I’ve been asking myself: What was a Bavarian innkeeper doing with a museum treasure? It wasn’t until late last night that I discovered he was the one who sent me the photograph. I—uh—I got so excited I went rushing out without calling you—”
“You see the difference between us,” Schmidt said reproachfully. “I rush to see you, you rush away from me.”
“All right, all right—I grovel, I apologize. Look here, Schmidt, the situation is more complicated than I thought. We are going to have to proceed with caution.”
“Oh yes, I know.” Schmidt nodded complacently. “I am very careful, Vicky, in what I say. And I have learned much. The woman in the photograph is the first Frau Hoffman—”
“I assumed it was.”
“Yes, you assume, but I know. I have seen a picture of her, it is the same woman.”
I put my hands to my head. “Schmidt. You didn’t—you haven’t seen Friedl?”
“If Friedl is the second Frau Hoffman, yes, I have seen her. By the way, that young man at the desk behaves very strangely, Vicky. When I ask for Herr Hoffman and explain I knew him once, many years ago, he turns a strange color and cannot talk sensibly. Do you suppose…What is the matter, Vicky? Have I done something w
rong?”
“Yes, dammit! You shouldn’t have…Oh well, maybe it doesn’t matter. What did you say to her?”
Schmidt insisted he had given nothing away, and if his version of the conversation was correct, it was true—except that his mere presence was enough to alarm a conspirator. He had been deliberately vague about where and when he had known Hoffman, and he had (aber natürlich!) said nothing about the gold, or about a bloodstained envelope. How he had talked Friedl into bringing out the family album I could not imagine; I was surprised that she hadn’t disposed of it as she had disposed of Hoffman’s other personal possessions.
“Poor girl, she is in a state of great distress,” Schmidt said sympathetically. “I advised her to go away for a holiday; her nerves are in terrible condition.”
“Schmidt, you are such a push-over,” I snapped. “She’s a cheap little tramp who married Hoffman for his money and is now trying to steal his—his prize possession for herself.”
“That is a terrible thing to say! How do you know?”
I gave him a brief rundown of what Friedl had said—and what she had not said. “What’s more,” I added, “I’m beginning to wonder whether she knows where—it—is. She tore that Schrank apart. Why would she destroy a valuable object unless she was looking for something?”
“It may be that she does not know for what she is looking,” Schmidt said shrewdly. “It would not be necessary to destroy a piece of furniture to make certain there was not hidden in it something so large as—as what we are seeking.”
“Good point. Maybe she hoped to find a clue—a map or a letter.”
Masticating, Schmidt shook his head mournfully. “I cannot believe so lovely a young woman would behave with such duplicity.”
“Believe it. I’ll tell you something, though—I’m beginning to suspect she is not acting on her own. She is unbelievably stupid. When I was talking to her, I felt as if I were conversing with—with a ventriloquist’s dummy, that was it. Someone had told her what to do, but not how to go about it.”
“Aha,” said Schmidt. “Cherchez I’homme!”
“I think you’ve got it, Schmidt. A woman like that always has to have a man around. Oh, hell. I don’t want to discuss it here. Let’s go.”
Schmidt swept a measuring glance over the table, popped an overlooked morsel of cheese into his mouth, and nodded agreement. “The lunch, it is on me,” he announced, summoning the waitress with a lordly gesture.
“It sure is,” I agreed, surveying his bulging tummy.
Not until Schmidt had risen and was waddling toward the door did I get the full effect of his costume—bright red, fitting him like a second skin. It was so appalling I let out a yelp. “Schmidt!”
“Was? Was ist los? Was ist’s?” Schmidt spun around like a top, bellowing in alarm.
A hush had fallen over the restaurant and every eye in the place was focused on us. I grabbed Schmidt by the seat of the pants (there was very little slack to grab) and the scruff of the neck and propelled him out the door.
We stood by his car arguing. Schmidt was hurt because I didn’t like his outfit—”so fitting for the season of Weihnachten”—and he didn’t want to go home. He was having fun.
We were still arguing when someone came running out of the hotel, calling my name. It was Freddy. “I am so glad I caught you up,” he exclaimed. “Frau Hoffman hoped you would return; she said to tell you a message. There was a bridal chest, very old, belonging to Herr Hoffman, that was given to a friend of his. Perhaps he will be willing to sell to you.”
Schmidt began bobbing up and down and gesturing at me. His face was almost as crimson as his suit, he was so excited. The word “chest” suggested an accompanying adjective—“treasure”—and he was reacting like a child reading Edgar Allan Poe.
“Where does the friend live?” I asked, hoping it was someplace like Paris or Lhasa, and that I could talk Schmidt into catching the first plane.
“Not far from here. I can tell you….”
He rattled off directions, adding helpfully, “It is only several miles from the town.”
“I know it, I know it,” Schmidt cried. “Thank you, my friend—vielen Dank.”
Freddy went running back to the hotel and Schmidt unlocked the Mercedes. “You are following me,” he insisted, forgetting his grammar in his excitement. “I the way am knowing.”
“Wait a minute, Schmidt—”
It was too late. He almost ran over my foot.
I got in my car and took off after the old lunatic, cursing aloud. If I had been on my own, I would have deliberated long and hard about pursuing that oh-so-convenient lead. I probably would have ended up pursuing it, if only for the sake of the chest, which I remembered well. It was a beauty. But I seriously doubted that it contained the gold of Troy.
The first few miles weren’t bad going. Then Schmidt, who drove with an assurance that suggested he really did know where he was going, turned abruptly into a side road that plunged steeply up the mountainside. After a while I shifted into four-wheel drive. I’d have signaled him to stop if there had been anyplace to turn around, which there wasn’t. Snowplows had carved out a single narrow lane; banks of glistening white rose high on both sides. I prayed he wouldn’t meet a car coming down. Occasionally a sidetrack would wind off through clustered pines or up rocky banks toward an isolated dwelling. Otherwise there was no sign of human life.
I wasn’t happy about the situation, but I didn’t start to get really worried until after we had gone fifteen kilometers. The road had twisted and curved so often I had lost my sense of direction, but as it turned out, we weren’t more than a mile from the town. I found out in the most direct possible fashion; rounding a sudden curve, I saw the damned place down below—straight down. The plows hadn’t had any problem disposing of the snow in this spot; they had just pushed it off the edge of the cliff.
I leaned on the horn. Schmidt responded with a cheerful beepity-beep, and the Mercedes disappeared around another steep curve, its rear end wriggling like a belly dancer’s navel. We went around a few more bends, with Bad Steinbach flashing in and out of sight down below; finally, to my relief, the road leveled out. It was then that the thing I had feared finally happened. Suddenly the Mercedes swerved, bounced off a snowbank, and headed straight for the opposite side. There was no snowbank on the side. The drop wasn’t sheer—not after the first twenty or thirty feet.
I started pumping my brakes. Luckily the process had become automatic, because every ounce of my concentration was focused on the wildly weaving vehicle ahead. Schmidt was fighting the skid, but he was losing. There was something wrong with the Mercedes, it wasn’t a simple skid…. At the last possible second, he managed to sideswipe a tree. If he hadn’t done so, he’d have gone over the edge.
I was out of my car before the echoes of the crash had died, running frantically toward the wreck. The Mercedes was skewed sideways; the front wheels were off the ground, still spinning.
Schmidt was slumped over the wheel, his poor pathetic bald head shining in the sunlight. Of course he wasn’t wearing his seat belt; he never did, the damned fool…. I wrenched the door open and reached for him.
The bullet spanged off the rear fender with a sound like a cymbal. The echoes rattled so furiously that I thought it was a semiautomatic. Before they died, another shot sent them flying again. Missed me by a mile…but there were a lot of potential targets. My tires, me, Schmidt, the gas tank…As I tugged frantically at Schmidt’s dead weight, I could have sworn I heard a gentle trickle of liquid. I didn’t need my imagination to tell me the tank was already ruptured; I could smell the gas.
Terror lent strength to my not inconsiderable muscles; I gave a mighty heave, and Schmidt came out like a cork from a bottle. Somehow I kept my feet, towing him as I backed away. I might be doing him a deadly injury by moving him, but we’d both be fried like Wiener schnitzels if that gas tank went up.
God, he was heavy! I couldn’t move fast enough. I felt as if I were towing a
cast-iron statue, as if my feet were mired in glue. The air at the back of the Mercedes quivered, distorted by fumes, by heat…. How long before it blew?
Schmidt lay like a stuffed toy, his hands trailing limply. I could have sworn there was a smile on his face, damn him—bless him—oh, Schmidt, I thought, don’t die. Don’t just lie there and make me drag you.
I was still moving, but it didn’t feel as if I were. My feet went up and down, as if on a treadmill, and the scenery didn’t change, the wrecked car didn’t get any farther away. It occurred to me that I ought to get myself and Schmidt behind that convenient snowbank. I could have managed the first part of the program, but not the second; dragging Schmidt was hard enough, lifting him was out of the question. Was that a flicker of flame I saw, in the shaken air?…
He only brushed me in passing, but my knees were like wet noodles, and when he hoisted Schmidt up over his shoulder, I sat down with a solid thud.
“For God’s sake, this is no time to take a rest,” he said breathlessly. A hand clamped over my arm and yanked me to my feet.
The hand was in the small of my back when we reached the snowbank, but I didn’t need its pressure to send me up and over. I had a flashing glimpse of Schmidt sailing through the air like Santa Claus falling from his sleigh; then I landed face down in the snow and tried to burrow under it as the world went up in flame and thunder.
The echoes of the explosion went on for a thousand years. After they had died, I decided it was safe to raise my head. The first thing I saw was Schmidt’s face, less than a foot away. Cold had reddened it to a shade only slightly less brilliant than the crimson of his suit, and rivulets of frozen blood traced fantastic patterns across his forehead. But his eyes were wide open and when he saw me, his chapped lips cracked in a smile.
I grabbed him by his ears and rained passionate kisses on his dimpled cheeks and bright red nose and grinning mouth. “Schmidt, you devil—you crazy old goat—are you all right, you damned fool? Oh, Schmidt, how could you be so incredibly stupid, you idiot?”
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