Trojan Gold vbm-4

by Elizabeth Peters

  “Drop that telephone or I’ll break your wrist,” I said. “This is my room, dammit; I’m tired of people walking in and out as if—”

  “I’m not leaving until everyone else leaves,” Tony announced. He folded his arms magisterially.

  “Why not talk now?” Dieter was frankly amused. He dropped into the armchair and smiled impartially at all of us. “Cards on the table, as the Herr Direktor has said. You were holding out on us, weren’t you, Vicky? You are in the confidence of this charming lady. Don’t you think it is time you admitted the rest of us to her confidence?”

  Friedl glanced at him askance. “I don’t know anything,” she muttered.

  “That’s true,” I said. “Friedl—Frau Hoffman—asked me to come, and Schmidt and Tony were in on the deal, too. But she knows even less than we do. Only that her husband was mumbling about some long-lost treasure.”

  Dieter rolled his eyes and looked skeptical. “It sounds very peculiar to me.”

  “Your basic premise still holds,” I pointed out. “If any of us knew where it is, we’d grab it and run.”

  Friedl’s reddened, smeary eyes turned to me. “You would?”

  “Now, don’t give Frau Hoffman the wrong idea,” Tony said. “We’re not trying to pull a fast one. If we ran with it, we’d run straight to the proper authorities. Right, Vicky?”

  “Oh, right. Sure.” I added thoughtfully, “Whoever the proper authorities may be….” I saw Friedl’s head swivel toward me, her eyes narrowing. She might not be too bright, but she had a good ear for nuances—of a certain variety.

  “We wish to help you, Frau Hoffman,” Dieter said. “You know we are honorable people, with reputations to consider. Have faith in us.”

  “Well…”

  “If you still want me to leave,” I began.

  “No. No, I didn’t mean…” She glanced around the room and seemed to gain confidence from the silent approval and sympathy the men were beaming at her. “I would be pleased to have you stay on.”

  “For another day or two, then. Perhaps we can talk later—all right?”

  I hoped she would take the hint, and her departure; the arrival of the committee had ended any hope of a confidential chat, but I had a feeling that Friedl and I might have things to say to one another under the right circumstances.

  “Changed your mind, eh?” said Tony, after Friedl had left. “Now why—”

  Schmidt had finished my food. “It is time for breakfast,” he announced. “Let us adjourn the meeting to the restaurant and confer some more.”

  “Yes, why don’t you?” I said. “I’ll join you later.”

  Dieter was the last to leave. He looked doubtfully at the sagging door. “Did I do that?” he asked. He sounded as if he hoped he had.

  “No. Don’t you remember?”

  His sudden rueful grin stretched the purpling bruise on his jaw. “I remember only that I made a fool of myself, as I always do with you. Did you have to hit me so hard?”

  “I didn’t…”

  His eyes were wide and innocent. I amended my original statement; if he really didn’t know there had been another person in my room, there was no need to tell him. “I have a few bruises of my own, buddy.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “I think you came out worse than I did.”

  Dieter’s hand went to his jaw. “Yes. I think so, too.”

  Glancing into the restaurant as I passed, I saw that Jan had joined the group. If I had entertained the slightest intentions of participating in that so-called conference, the sight of him would have squelched them.

  Sullen gray clouds pressed down on Bad Steinbach. A scattering of snowflakes was blown into frenzied dances by the frigid wind. Gaiety prevailed, despite the cold; booths and stands still fringed the Marktplatz, dispensing food, drink, and variegated trinkets. It was Christmas Eve. The demons of darkness had been banished for a year, and tonight the birthday of the Child would be celebrated with midnight mass at the church and private family devotions.

  There was no sign of life at Müller’s shop—inside or outside. My signaled knock went unanswered. As I re-emerged into the Marktplatz, I saw someone sauntering slowly across the open square. He walked toward one of the cafés and went in.

  The small place was crowded, the few tables occupied. I joined the man who was standing at the counter—a man with a bushy gray mustache and heavy matching brows. His knit cap was pulled low over his ears. I ordered coffee and bread from the bustling waitress and waited until it had been delivered before I turned to him.

  “Why aren’t you answering your door?”

  He had his back to the room, but his eyes remained fixed on the mirror behind the counter. There was a second door not far away; I knew if he saw anything that bothered him, he’d be out the door in a flash—leaving me with the check.

  “I’ve moved,” he said after a moment. “Too many people know where I live.”

  “What have you done with the cat?”

  That inconsequential question drew a flash of blue eyes and a half-smile. “Locked her in the house with three days’ supply of food and water. Müller will be back by then.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell.”

  “It’s Friedl. She’s wound so tight she’s ready to explode. She burst into my room this morning in a fit of hysterics and ordered me to leave—”

  “Well, what can you expect after that performance last night?” The gray mustache quivered.

  “Oh, that was just an excuse. I tell you, she’s terrified.”

  “Perhaps this is the time to apply pressure.” There was no pity in his voice, only a cold ruthlessness. I knew he was right, but I hated him for being right—and I hated myself for agreeing.

  “It’s for her own good,” I argued.

  “Oh, quite. Poor little Friedl…. You won’t gain any information about the whereabouts of Hoffman’s treasure, but you might learn the identity of his murderer. If that detail concerns you….”

  “It concerns me,” I said curtly. “We could be wrong, you know. All the members of the group are behaving exactly as one might expect them to. How do we know there isn’t an unknown third party involved?”

  “Eighth or ninth party, rather. Whoever he is, he has murdered two people. Friedl may be next.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what has me so…” The cup I was holding wobbled. John’s hand closed over mine, steadying it.

  “Then it behooves you to convince the lady—I use the term loosely—to spill her guts, before he can do it for her…. Sorry. ‘A man who could make so vile a pun would not scruple to pick a pocket.’”

  “Amen. You’re neglecting to watch the mirror.”

  “Oh, right.” John released my hand and assumed his former position. After a moment he said, “I believe you are overly concerned about the danger to Friedl. Through her, he has access to the hotel and to Hoffman’s papers and property. He’d be a fool to kill her so long as there is the slightest chance that she’ll find something, or remember something, that might help him. But if he ever finds out where it is…”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am always right,” John said.

  “You keep saying ‘he.’ You don’t have any idea—”

  “Not the slightest.” His eyes remained fixed on the mirror. Mine remained fixed on him. He hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I use the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience. By all the standards of detective fiction, the villain ought to be Elise. She’s been less prominent in this affair than the others.”

  “The least likely suspect? No, that’s Rosa D’ Addio. She isn’t even here.”

  The corner of John’s mouth relaxed. “That sounds like Schmidt’s logic. She probably ignored the photograph. Any sane scholar would.”

  “Exactly. Which brings us back to—”

  “Your lot,” said John. “Speaking of
which, or whom—”

  I glanced over my shoulder. When I glanced back, he was gone.

  I hadn’t seen any familiar faces. I assumed John had pulled another of his little tricks to distract me so he could slither away.

  When I got back to the hotel, I found that my buddies had finished breakfast and were staked out in the lobby waiting for me. I thought I caught a glimpse of Dieter’s shrieking aquamarine jacket ducking back into the restaurant as I walked into the hotel; his wish to avoid me showed an unexpected sensitivity. Maybe Tony had read him a little lecture.

  “Where is Jan?” I asked, sitting down on the couch next to Schmidt.

  Schmidt chuckled. “In the kitchen. He is interrogating the cook, I think. A council of desperation! I have already questioned her, and the good woman knows nothing—except the recipe for the Bavarian burger, which she was kind enough to give—”

  “Spare me,” I said, wincing.

  “That reminds me,” said Schmidt. “I want my gun back.”

  I failed to see the connection, but I said firmly, “You can’t have it.”

  “It is a valuable weapon, a museum piece. I want—”

  “I’m not going to steal it, Schmidt. Just keep it until…until later. And that reminds me…” I scowled at Tony. “What possessed you to let Schmidt out of the room with that weapon last night? He could have killed somebody.”

  Tony had to raise his voice to be heard over Schmidt’s sputtering protests. “I hoped he would.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “He wouldn’t shoot you.” Tony thought a minute. “Unless it was by accident. Vicky, I am not going to comment on your sexual activities—”

  “You damn well better not.”

  “Because that is a private matter between you and your conscience. But I would like to know, if you will pardon my curiosity, what made you decide to stay on at Bad Steinbach.”

  “Yes, I would like to know that, too,” said Schmidt. “You have found a clue? If you have, and you keep it to yourself, you can find yourself another position. I will set fire to you.”

  “Not ‘set fire,’” I said automatically. “Oh, never mind. I don’t have a clue, Schmidt. I will come clean with you, though. I think Friedl may be having second thoughts. She’s wound tighter than one of Dieter’s trick snakes. It’s barely possible that, properly persuaded, she will break down and talk to me. Me,” I added, clutching Schmidt’s collar as he started to rise. “Confidences of that sort are best induced on a one-to-one basis.”

  “Why not me to her?” Schmidt asked hopefully.

  “I think Tony to her would be more effective,” I said. “But give me a crack at her first, okay?”

  They agreed. Then Schmidt said, “Can I have my gun back?”

  “No.”

  “Humph.” He glanced at his watch. “Ha. It is time for Mittagessen.”

  “Schmidt, you just ate a huge breakfast,” Tony protested.

  “But it is now almost Mittag. Come, I will take you both to lunch. Then…Then what shall we do?”

  “You guys can do anything you like,” I said agreeably. “I’m going to Garmisch. I have to do my Christmas shopping.”

  “Christmas shopping!” Tony was incredulous.

  “This is Christmas Eve,” I reminded him.

  “Ha, yes,” Schmidt said eagerly. “And tonight we have the roast goose and the presents and the Christmas tree…. I will find a tree, a little one, and we will put the ornaments on it—”

  “I thought you were going to your sister’s.”

  “I will call and tell her I am dying,” said Schmidt. “I would rather be with you, Vicky.”

  “Me, too, Schmidt.” I smiled at him. “And I’d rather be here than trying to explain to the Munich police why there’s a dead man in my garden.”

  “So that is why you stay,” said Schmidt.

  “It’s a good reason. What do you want for Christmas, Schmidt?”

  I figured it was safe to leave Schmidt unattended. After lunch he would have a nice long nap, and then his shopping would keep him busy for the rest of the afternoon. Tony asked to go with me, expecting, I’m sure, that I would fob him off with some excuse or other. He was disarmed, poor innocent, when I said it was fine with me. “But you’ll have to go off on your own part of the time,” I warned him. “I’m not going to buy you a present with you looking over my shoulder.”

  Tony smiled shyly.

  As soon as I’d gotten rid of him, I went to the magic shop Dieter had mentioned. They had what I wanted; I also bought Schmidt a lightbulb nose like Dieter’s and a few other props. After that, I let myself go; what the hell, it was Christmas Eve. When I got back to the car, loaded with parcels and wrapping paper, Tony was waiting for me.

  “You really did go shopping,” he said in surprise.

  “You must stop doubting me, Tony. I told you I wanted to get something for you. Here it is…. No, no fair peeking.”

  It was a sweater, made in Taiwan. I had the tag all made out: “From Ann, your imaginary fiancée in the Far East.”

  Tony had packages of his own; he showed me what he had bought for Schmidt while we drove back. It was getting dark. Clouds shrouded the sky and hung low over the mountains. The lights of Christmas trees and candles, placed in the windows of every house to honor the Child, defied storm and darkness. The radio was playing carols, and even the voice of the announcer predicting heavy snow in southern Germany didn’t spoil my mood. Damn it, I thought, I’m going to have a happy Christmas Eve. I’ll forget about poor frozen Freddy and all the rest of it for a few hours. Caesar would be having the time of his life with Carl, feasting on goose and pudding and anything else his canine heart desired. He would then be violently sick—on Carl’s floor, not mine. And John would be—where? Probably freezing his butt in the snow while he spied on me or on someone equally harmless. Serve him right. That cynical creature was as far removed from the gentle kindliness of Christmas as the pagan deities the priest had exorcised.

  For the first time that year, and under rather inauspicious circumstances, I found I had some genuine Christmas spirit. Tony and I parted at our respective doors after agreeing we would meet in an hour for the start of the festivities. He promised he’d keep Schmidt out of my way until I had finished wrapping my presents, and I promised I wouldn’t peek through his keyhole or otherwise cheat until he called to tell me he and Schmidt were ready.

  Humming unmelodiously but cheerfully, I spread my purchases out on the bed—including a box of chocolates, Vicky’s present to Vicky. The bright wrappings and colored ribbons, an American contribution to old-fashioned German customs, looked pretty and festive. I had even remembered to buy a small pair of scissors and some tape.

  Dusk deepened into darkness twinkling with lights. Far away in the distance, muted by the closed window, I could hear the sound of a radio or tape playing Christmas carols. I thought of poor Clara, locked in the dark house all alone. Perhaps I ought to get her and let her share the goose. One of the neighbors must have a key. And if I did happen to run into John…Nobody should be alone on Christmas Eve. I might even ask him to join us. Schmidt would be tickled pink to have him. Tony would be furious…. It would be an interesting combination—a real witches’ brew of personalities. Not such a good idea, after all. Besides, it was unlikely I would see him.

  I was busily wrapping packages when the telephone rang. Expecting Tony, I didn’t recognize the voice at first, or understand what it was trying to say. Then the hoarse, rattling sounds shaped themselves into words. “Please—come—help me….”

  “Friedl?” I exclaimed. “Is that you? What’s wrong?”

  “Yes…come, please….” There was a muffled thud, as if the telephone had dropped from her hand, and after that nothing but silence.

  I dropped my own phone and bolted for the door. No time to tell Tony—no time to do anything except get to her, as fast as I could. God, she had sounded as if she were being strangled, even while she was trying to speak to me.r />
  The lobby was full of holiday celebrants, gathered around the tree in the center. The bar had spilled out into the lobby, and people were raising glasses, singing, and laughing. By contrast the private corridor was ominously quiet. Not a soul was visible, not a whisper came from Friedl’s apartment. The door to her sitting room was ajar. I eased it open.

  Tony was bent over the couch—over something lying on the couch. Hearing me enter, he straightened and turned around. Great drops of perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his face was a horrible gray-green. But it wasn’t as bad as the face of the woman on the couch. I recognized her by her frizzy blond hair and by her clothing.

  “She’s dead,” Tony said.

  I touched Friedl’s wrist, searching for a pulse—a futile gesture, but one I felt I had to make. “She’s dead, all right. It must have happened within the past few minutes.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Tony said. “She was on the floor—”

  “You picked her up? Oh, Tony!”

  “I didn’t think.” Tony raised one hand to his forehead. “She called me—asked me to come down here on the double—sounded absolutely frantic, I hardly recognized her voice. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you.” My response was automatic. As I stared down at the swollen cyanotic face, I was remembering what John had said earlier that day. “If he ever finds out where it is…”

  It would seem that he had found out.

  And so had I. I could only marvel that it had taken me so long.

  Ten

  A CLICKING SOUND, LIKE CASTANETS, made me start. It was Tony’s teeth. Poor baby, he wasn’t accustomed to death in such an unattractive form.

  Well, neither was I. They say one’s mind works with unnatural quickness in times of crisis. Mine doesn’t always oblige in that way, but I knew we were in deep trouble. Not that there was any danger of Tony’s being convicted for Friedl’s murder; he hadn’t done it and they couldn’t prove he had. This was a delaying tactic, and it was more than likely…