Trojan Gold vbm-4

by Elizabeth Peters

  “You didn’t used to sulk.”

  “I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.”

  If I had been tempted to tell all to Tony and invite him to join the hunt, the news of his engagement had changed my mind. I had no right to push Ann’s fiancé into possible danger. He would expect to see something of me, though, even if he stayed at a hotel. Could I keep him amused and unaware for a few days, and then send him off to Turin unscathed and unsmirched? The answer was yes, probably, if nothing untoward occurred and if Schmidt kept his mouth shut and if John stayed far away from me.

  In my absorption, I almost drove past the house. I pulled into my driveway with an abruptness that wrung a rude comment on my driving from Tony.

  I ignored the comment. “Here we are. We’ll have a drink or two while you call hotels.”

  Tony looked hurt. I ignored the look, too. It had been his idea to stay at a hotel, hadn’t it?

  My house and its neighbors were part of the Wirtschafts-wunder—the economic rebirth of Germany after the Second World War. Not a distinguished part, however. Like corresponding developments in the United States, there were only two basic plans, endlessly repeated, to which the architects had added minor details in the hope (unfulfilled) of making the houses look different. My neighbor on the north had a bay window in the living room, my neighbor on the south had a bay window in the dining room. I had a front porch. It wasn’t much, just two walls with a roof on top and two teeny benches that nobody ever sat on.

  Schmidt was sitting on one of the benches. If it hadn’t been for that damned porch, I’d have spotted him in time and passed on by. To make matters worse, he had swathed himself in bandages that covered his forehead from eyebrows to hairline.

  “Ah,” he said, rising stiffly. “You have found him.”

  I looked at Tony. “You called the Museum?”

  “You were late,” Tony said sulkily. “I thought you’d forgotten. Grüss Gott, Herr Direktor. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Grüss Gott. I came,” Schmidt explained, “because I was concerned about you, Vicky. You were not in your office, you did not answer your telephone; and after what happened yesterday—”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “I am still sore,” Schmidt said, rubbing his shoulder. “Being dragged by the arms and then thrown—”

  “Never mind, Schmidt!”

  “Dragged?” Tony repeated. “Thrown. What happened?”

  I turned my back on Tony and made a face at Schmidt. It was a sufficient reminder; he was no more anxious than I to let Tony in on our “adventure.”

  “Never mind,” said Schmidt.

  I had just located my key when the door opened.

  “What’s wrong, love? Can’t find your key?” John asked.

  The artistic disarrangement of his ambrosial locks was supposed to suggest that he had just got out of bed. I’ve seen characters in soap operas look like that, but never a real person. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he was tucking it into his pants as he spoke. He was barefoot.

  “I thought you’d gone,” I stuttered.

  “You begged me not to leave,” John said.

  When, oh when, I asked myself, was I going to stop playing straight man? I made an effort to get control of a situation which, I venture to assert, not even Emily Post could have handled neatly.

  “Dr. Tony Lawrence, this is—”

  “Sir John,” Schmidt squeaked. “I am so glad to see you again. I have not yet thanked you for saving—”

  “An honor, I assure you,” said John.

  “Sir John?” said Tony, eyebrows gyrating. “Saving—?”

  I gave up on introductions. I gave up on everything.

  I can’t say that the next few minutes were comfortable. Tony refused to sit down; he stood in the middle of the living room like a Puritan divine about to thunder denunciations, and demanded the telephone. “I’ll start calling hotels,” he said stiffly.

  “But my dear chap!” John’s smile was a study in guileless good will. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” said Tony.

  “No, no. I must be off myself shortly; delighted to know Vicky will have someone to keep her company.”

  They went on like that for a while, with Schmidt listening in openmouthed fascination, until I got tired of the badinage.

  “Sit down, Tony,” I said sharply. “John, why don’t you get us something to drink?”

  I gave him a hearty shove to emphasize the suggestion, and followed him into the kitchen. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Trying to be a good host.” John opened the refrigerator. “What are we serving?”

  “He’s not staying here.” I pushed him aside and inspected the shelves. “Beer, I suppose. I always keep Löwenbräu for Schmidt…. As soon as I can find him a hotel room, he’s leaving.”

  “Do as you like of course,” John said smoothly. “But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s one of the gang of six, isn’t he?”

  The opener slipped as I applied pressure and a fountain of beer shot heavenward. I tipped the bottle into the sink and turned on John. “Are you crazy? Tony wouldn’t…”

  John had already selected a tray from the rack under the counter; now he reached unerringly for the cupboard where I keep my beer glasses. He had certainly made good use of his time alone in the house. “Isn’t he the chap you told me about—the one who was involved in the Riemenschneider affair?”

  “Yes. He’s a friend of mine, dammit!”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as a bit of a coincidence that he should drop in on you just now?”

  “He explained that. He—it is a coincidence. They happen.”

  The swinging door opened and Schmidt slipped in. “Ah, you are still here,” he said with satisfaction. He wasn’t talking to me. “We must have a conference. Vicky, it was foolish of you to bring Tony here. We don’t want another person to join us. We are enough.”

  “We are too much,” I said, sighing. “I’ll get rid of Tony, I promise. It’s only for a few days; he’s going on to Turin on the twenty-seventh. Now we’d better get back in there before he starts wondering what we’re doing.”

  “You go,” said Schmidt. “I wish to confer with Sir John.”

  “Sir John” had filled the glasses; leaning against the counter, arms folded and a supercilious smile on his face, he said nothing. I picked up the tray.

  Tony had the Munich directory open on his lap and the telephone in his hand. I was sorry to see that he had already reached the stage of plaintive pleading. “Nothing? Not even a single, small…yes, I see. I’ll try there.”

  He took the glass I offered him, glared at me, and dialed again.

  Half of my mind was fighting off the nasty hints John had reawakened. Coincidences do happen. Tony wouldn’t…The other half was wondering what wild yarn John was telling Schmidt.

  A furious cacophony of barks and whines burst out, mingled with Schmidt’s shrill expletives. John had let the dog in. Caesar didn’t linger; in search of me, his best beloved, he came barreling through the swinging door. The back swing ended with a thud and a curse from Schmidt; I deduced it had hit him in the stomach, which is the part of him that sticks out the farthest.

  Tony had not had the pleasure of meeting Caesar. He dropped the telephone and went over the couch in a vault that would have done credit to an Olympic athlete. Of course that attracted Caesar’s attention—he loves people to play with him—and a chaotic interval ensued, until I could pry the dog from Tony.

  When the dust settled, Tony and Schmidt were sitting on the floor with Caesar between them, and Schmidt was explaining that Caesar was just a big lovable pussycat who happened to be in the body of a Doberman. Caesar was slobbering on both of them, alternately and impartially. I saw no reason to join in, so I sat down and drank my beer.

  John had taken advantage of the brouhaha to escape, but n
ot, as I hoped (or feared) out of the house. Before long, he came tripping down the stairs, fully attired. He was wearing the same thing he had worn the night before; I deduced as much, since he had not been carrying a suitcase, but I must admit it was the first time I had actually seen the ensemble. Black, all of it, from his track shoes to the cap he was carrying in his hand. I had expected he would bid us a fond farewell, since he was clearly dressed for the street; instead, he parked himself in the most comfortable chair and proceeded to be charming.

  I sat there morosely drinking beer and wondering what the hell John was up to. Oh, I knew part of the performance was designed to calm Tony and persuade him to do what John wanted him to do, i.e., spend the night at the house. He succeeded in the former aim; I saw Tony’s frown smooth out, to be replaced by a pseudo-tolerant smile as he studied John’s graceful gestures and winning smiles and deceptively slender build. I thought John was overdoing it a bit when he started calling Tony “duckie” and patting him on the arm—John’s great weakness is a tendency to get carried away by a role—but Tony has the usual prejudices against well-groomed men who bat their eyelashes at him.

  That wasn’t John’s only reason for hanging around. He was waiting for something, I could tell. When the telephone rang, he stiffened perceptibly. At least it was perceptible to me; I don’t think the others noticed.

  She apologized rather perfunctorily for disturbing me, and then, as was her habit, got straight to the point. “I heard of your accident. I am so distressed it should happen. I telephoned you this morning but you did not answer—”

  “I was here all morning,” I began—then I saw the corner of John’s mouth twitch, and I shut up. The telephone had rung; one of us—I think it was John—had reached out and taken it off the hook. Apparently he had put it back after I left.

  “I am calling to ask for your help,” Friedl went on. “I know my husband meant to do so. But I did not realize before that the matter was so serious. Now you are in danger too. It is a matter of life and death.”

  “Oh, really?” I couldn’t think what else to say, not only because of the listening ears, but because she gave the impression of someone reciting memorized lines, not quite in order.

  “You take it lightly,” Friedl said, sounding more like her sullen self. “I tell you, they want to kill you!”

  “Who?”

  She went back to the prepared script. “I cannot say more over the telephone. I too am in danger. You must come—here—to the hotel. Bring a friend if you like, someone who can help us. Will you come? Tomorrow?”

  “Well…all right.”

  In a sudden switch from the melodramatic to the brisk, she thanked me and hung up. I turned to find three pairs of eyes focused on me.

  “Who was it?” Schmidt asked.

  “None of your business, Schmidt. How about another beer?”

  He was agreeable. I picked up the tray and went to the kitchen. John was right on my heels.

  “How did you know?” I demanded.

  “Was that her?”

  “She. How did—”

  “Pedant,” John said. “Well, I expected something of the sort; didn’t you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “She’s invited me to be her guest at the hotel—dire hints of disasters past and present. Apparently she’s decided to come clean; she admitted her husband had intended to write to me. Maybe I was wrong about her. She had no reason to trust me, walking in off the street the way I did.”

  “If you believe that, you are as innocent as a new-laid egg.”

  “You think it’s a trap?”

  “Could be.” John did not appear particularly perturbed by the idea. “However, in my considered opinion, it seems more likely that they have decided to pick your brains instead of your bones.”

  “You have such a poetic way of putting things.”

  “In words of one syllable, then—they don’t know where it is. Or, ‘is at,’ as you Americans say. Having searched in vain, they have concluded—somewhat tardily, I agree—that you may succeed where they have failed.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “You’ve had a great deal on your mind lately,” John said kindly. “Think. Why would Friedl go to such lengths to lure you to Bad Steinbach when she can murder you just as easily and far more safely, in Munich?”

  “Cheerful thought. If they want to pick my brains, why did they try to kill me yesterday?”

  “Because they’re a bunch of bloody amateurs,” said John, with professional disdain. “They had been half-expecting, half-dreading your arrival; when you turned up out of the blue, they didn’t know what to do. Someone—probably Freddy the Mindless and Muscle-Bound—acted on impulse. He’s the sort of chap whose natural impulses would be lethal. Later on Friedl got in touch with the Mastermind, who pointed out a more responsible course of action. I trust you realize what that implies? It takes her some time to reach the man in charge. He isn’t on the spot.”

  “If you mean Tony…I don’t believe it.”

  John’s demonic eyebrow soared skyward. “Of course you know him so much better than I, don’t you?”

  My nice neat living room looked like the scene of an all-night binge. It stank of beer—Caesar had knocked a glass over—and the place was littered with empty bottles and glasses, the ashes of Schmidt’s horrible cigars, and the scraps of a bowl of pretzels. Schmidt had turned sentimental, as he usually does after three or four beers, and was looking at my photograph albums. He and Tony had their heads together over the Rothenburg mementos and were giggling as they recalled their encounters with the ghost of the Schloss.

  “Yes, she married,” Schmidt said with a sigh; he was talking about Ilse, Countess Drachenstein, who had figured prominently in the case. “A fine young fellow—he was a chemist in Rothenburg. I attended the wedding. I wore my white linen suit I bought in Rome—”

  “Chemist?” Tony echoed. “Not the same guy we rousted out of bed in the small hours?”

  “The same,” I said.

  John listened with bright-eyed interest. “Speaking of chemists,” he began, and went on to tell an outrageous story about an art forgery that had made headlines a few years earlier. The part of the story he told had not been in the newspapers. “And,” he ended, “it turned out he had latent diabetes; it was the sugar that did that trick.”

  Schmidt laughed so hard he turned purple. Tony laughed too, but he was still suspicious. “You seem to know quite a lot about detecting forgeries, Sir John.”

  John lowered his eyes modestly. “I’m just a dilettante, Professor. Jack-of-all-trades, master of none, as they say. As a matter of fact, I became interested because we had a slight problem with one of the family portraits—a Romney…. But that’s another story. It’s getting late. Shall we go, Herr Direktor?”

  “Yes, yes.” Schmidt chug-a-lugged his beer and bounced to his feet. “Where is my coat? Did I have a briefcase?”

  Caesar went to help him look for them, and I followed John into the hall. “What are you up to now?”

  “You wanted Schmidt out of the way, didn’t you? Leave him to me.”

  “Oh, God,” I said hopelessly, and said no more, because Schmidt appeared, trying to get into his coat, which was complicated by the fact that Caesar had hold of one sleeve.

  We got Schmidt into his coat and convinced him he had not had a briefcase, and then they left, arguing about who was going to drive. Eventually Schmidt got in the passenger side and they drove off.

  I returned to the living room. “Alone at last,” I said.

  Tony was looking at photographs. “I’d never seen these,” he said, pleased. “We had a good time, didn’t we? Why don’t we spend a few days at that hotel in Bad Steinbach?”

  It was all John’s doing, of course. When he had found time to corrupt Tony, I did not know; but he had left the snapshots in plain sight, and that had finished the job.

  Why did I give in? Not because I thought there was the slightest possibility that John’s vile hi
nts had a basis in fact. I knew Tony. He was so damned honest it hurt. Even during the Rothenburg incident, he hadn’t wanted the treasure for himself; he just wanted the fun and the prestige of finding it.

  “And suppose,” said a small evil voice inside my head, “that is what he wants now?”

  The voice had a pronounced English accent. I countered, “So badly that he would shoot out the tires of Schmidt’s car and endanger me?”

  “I thought we agreed that was an impetuous, unpremeditated gesture. There are obviously several malefactors.”

  “Not Tony.”

  “What’s his annual salary? The amount of money involved might weaken anyone’s moral fibers. Even if he’s too good for that sort of thing, consider the temptation of being hailed as the discoverer of the Trojan gold. Headlines, television interviews, a book, a film based on the book—and, under certain circumstances, a strong claim to the treasure for his museum.”

  I gave up the argument, not because I was convinced but because I seemed to be losing.

  Short of picking a fight with Tony in the hope that he would storm out of the house and bid me farewell forever, there was no way of getting rid of him. Anyhow, he was just as likely to go on to Bad Steinbach by himself. I didn’t want to postpone my own trip. For one thing, I was worried about Herr Müller. I should have taken steps to warn him earlier, but with a wounded, starving Schmidt on my hands early in the evening, and John later…Nothing had happened to him as yet, but then nothing had happened to me, either, until after I had paid him a visit. I’d be a lot easier in my mind if I could persuade him to get out of town for a few days.

  Besides, Friedl might be on the level. I might indeed be as innocent (translation: stupid) as a new-laid egg, but John had a cocksure, arrogant way of stating theories as facts and of assuming his inter-pretation was the only logical one. I could think of others that made equal sense. Friedl could be hopeless but harmless; Freddy could be repulsive but right-minded. The villains could have been four other people.

  So I said, fine, that sounds like a great idea, and I called Carl the janitor, who became incoherent with pleasure at the idea of baby-sitting Caesar for a few days. I said I’d bring him over right away, since we wanted to get an early start. This added concession almost reduced Carl to tears. De gustibus non est disputandum.