Trojan Gold vbm-4

by Elizabeth Peters

  I was tired, and still bemused by the lavender pajamas; it took me a few seconds to react. When I did, I was surprised to find that my struggles to free myself were futile. He had both my arms pinned, and his mouth covered mine so that I couldn’t express my exasperation. Exasperation was the word—not fear, nor even worry; he was stronger than I had realized, but I am not exactly a fragile little victim type. I decided to relax and bide my time. It wasn’t until I heard the fabric of my nightgown give, with a nasty rending rip, that I got mad. That nightgown had cost me 380 marks.

  Before I could slug him, Dieter suddenly soared up into the air. It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen. He seemed to hang there, arms and legs dangling, mouth horribly smeared with my lipstick, for the longest time. Then his feet dropped, his body swung sideways, and he toppled over backward.

  I raised myself onto my elbows and stared at John. “Well! That was lovely. Rambo couldn’t have done it better.”

  “Rambo would have blown him away.” John frowned at his scraped knuckles and raised them tenderly to his mouth. “Which is what I should have done,” he mumbled. “When will I learn to control these impetuous impulses? I suppose now you’re going to tell me you didn’t need rescuing.”

  “Well, no,” I said apologetically. “Although it was a very nice gesture.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s only Dieter.”

  “Maybe you did need rescuing.”

  “Oh, it was just a silly joke. Look at those pajamas.”

  “They’re a joke right enough. The absolute nadir of bad taste.”

  “Exactly. Dieter thinks I’m here with Tony. He probably set this up so that Tony would burst in on us and find us in a compromising position.”

  “Very funny,” muttered John. “Far be it from me to criticize your personal habits, but the way these men keep popping in and out…Is Tony about to join us?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. But you’d better go. If Dieter wakes up and sees you—”

  “He could hardly have missed me,” John said caustically. “Had I but known you were entertaining, I’d have worn my mask.”

  “I think he’s coming to,” I said.

  A mumble from poor Dieter confirmed the diagnosis. John glanced down at him. “No, he’s not,” he said.

  “John, don’t—” It was too late—not that he would have paid any attention anyway. The toe of his boot clipped Dieter’s jaw in a carefully calculated, but very nasty-looking blow. Dieter subsided. I winced.

  John sat down beside me on the bed. He started to speak, then frowned and fumbled under his thigh. “What the hell is this?”

  I studied the object he was holding; things had been happening so fast, I had to think before I could identify it. “It’s a bulb.”

  “I can see that,” John said in exasperation. “Perhaps I should have been more explicit. Why are you hatching daffodils in your bed?”

  “It must have fallen out of my pocket. How do you know it’s a daffodil?”

  “My dear old mum is a fanatical gardener. I’ve planted thousands of the damned things for her. There’s no use carrying it around, Vicky, it’s the wrong time of year.”

  “Well, I know that. I found it at the cemetery—on Mrs. Hoffman’s grave. It looked so lonesome and cold—”

  A moan from the recumbent form at our feet interrupted me. John said, “I should have kicked him harder.”

  “Don’t you dare kick him again.”

  “I suppose I can’t go on doing it indefinitely. He must have a jaw like Gibraltar. Honestly, Vicky, you can waste more time on trivial conversation than anyone I’ve ever met. Get rid of him. Like MacArthur, I will return.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as you get rid of him.” John rose to his feet, then looked searchingly at me. “Can you handle the fellow?”

  “No problem. He’s very drunk.”

  “Smells like a brewery,” John agreed, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. “Very well, then—à bientôt.”

  He faded into the night like a shadow, leaving a blast of cold air to remind me my torso was bared to the breezes. After examining the damage, I was tempted to kick Dieter myself. Annoyance made me less tolerant of his moans of pain and protestations of regret than I might otherwise have been; I bundled him ruthlessly out into the hall and watched with mean satisfaction as he set off on a slow retreat, ricocheting from wall to wall.

  “You forgot these,” I called, heaving his coat and hat after him.

  I suppose I needn’t have spoken quite so loudly. As luck would have it, Schmidt chose that moment to open the door of his room. His exclamation of surprise and interest brought Tony to the door as well; the two of them stood there like Mutt and Jeff, staring from Dieter in his lavender pajamas to me, in what was left of my expensive nightgown.

  I retreated and slammed the door. As I turned the key, icy air brushed my back and I whirled around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Close that window,” I ordered.

  He had already done so. “Cold?” he inquired. “Personally I find it a bit close in here.” He peeled off his sweater and hung it neatly over a chair. “Stop right there,” I said, as his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. “This is going to be a business conference.”

  “You aren’t dressed for it,” said John.

  “Where the hell is my robe?”

  It was lying on the bed. I reached for it, and jumped spasmodically as a thunderous knock echoed at my door. “Vicky?” Tony bellowed.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to come in.”

  “Well, you can’t. Go away.” I got one arm in a sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. John, lips twitching, moved to help me—or so I thought; instead of the robe, it was his arms that went around me. After an exploratory traverse, his lips settled into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

  “What happened?” Tony demanded loudly. “Are you all right? What did you do to him? What did he do to you?”

  “Noth—ooop!—nothing.” John was laughing soundlessly; the movements of his lips were horribly ticklish. “Stop that,” I gurgled.

  “What?” Tony shouted.

  “Get lost, Tony. I mean it.”

  “That goes for you, too,” I added, as the sound of heavy, offended footsteps thumped away.

  John released me and sat down on the bed. “How do you do it?” he asked curiously. “Where do you find these farcical characters?”

  “We are not amused,” I said, finally managing to get both arms into the sleeves of the robe. “Do you suppose we can possibly have a sensible conversation now?”

  “Yes, I suppose we’d better. There’s no telling who will pop in next. Let’s see—where were we? You were telling me about visiting Hoffman’s grave.”

  “That’s all there was to it. I visited the grave, I left my wreaths. That was a relatively peaceful interlude in a day otherwise full of surprises. Don’t you want to know why Schmidt got drunk last night?”

  “Yes, I do, rather.”

  “He found a body in my back yard. A dead body.”

  “Anyone we know?”

  “Do let’s stop being so cool and sophisticated about all this,” I grumbled, pacing the floor. “It was Freddy. According to Schmidt, he had been stabbed.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t work up much heated indignation about Freddy’s demise,” John said. “I saw he wasn’t at his post today; I assumed he had fled or been sent away, but it doesn’t surprise me to learn that someone found him an unnecessary encumbrance. Let’s see…. Schmidt found him yesterday. He must have been killed, and left on the premises, the night before. The murderer would hardly risk carrying out his activities in daylight; your neighborhood is too populous. So what was the noble dog doing night before last?”

  “I had taken him to his sitter early in the evening. Which means,” I added, before he could do so, “that the killer didn’t know I have a dog; or he knew the dog was out of the way; or he didn’t give a damn whether the body
was discovered or not.”

  “That would seem to cover all the possibilities,” John admitted. “Why don’t you come over here and sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

  “No, thank you. Let me get on with my report. If you’d stay at home where you’re supposed to be, you’d have known all these interesting things earlier.”

  “Oh, were you looking for me?”

  “Yes. So was Clara.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry to have missed Clara.”

  “She went with me to the cemetery.”

  “How jolly. I seem to detect a note of criticism, even of resentment, in your voice; is there something I’m missing?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. Let’s see, what else is new? Oh, yes. Jan Perlmutter has come in out of the cold, or out of the closet, or whatever—”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  John threw up his arm as if to protect himself from a blow. “Your suspicion cuts me to the quick. I saw the gentleman with you this evening, and I recognized him from the snapshot you were good enough to share with me.”

  “Oh.” I sat down on the bed. “So you admit you’ve been watching over me. Or is it following me?”

  “A little of both.” His hand moved across the small of my back.

  “I said this is business—”

  “A little of both,” John repeated. “Yes, I saw Perl-mutter. I found it amusing….” Somehow I found myself on my back with John leaning over me and the robe I had assumed with such difficulty half-off. He continued without missing a beat, “…seeing you all together, smiling at each other and lying…” He kissed me and went on smoothly, “…in your collective teeth with every word….”

  I let out a screech. “Your hands are freezing.”

  “Oh, sorry. Let’s try this.”

  The next sound I made wasn’t a scream, but I supposed it might have been rather shrill. John’s reply, if any, was lost in a thunderous crash. The door exploded inward and a large, round projectile hurtled through the opening. A large, round, orange projectile.

  “You are safe, Vicky, I am here,” Schmidt shouted. “There is nothing to fear!”

  “Oh, Christ,” John said. “Is that—does he have—”

  He rolled off me and got very slowly and carefully to his feet.

  “Put the gun down, Schmidt,” I said apprehensively.

  “Oh, it is Sir John,” Schmidt exclaimed. “I am so glad to see you again, my friend.”

  John bared his teeth in a sickly smile. “I’m delighted to see you, too, Herr Schmidt. Er—that’s a very nice gun you have there. Colt forty-five, isn’t it?”

  Schmidt nodded, beaming. “Yes, it is a rare antique. Would you like to see it?” He offered it to John. I think he’d forgotten his finger was still on the trigger. The muzzle was pointing straight at John’s nose.

  “Lovely,” John said in a strangled voice.

  His hand moved in a blur of speed, sweeping the weapon neatly out of Schmidt’s pudgy little paw. Then he turned pea-green and collapsed into the nearest chair.

  “You don’t have to be so rude,” Schmidt said, hurt. “I would have given it to you.”

  “Where did you get it?” I demanded. Germany in its admirable wisdom has very tight gun-control laws.

  Schmidt grinned and winked. “Ha ha, Vicky. I have my connections.”

  “It probably isn’t even registered,” I muttered. “Schmidt, what possessed you to come crashing in here?”

  “You screamed,” said Schmidt.

  “I did not scream. I…It was not a scream.”

  “Well, I see that now,” said Schmidt. He gave me an admiring leer. “I forget that you have so many lovers. First Tony—”

  John stopped mopping his brow and gave me a thoughtful look, but said nothing. Schmidt went merrily on, “I knew it was not Tony, since he was with me. Dieter was very angry after you would not let him make love with you, he said many rude things which you did not hear because you had closed the door, but I was afraid he would come back and do what he said he would do to you, so I brought my gun, in case of trouble, and tiptoed here to listen at the door and make sure Dieter had not come back to assault you, and then when you cried out…Well, now you see how it was. Are you going to get up from the bed?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then I will sit here and we will have a conference,” Schmidt announced.

  “Schmidt,” I said wearily, “the door is gaping open—I don’t know how we are going to explain that—and I am somewhat inadequately clothed—”

  “Yes, it is very nice,” said Schmidt, eyeing me with candid approval.

  “…and why Tony hasn’t appeared I cannot imagine—”

  “He won’t come; he is sulking,” Schmidt explained. “He said you were rude to him and so far as he is concerned the entire male population of Bad Steinbach can assault you. But he didn’t mean it, Vicky.”

  “Go away, Schmidt,” I said.

  “I don’t want to go away. I want to stay here and talk to Sir John.”

  “I’m afraid not this evening, Herr Schmidt.” John had recovered himself; he rose with all his old grace, and had the effrontery to grin at me. “Shall we try my place next time?” he inquired politely. “This has been an evening I won’t soon forget, but the novelty of it would pall with repetition.”

  “Go away, John,” I said.

  “Can I have my gun back?” Schmidt inquired meekly. John weighed it in his hand. I knew it was against his principles to carry a weapon—”the penalties are so much more severe”—but it was even more against his principles to give it back to Schmidt.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, standing up with a martyred sigh. My nightgown promptly slid down to my hips, and Schmidt emitted a gentle moan of pleasure. I decided he had had enough excitement for one night, so I put on my robe and slipped the Colt into its pocket, over Schmidt’s strenuous objections—to the robe and to the “sequestion of his piece,” as he called it.

  I got them both out, and shoved an armchair against the door to hold it in place. Schmidt had burst the tongue of the lock completely out of its socket. That was one thing he did well, falling heavily on things and breaking them. I went to bed. Nobody woke me. I didn’t know whether I was glad or sorry about that.

  Nine

  I THINK I HAD A RIGHT TO EXPECT THAT AFTER the carnival of comedy inflicted on me the night before, matters were going to calm down. Wrong; the second act of the farce began with the arrival of my breakfast. It surprised me a little, because I hadn’t ordered breakfast.

  I mumbled “Herein,” in response to the call, and then realized that she couldn’t because the chair was blocking the door. So I got up and moved it.

  The woman wasn’t one of the waitresses—at least she wasn’t one of the current waitresses. She did not respond to my sleepy “Guten Morgen”; carrying the tray with that never-to-be-forgotten skill, she pushed past me and slammed it down on a table.

  “That’s very nice of you,” I began.

  “Eat it and go,” said Friedl. She folded her arms. “I need the room. It is reserved. You will please check out before Mittag.”

  There were two cups on the tray. I sat down and poured coffee. “Are you joining me?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why…Oh, I get it. Not bad,” I said judiciously. “As you can see, Frau Hoffman, I am alone. What’s bugging you? Why aren’t we friends anymore?”

  “You can ask?” She flung out one arm in a dramatic gesture toward the door, sagging on its hinges. “I do not allow such things in my hotel.”

  “Oh, that was just Schmidt,” I said. “He’ll pay for it. He’s got pots of money.”

  Now that the coffee had cleared my head, I could see her outrage was not assumed. Her chin was jerking spasmodically and her eyes were about to overflow.

  “Something is wrong,” I said. “Please, Frau Hoffman, won’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  “But that is just it
. You don’t talk to me. I invite you here, I appeal to you for help and you betray me….”

  Her voice broke into ugly, gulping sobs.

  “You’re right,” I said quickly. “Absolutely right. I owe you an apology.”

  Her sobs subsided into snuffles. She looked suspiciously at me. “You apologize?”

  “Yes. We’ve neglected you, I know that. But believe me, Frau Hoffman, that’s only because there is nothing to report. We’ve explored every lead we could think of and found nothing.”

  Tears had excavated deep tracks through her make-up. “That is what you say; but how do I know you aren’t lying to me—keeping it for yourself?”

  Friedl was herself again. I decided it was time to respond in kind instead of being so bloody polite. “You don’t,” I said. “Whereas I know you have consistently lied to me. I want to help you, but you must tell me everything you know.”

  “I have….” Her hand went to her mouth.

  “I don’t think so. What happened to Freddy? Why are you so frightened?”

  “Freddy?” Her voice rose shrilly. “What does he have to do—”

  My abused door swung open. “More screaming,” said a familiar voice. “Again it is Schmidt to the rescue!”

  It wasn’t just Schmidt, it was an entire delegation—Tony, and behind him, looking uncharacteristically shy, Dieter.

  “Nobody is screaming,” I said irritably. “We were just talking. If you will all go away, perhaps I can resume what was beginning to look like a very interesting conversation. Girl talk. Do you know about girl talk, Schmidt? It’s between girls—females. No men allowed.”

  Nobody took the hint. Dieter shoved Tony, who shoved Schmidt, and the trio came into the room.

  “We will talk, too,” said Schmidt. “We can put the cards on the table, since the spy is not here.”

  “He’ll probably turn up any second,” I said resignedly.

  With the instincts of a homing pigeon, Schmidt zeroed in on the second cup and my hitherto untouched breakfast. He said indistinctly around a mouthful of pastry, “Let us have three more cups and perhaps an omelet, eh? Then we can sit back and have a pleasant—”