Trojan Gold (16 page)

“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 hints 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 in
deed 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
.

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…

S
AINT
E
MMERAM'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 pro
nounced 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, staring 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.