Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Something stupid, I guess. It’s a stupid question, Schmidt! Loving someone condemns you to a lifetime of fear. You become painfully conscious of how fragile people are – bundles of brittle bones and vulnerable flesh, breeding grounds for billions of deadly germs and horrible diseases. And loving a man like John is tantamount to playing Russian roulette. He can’t help being the way he is, he’ll never change, and that life-style doesn’t offer much hope for a long-term relationship, does it? I’ve been fighting my feelings for a long time, longer than I wanted to admit, because I knew that once I gave way it would be all the way, no holding back, no reservations. That’s the way I am. And he . . . It’s not just physical attraction . . . Are you laughing, Schmidt? So help me God, if you laugh at me – ’

  ‘But who could not laugh? You, of all people, so prim and proper with the poor old gentleman. I was not always old, Vicky, and I have not forgotten what it is like to feel as you do. But I still do not understand what is holding you back.’

  ‘It’s not me, damn it! It’s John. He’s gone all sentimental and noble and self-sacrificing on me. I hoped I was wrong, but I couldn’t think of anything that would change his mind, he’s so arrogant and stubborn, and he’d have called me by now if he meant to, it’s been almost two weeks, and having her call instead was a deliberate sign – ’

  Schmidt whipped out his handkerchief. ‘Weep, my dear Vicky. Break yourself down. It will relieve you.’

  ‘Thanks, I think I will.’

  He moved his chair closer to mine and put his arm around me. He felt as comforting and soft as a huge pillow, and warm besides. When I finished blubbering I saw there was another cup of coffee in front of me, with a double order of Schlag on it. Schmidt’s ideas of consolation are based on whipped cream and chocolate.

  ‘So,’ said Schmidt in a businesslike voice. ‘That is better. We can seriously discuss the problem. I will accept your assumption that this is how he feels, for you are in a better position to know than I. Can you explain why he should feel so? For surely now your position is safer than it has ever been. He is not under suspicion by the police and you have an excuse for enjoying an acquaintance that began openly and legitimately.’

  ‘John Tregarth isn’t wanted, no. But Sir John Smythe and a couple of dozen other aliases are, and not only by the police. Max assured us he held no grudge, but John obviously didn’t believe him, and how many others like Max are there crawling around in the woodwork? That’s what has him worried, Schmidt. Not just worried – terrified. I thought he was feeling guilty about her until the night before we left Egypt, and then . . . It was me he was having nightmares about. He was reliving that awful hour with Max and the others, and dreading what would happen – not to him, to me – if he didn’t pull it off. He kept repeating, “It was too close,” and he didn’t mean coming too close to murder, he meant . . . Oh, hell. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Schmidt said, frowning. ‘It is very – ’

  ‘If you say romantic I’ll slug you.’

  ‘“Touching” was the word I had in mind. More than touching. Beautiful! Yes, yes, it is what I would expect from such a man. He fears to endanger you, and so he will stay away. Is that what you want?’

  I had resigned myself to a long poetic tirade. The direct question startled me into the truth. ‘No.’

  ‘But he may be in the right,’ Schmidt said. ‘He knows more than you of the possible dangers.’

  ‘He has no right to make that decision for me. God damn it, Schmidt, it’s the same old macho crap you guys always try to pull and it’s not based on chivalry but on pure selfishness – tuck the little woman away in some safe place so you won’t have to worry about her. What about us worrying about you? If you follow me.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Schmidt. ‘I follow you very well.’

  My eyes fell. ‘Touché, Schmidt. I know; I’ve done the same thing to you. But in this case – in both cases – the damage is already done. Once you care about someone you’re wide open, and the worst part of it is not knowing. Something awful could happen to him anytime, it could be happening at this very moment, and I might not even know about it for days or weeks or . . . You know what I did yesterday? I bought a goddamn London newspaper and read the goddamn obituaries! I can’t live that way, Schmidt, and he has no right to expect me to, and no, I’m not going to call him because this is his problem and he’s got to come to grips with it and if he can’t admit the obvious, basic fact – ’

  I broke off. I had run out of breath. Schmidt was nodding and smiling, and there was a calculating look in those beady little eyes of his.

  ‘Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I already owe you more than I can ever repay and I am deeply grateful to you for inducing this emotional orgy, even if you did enjoy every maudlin moment of it. But if you call him and repeat this conversation – ’

  ‘Now, Vicky, would I do such a thing?’ He took out his wallet. ‘Come, we must return to the museum. To work, to work, eh? I trust you will be more efficient in the future.’

  It went on raining. Day after day. Three days, to be precise. I didn’t mind. At that point I’d have considered sunlight a personal insult. And the bad weather kept me occupied. Cleaning up after Caesar was a full-time activity

  He and Clara had been glad to see me. Not that Clara admitted it. In fact, she spent a full day displaying her displeasure at my absence. She’d walk into the room and then sit down with her back to me, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure I was aware of how she was ignoring me. And she talked. There is nothing noisier than an irritated Siamese. Finally she condescended to get on my lap and after that I couldn’t get rid of her. I fell over her every time I climbed the stairs and she slept on my head instead of at my feet. With her tail in my mouth.

  Caesar’s delight at my return was more openly expressed. Thanks to the incessant rain he was able to coat himself with mud whenever he went out and he was determined to share this pleasure with the one he loved best. If it hadn’t been for them and for Schmidt . . .

  But I was feeling more suicidal than ever that gloomy Thursday evening. The drive home, through misty rain and fog, had been a nightmare of traffic and fender benders. Caesar had found something dead in the garden when I let him out, and he had rolled in it. Clara had decided she didn’t care for the brand of cat food I had been feeding her for a week. I had just bought a whole case of it.

  I had been too depressed to change my wet clothes or my muddy shoes. I was sitting on the couch, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, dank hair dripping down my face, when the doorbell rang.

  Schmidt looked like Father Christmas with an armful of parcels and a red scarf wound around his double chins. The bottle sticking out of one of the bags appeared to be champagne.

  ‘Coming to cheer me up, are you?’ I inquired sourly.

  ‘Do not be rude, you know you are glad to see me.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Hi, Schmidt.’

  ‘Gröss Gott,’ Schmidt said formally. ‘Help me unpack these things. We are having a party.’

  ‘I hope “we” means you and me.’ I followed him to the kitchen. So did Caesar and Clara. They knew Schmidt. When he began unloading his parcels I realized he’d been shopping at Dallmayr’s, Munich’s legendary gourmet deli. ‘I don’t want anybody else.’

  ‘I have invited another guest,’ Schmidt said. He was trying not to grin but he couldn’t hold it back, and I knew before he went on what he was going to say. ‘I think you will be glad to see him, though.’

  Slowly I followed Schmidt back into the living room, and there I stayed – rooted to the spot is the phrase, I believe – while he went into the hall. Was I thinking, in that supreme and critical moment, of how god-awful I looked? Of course I was. I had allowed myself to imagine such a meeting. In that fantasy I was attired in robes of filmy white, and my (freshly washed and carefully brushed) hair fell over my shoulders. Trust Schmidt to pick a moment whe
n I resembled a charwoman on her way home from work.

  But I didn’t really care.

  However, I managed not to throw myself at him when he entered the room. His hair was damp and a little too long; it curled over his ears. I swallowed and said, with typical graciousness, ‘You didn’t have to come.’

  ‘I tried to stay away,’ John said. ‘It was for your sake, my darling; I’m not worthy of you, but your image has been enshrined in my heart. Aren’t you going to stop me before I perpetrate any more assaults on English prose?’

  He was smiling, but it was an oddly tentative smile, and if I hadn’t believed the word could never apply to John I would have said he looked a little shy.

  ‘I’m not going to do anything till Schmidt leaves the room,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Why not?’ Schmidt inquired curiously.

  ‘Why not, indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Damn good question, Schmidt.’

  Mine is a small living room. One step was all it took.

  ‘Sehr gut,’ said Schmidt’s voice from somewhere in the rosy pink clouds. (I hate to mention those clouds, but as I have already admitted, my imagination runs to clichés.) ‘I will now open the champagne.’

  ‘No bandages,’ I whispered. ‘Are you really all right?’

  ‘What are you doing, counting ribs? The area is still a trifle sensitive, so if you wouldn’t mind – ’

  ‘You’re so thin. Did Schmidt call you, after I threatened to kill him if he – ’

  ‘You’ve lost bit of weight yourself, haven’t you? Here – and perhaps here – ’

  ‘He did call you.’

  ‘When he did, I had been sitting staring at the telephone for over two hours. Trying not to ring you. Are you angry with him?’

  ‘No. What did he say?’

  ‘My ears are still burning,’ John said wryly. ‘Even my dear old mum’s lectures never attained that level of surgically accurate analysis. Vicky . . .’ He put his hands on my shoulders and held me away. ‘We must settle this before Schmidt comes back and breaks that bottle of champagne over our bows. I thought it quite likely you’d never want to set eyes on me again.’

  ‘I told you I loved you.’

  ‘Yes, but – ’

  ‘Weren’t my demonstrations convincing?’

  ‘Oh, that. You couldn’t help that, you were powerless to resist. I’ve been told Great-Grandad had to beat them off with a club. Darling, stop doing that and be serious for once.’

  ‘Me?’ I stopped doing that.

  ‘I know. It’s your fault, I don’t behave this idiotically with anyone but you.’ He took my face between his hands. ‘Seriously, Vicky. I did try to stay away. If you hadn’t – ’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  His eyes widened with horror. ‘Certainly not! Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Well, what’s a girl to do? If you won’t ask me – ’

  ‘You don’t suppose I would insult your intelligence by asking you to marry me, do you?’ John demanded indignantly.

  ‘How about a dangerous liaison, then?’

  It was the wrong adjective. His eyes darkened and his fingers pressed painfully into my temples. ‘I haven’t guts enough to go through this again, Vicky. If I had survived and you – and you hadn’t, I would have put a bullet through my head.’

  ‘I’m told that drinking yourself to death is more fun,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, God. Won’t you allow me a single moment of high drama?’

  ‘I owe you one for spoiling my big scene at Amarna.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’ He pulled me into his arms. ‘And irresistible. All right, then – ’

  ‘Sweetheart! You’ve made me the happiest woman in – ’

  ‘I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth,’ John said. ‘But we’ll give the other a try. And make frequent offerings to Saint Jude. My darling, are you certain this is what you want? It may be years before – ’

  The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Schmidt’s head appeared. ‘Do not concern yourselves, my friends. Schmidt is working on the problem.’

  The head vanished, to be followed by a thump, a burst of profanity, and a series of frustrated yelps from Caesar. Schmidt had blocked Caesar’s path but he had overlooked one little thing. John yelped and clutched his leg. ‘Bloody hell!’

  I looked down. Clara had bitten him on the ankle.

  ‘Eight years,’ Schmidt said. His ingenuous face fell. ‘Unless it is petty theft – ’

  ‘There’s nothing petty about my activities,’ John said. ‘Let me think . . . Italy.’

  It was a charming domestic scene. Schmidt was sitting at the table, his papers spread out before him, his pen poised. He had stripped to his shirt sleeves in order to work more efficiently, and with the glasses perched on the end of his nose and his face set in a frown of concentration he looked like a conscientious little accountant. An old Roy Acuff tape was playing; when one of his favourites came on, Schmidt joined in. His rendition of ‘The Prisoner’s Lament’ was particularly soulful.

  Schmidt had graciously allowed me to retire in order to change and wash my face. My wardrobe doesn’t run to diaphanous robes, but I did the best I could, and I tied a red ribbon around my hair. As I had hoped, the ribbon had the appropriate effect on John. His eyes widened, but all he said – all he had time to say, before Schmidt was with us again – was, ‘Once you’ve made up your mind you don’t hold back, do you?’

  Caesar was snoring under the table with his head on Schmidt’s foot. Clara was in the kitchen. I had bribed her with the extravagant remains of Schmidt’s feast, but she was still complaining. Every time she yowled John flinched.

  He was recumbent on the couch, coat and tie off, shirt open, like a weary husband at the end of a hard day’s work. I sat on the floor next to him. It is a sufficient indication of my state of mind that I had assumed that position without even thinking about it. Now and then his hand touched my hair, so lightly that no one except a woman who was totally besotted would have felt it. It ran through every nerve in my body.

  ‘Italy,’ John repeated thoughtfully. ‘It’s been almost three years since I did anything in Italy.’

  ‘Ah, sehr gut,’ Schmidt exclaimed. He made a notation. I turned my head. ‘Rome?’

  ‘Right. What a memory you’ve got.’

  ‘Now then.’ Schmidt shuffled papers. ‘We have nothing in Norway. Sweden is next. Was your last, er, hum, adventure in Sweden the one in which Vicky was involved?’

  ‘That doesn’t count,’ John said, stretching comfortably. ‘They never pinned anything on me.’

  ‘How about Leif?’ I suggested.

  ‘Always looking on the bright side, aren’t you?’ He tugged lightly at the lock of hair he had wound round his fingers. ‘They can’t prove I did it. Anyhow, it was self-defence.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’ Schmidt beamed. ‘And you have committed no, er, hum, actions in the U.K.?’

  ‘Nothing we need worry about,’ John said somewhat evasively. ‘There’s an old adage about fouling one’s own nest.’

  ‘And the States?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about that artifact the Oriental Institute fondly believes it got back?’ I asked.

  John looked shocked ‘It’s the original. How can you doubt me?’

  Schmidt peered at his notes ‘So we have . . . Germany, Italy, France, Egypt, Turkey, and Greece. Hmmmm. Nothing for two years, anywhere?’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ John said defensively.

  I rose to my knees and turned to face him. ‘Two years? Then last winter, when you fed me that line about a nice honest job and turning respectable . . . It was the truth?’

  John smiled sheepishly. ‘Hard to credit, I know. I did lie about the cottage in the country. I can’t afford it yet. Everything’s gone back into the shop. Really, the difficulty of starting an honest business in today’s world, what with taxes and endless forms to fill out and all those regulations – ’

  ‘O
h’ John.’ I took his hand and carried it to my cheek. ‘Did you go straight for me? I think I’m going to cry.’

  ‘You dreadful woman, how dare you make fun of me?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He looked as embarrassed as if I had accused him of bigamy. I sat back on my heels. ‘You didn’t want to prejudice my decision, was that it? John, if you don’t stop being so damned noble I’ll dump you and get myself a more interesting beau.’

  He grinned, but Schmidt was deeply moved. ‘You should not joke about such things, Vicky. It will not be so long after all; six years at the most, perhaps only five.’

  It wasn’t that simple. The statutes of limitations with regard to art thefts are subject to interpretations that vary from country to country and even judge to judge – and they are constantly changing. And it wasn’t the police John was primarily worried about. Schmidt knew all that as well as I did. He was just trying to cheer us up, bless his heart.

  ‘I suppose I could give some of them back,’ John said, like a sulky little boy offering to return the candy bars he had swiped from the corner grocery. But I saw the gleam in his eye, and when Schmidt said eagerly, ‘That would be wunderbar,’ I said, ‘Not if you have to steal them back. Aren’t you in enough trouble already? Honestly, John, I think you just enjoy taking things, never mind why.’

  Unobserved by Schmidt, who was considering this new angle, John’s index finger curled around my ear.

  ‘There’s always a chance of time off for good behaviour,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve been very virtuous of late. Mending fences, so to speak. The Oriental Institute isn’t the only institution that thinks kindly of me. Innumerable little old ladies have promised to mention me in their prayers, and several starving orphans – ’

  ‘It’s getting late,’ I said catching my breath. ‘You must be tired, Schmidt.’

  ‘Tired? No! We are celebrating, are we not?’ The damned tape chose that moment to start a new song, and Schmidt jumped up, bouncing on his toes. ‘Come, Vicky, we will dance, nicht?’

  ‘It’s not a polka, Schmidt.’