After we had dropped the dog off, we went out to dinner at a little place the tourists haven’t discovered, where the food is good and the prices are reasonable. Tony’s capacity for food is almost as great as Schmidt’s, though it doesn’t show. As he stuffed himself with Schweinebraten mit Knödel, he kept mumbling about how good it was to be back in Germany, and recalling some of our past experiences. Usually I’m a sucker for sentiment and “remember when,” but it irritated me that evening, and not only because Ann was hovering over the table like Banquo’s ghost. It was almost as if Tony were deliberately avoiding certain subjects. Whenever I casually introduced the subject of crank mail and unusual letters, Tony went off onto another spate of nostalgia.
Much later, in what are termed the wee small hours of the night, I was awakened by soft sounds at my door—light scratching, the squeak of a turning doorknob. There was no further action because I had propped a chair under the knob. Sauce for the gander…
Six
SAINT EMMERAM’S BEARD WAS STILL ICE-FRINGED; he had a long icicle on his nose as well. It had turned fiercely cold overnight; the world glittered with a cold, hard shine, like a diamond. Sunlight reflected from the snow-covered fields with a shimmer that stung the eyes. It was, as Tony said, a perfect day for skiing.
I had my skis strapped to the rack on top of the car, primarily as camouflage; I had a feeling I wasn’t going to have much time for sport. Tony was planning to rent. Tony has this delusion that he is a great skier. I don’t know what his problem is; it can’t be his height because a good many fine skiers are tall. He kept talking about trying the Kandahar Trail, where the championship downhill races are held. I was tempted to tell him to go ahead and break his damned leg, so he’d be out of my hair, but then I decided that was not nice. Besides, a broken leg might keep him from traveling on to Turin, and who knows what I might find myself doing with a pathetic, bedridden, pain-wracked, engaged ex-boyfriend in desperate need of TLC?
He made no mention of his late-night visit, so naturally I did not refer to it. Ann’s name was not prominent in our conversation, either.
Tony loved Emmeram’s icy beard and the wreath of greenery draped around his stony shoulders. “I’m glad I thought of this,” he said, as I pulled into the parking area reserved for hotel guests. “I always liked this place. Nice to see it hasn’t changed.”
“Herr Hoffman is dead,” I said.
Tony turned a blank, innocent face toward me. “Who?”
“Hoffman. The host—the owner.”
“Oh, the nice old guy who bought us a round the night before we left? Too bad. You know, this is a great place to spend Christmas. We can go to midnight mass at the church and…er…”
Freddy was not at the desk. There were a number of people waiting impatiently; the concierge, a stout middle-aged woman, kept poking nervously at the wisps of hair escaping from the bun at the back of her neck. When she got to me, she didn’t wait for me to speak, but shook her head and said rapidly, “Grüss Gott, I am sorry, but unless you have a reservation—”
“I believe Frau Hoffman is expecting me. My name is Bliss.”
“Ach, ja, die Dame aus München. Entschuldigen Sie, we are so busy—”
“Calm yourself, gnädige Frau,” Tony said soothingly. “We are in no hurry, and life is short.”
Tony’s German is schoolboy-simple, with a pronounced American accent that some Germans, especially middle-aged women, seem to find delicious. The concierge stopped poking at her hair and returned his smile. “You are very kind, mein Herr. You understand, this is a busy season for us and we are shorthanded; I am the housekeeper, not a clerk, and what we are to do, with so many people…”
Tony listened sympathetically. Basking in his boyish smile and melting brown eyes, the woman would have gone on indefinitely if I hadn’t cleared my throat and reminded her that customers were piling up again. She handed a registration form, not to me, but to Tony. It’s a man’s world, all right, especially in country villages. I took it away from him and filled it in. There was no bellboy; Tony allowed me to carry my own suitcase.
If Friedl was planning to murder me, she had taken pains to soften me up for the slaughter. The room was one of the best in the house—a big corner room, with an alcove furnished with sofa and chairs, and a wooden balcony offering a breathtaking view of the mountains. I was distressed to observe that the balcony was decorated with plastic geraniums.
Tony didn’t comment on the geraniums; he was more interested in the bed, a massive antique four-poster.
“Don’t worry about getting another room,” I said generously. “You can sleep on the couch in the alcove.”
“It’s only five feet long!”
“There’s always the floor.”
“Now, Vicky, this is ridiculous,” Tony began.
“It certainly is. But I wasn’t the one who established the rules. I suppose we could put a naked sword between us, the way the medieval ambassadors did when they bedded their royal masters’ brides. Ann would probably love that one.”
Tony picked up his suitcase and stalked out. When I went through the lobby, I saw him flirting with the concierge. He was so intent on the job he didn’t see me, which suited me fine.
By the time I reached Müller’s shop, I had worked myself into a state of idiotic apprehension; finding the place dark and the door locked, I banged and knocked for some time before I noticed the sign. It read, “Closed for the holidays.”
I was about to turn away when there was a rattle of hardware inside. The door opened a crack; a narrowed blue eye and a tuft of bushy white eyebrow appeared.
“Ah, it is you,” Müller exclaimed, and threw the door wide.
“I thought you’d gone.”
“I am about to go—to my daughter’s, for Weihnachtszeit. Come in, come in.” He locked the door after me and then went on, “I had not intended to leave until tomorrow, but your friend persuaded me otherwise. He is waiting now to drive me to Füssen. A kindly gesture, though I cannot believe—”
“My friend,” I repeated.
“Yes, he is here. Perhaps you wish to speak to him.”
I indicated that I definitely did wish to speak to him.
The door to the shop was closed; Müller escorted me into a tiny hall that led to his living quarters.
Already the small parlor had the cold, waiting look of a place whose occupants have left it for a protracted period of time—dark, fireless, overly neat. Two comfortable chairs flanked the fireplace. In one—obviously her usual place—was the cat, bolt upright, tail curled neatly around her hindquarters, wide blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on the occupant of the other chair.
John was dressed with less than his habitual elegance; I deduced that the jeans and shabby boots and worn jacket had been selected in an effort to convince Herr Müller he was just one of the boys and hence trustworthy. He was staring back at the cat with a nervous intensity that reminded me of a character in one of the Oz books, who tries to cow the Hungry Tiger with the terrible power of the human eye. The cat appeared no more impressed than the Hungry Tiger had been.
Glancing in my direction, he said sternly, “You’re late, Dr. Bliss. I expected you an hour ago.”
“I had to…We stopped by…I’m sorry.”
“If you’re ready, Herr Müller.” John got to his feet. The cat let out a raucous Siamese squawl. John flinched.
“Yes, I will get my suitcase. But I still cannot believe…”
“It’s just a precaution,” John said. “Our investigation is in the preliminary stages.”
Shaking his head, the old man ambled out. “Who is ‘our’?” I inquired. “Interpol, British Intelligence, or some exotic organization invented by you?”
John whipped a leather folder from his pocket and presented it for my inspection. I must say when he did a job, he did it properly; the shield glittered busily in the light, and the ID card was frayed authentically around the edges. Even the picture was perfect—it had the ghastly, stari
ng look typical of drivers’ licenses, passport photos, and other official documents.
“International Bureau of Arts and Antiquities Frauds,” I read.
“IBAAF,” said John, returning the folder to his hip pocket. “It was your name that won the old boy’s confidence, however. You’re a district inspector.”
“And you, of course, are my superior?”
“Regional inspector.”
“That’s modest of you. I had expected a title with the word ‘Chief’ in it.”
“I have no time for idle persiflage,” said John coldly. “You should have been here before this. Let me be brief—”
“That I want to see.”
The cat yowled as if in agreement. John started nervously. “I’m staying here,” he said rapidly. “At least for the time being. I want to have a look at the fragments of the Schrank. It might be a good idea if we weren’t seen together. Thus far, I am unknown to any of the gang—”
“The man who was shooting at us must have seen you.”
“I was wearing one of those handy-dandy ski masks, remember? I might have been any casual traveler, rushing to the rescue. If you want to see me, come to the back door and give the signal—”
“What signal?”
“Anything you like,” John said magnanimously. “Whistle ‘Yankee Doodle,’ rap three times—”
“Three, then a pause, then two.”
“How unoriginal. I’ll telephone or leave word at the desk should anything interesting arise.” The sound of footsteps descending the stairs quickened his voice. “Watch for familiar faces. Be careful. Don’t tell Tony I’m here. Let me know—”
“I’ll report later this evening, sir,” I said, as Herr Müller entered.
John tried to take the suitcase from him but was rebuffed. “I am not so old as that,” the old man said huffily. “We can go now. I still cannot believe…Fräulein, do you know what it is, this mysterious missing painting?”
“No,” I said, feeling it was safer not to elaborate. Lord knows what fantasy John had spun.
“My friend would not do anything wrong,” the old man insisted.
“There is no question of that,” John said smoothly. “I can’t go into detail, Herr Müller, you understand, but we are certain that his involvement was accidental and, unhappily, fatal. He said nothing to you?”
“I have told you. I cannot believe…”
The cat jumped off the chair and walked stifflegged around the suitcase, sniffing it and grumbling to herself.
“She knows I am going away,” Müller said seriously. “She doesn’t like changes. Remember, Herr Inspektor, she must have a square of raw liver each evening….”
A spasm of profound distaste rippled over John’s face. “Er—Dr. Bliss, why don’t you take the nice pussy cat to the hotel with you? She likes you.”
Clara had given up her inspection of the suitcase and was rubbing around my ankles. I bent over to stroke her. “Don’t you like cats, sir?”
“I am fond of all animals. That cat doesn’t like me.”
“Why, sir,” I said, “you must be imagining things. Cats are splendid judges of character. I always say, never trust a person a cat dislikes,…sir.”
The cat started toward John. The hoarse purr with which she had welcomed my touch changed tone. It was more like a growl. To be accurate, it was a growl.
“Perhaps she would prefer to go with you, Fräulein,” said Müller. “It is her old home, after all.”
“I imagine she’ll go where she wants to go,” I said. “Don’t worry about her, Herr Müller. I’ll help the inspector to watch over her.”
“That would be most kind.”
John had retreated into the hallway, and the cat had backed him into a corner. Crouched, her tail twitching, she appeared to be on the verge of leaping. Much as the sight entertained me, I was anxious to get Müller on his way. I scooped Clara up and put her in the parlor while John made his getaway.
The back door opened onto a walled garden deep in snow. Paths had been shoveled to the gate and to a chalet-style bird feeder, obviously Müller’s own work, which hung from a pine tree. Its branches were strung with suet, bits of fruit and berries, and other scraps.
Müller hovered in the doorway, one foot in the house and one foot out. “I must make sure I turned off the fire under the glue pot.”
“It’s off,” John said firmly. “I watched you do it.”
“Fresh water for the cat—”
“I watched you do that, too.”
The old man’s eyes wandered over the dead garden. “I meant to take the Weihnachtsblumen to the grave today,” he said slowly. “Now there will be no remembrance for my poor friend.”
John was hopping from one foot to the other, whether from cold or the same formless sense of anxiety that nagged me, I did not know. “With all respect, Herr Müller—”
I slipped my arm through the old man’s. “I’ll take the flowers,” I said. “I meant to do it anyway.”
“You would be so good? For her as well—poor Amelie?”
“Of course.”
“Not flowers, they would only freeze. Green boughs as for Weihnachten—berries and wreaths—”
“I know,” I said gently. “They still do that in my home town in Minnesota. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
That promise got him out of the house. While he was locking the door, he told me how to find the cemetery. “The church is abandoned now, no one goes there except to tend the graves, and there are few left who care; Anton’s grave will be the last, I think. For generations, the family of his wife was buried there, so he was given permission to rest alongside her; but one day the mountain will crumble and cover church and graves alike. The fools have cut away the trees for their sports, tampering with God’s work—they don’t know or care….”
Between us, we urged him down the path to the gate and through it, into a roofless corridor of an alleyway lined for its entire length with high fences. These people liked their privacy. I could see that John approved of it, too. He wrestled the suitcase from Müller and put it in the back of his car.
Impulsively I threw my arm around the old man and gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. “Happy Christmas, Herr Müller.”
“The blessings of the good God to you, Fräulein.” I didn’t kiss John. District inspectors don’t get fresh with their superiors.
That was one load off my mind. Grudgingly I gave John credit, not only for seeing the obvious without explanation, but for caring enough about the old boy to get him to a safe place. I’d have given him even more credit if I had not known he had an ulterior motive. Why he thought he could find a clue the searchers had overlooked, I could not imagine; but if anyone could, it was John. His natural bent toward chicanery had been developed by years of experience.
The lower end of the alley debouched into the Marktplatz. When I reached the hotel, I found Tony lying in wait. “Where the hell did you go?” he demanded.
“Out,” I said shortly. “What’s the matter, couldn’t you get a room?”
“I got a room all right.” He took my arm and pulled me aside. People passed us, going in and out and giving us curious looks as we stood nose to nose glaring at each other. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tony snapped.
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. Something. That Friedl was the new owner—”
“You know Friedl?”
“Well, sure. We all…” He grinned self-consciously. “Not me, of course.”
“Of course. I’m sure she would have worked all of you in if she had had time.”
Once again I had been caught with my pants down, figuratively speaking. (Obviously the metaphor applied more accurately to some of my former colleagues.) I had only been gone for half an hour; it was symptomatic of the luck I was having that Tony should have latched onto Friedl during that brief interval. Hoping against hope she hadn’t spilled her guts, I murmured, “I didn’t think you’d be interested, Tony.”
/>
“Not interested in somebody trying to kill you?”
“Oh, Schiesse,” I said. “What did she tell you?”
A Bavarian teenager trying to stash his skis in the rack beside the door narrowly missed decapitating Tony. Bawling the boy out relieved some of Tony’s spleen; he turned back to me and said in a milder voice, “Suppose we have a beer and a little heart-to-heart talk. Friedl is anxious to see you, but not as anxious as I am.”
The bar was crowded; we wedged ourselves into a quiet corner, mugs in hand. Sunset reddened the slopes of the Zugspitze and draped the sky with gaudy cloths of scarlet and purple, but Tony wasn’t moved by the beauty of the scenery. I let him talk. I wanted to find out how much he knew before I contributed to his store of information. That was fine with Tony, who seldom got a chance to conduct a monologue when he was with me. As I recall, the lecture went something like this:
“I don’t mind participating in these mad extravaganzas of yours. Not at all. I’m always happy to give a friend the benefit of my superior expertise. A lesser man might resent being shoved into a mess like the one you’ve obviously got yourself into without some warning; I mean, the words ‘sitting duck’ come to mind. Or possibly ‘decoy.’ What I really resent is the insult to my intelligence. I knew something was going on. You and Schmidt and that—that effeminate character, with your heads together…who is that guy? Never mind, don’t tell me, I’m not finished. You might at least warn a person that he’s putting his head in a noose instead of pretending this was just a social visit—”
“Now wait a minute,” I said, indignantly. “I didn’t invite you to come. It was your idea.”
“You could have warned me off.”
“I could have,” I admitted. “At the time I didn’t know—”
“Is that the truth?” Tony scowled at me over his mug. “Nobody tried to mug you, murder you, or burglarize you until the day before yesterday?”
I was glad he had phrased the question that way, because I could look him straight in the eye and say firmly, “No. Nobody.” Not that I wouldn’t have looked him straight in the eye and denied anything he accused me of.
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