Trojan Gold (4 page)

Is it any wonder I thought of John when I received an anonymous photograph of what appeared to be an excellent imitation of a museum treasure? Cryptic messages, copies, and forgeries were the trademarks of Sir John B. Smythe. Was this the message for which I had been waiting? Waiting was all I could do. I did not know how to get in touch with John; I never had known. Of course, if I was mis
taken about his survival, a spiritualist medium was probably my best bet.

Yet this particular communication had sinister overtones that were not characteristic of John. His frivolous attitude toward life in general and his dubious profession in particular had gotten him into a heap of trouble. As he had once sadly remarked, some of his colleagues had no sense of humor. They kept misinterpreting his little jokes (at their expense) and wanting to beat him up.

The grisly bloodstain on the envelope wasn't John's style. Unless the joke had backfired. Unless the blood was his.

The shiny white cardboard reflected the lamplight, enclosing the black profile in a soft golden halo. The inappropriateness of that image brought a sour smile to my lips. The smile turned to a grimace as I remembered what I had done that afternoon.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. In retrospect it struck me as the most idiotic move I had ever made—and I speak as one whose career has not been unblemished by foolish actions.

I had put personal ads in the major newspapers of the world. All of them.
Figaro, Die Welt, La Prensa, Neue Zurcher Zeitung, II Corriere della Sera, ABC
, the New York and London
Times
….

Even now I hate to admit I did it. However, a lot of underworld characters use the personals as a means of communication, and I knew John sometimes read them for the sake of amusement. I felt certain the message would capture his attention. It read: “Rudolph. Not roses, Helen's jewels. Michael and Rupert no problem. Contact soonest. Flavia.”

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Few people would understand that string of absurdities, but I knew John would; the single red rose he had sent me came from the same corny old novel. The reference to Michael and Rupert cost me an extra twenty bucks, but I thought I had a better chance of arousing John's interest if I assured him the villains were out of the picture.

Caesar moaned. The wind wailed. The sleet kept on falling. The wine was gone. I was all alone and nobody loved me. Worse than that—I was drunk and all alone and nobody loved me.

Which only goes to show that those boring clichés about optimism are true. “Tomorrow is another day; it's always darkest before the dawn.” Unbeknownst to me, a lot of people were concerned about me—thinking, worrying, caring, talking. The most provocative of the conversations might have gone something like this:

It began with commiserations, half-ironic, half-furious, on her husband's death.

“But there was nothing else to do! He had made up his mind. He was actually on his way to the
Postamt
, to send the photograph. I had to act quickly!”

“Stupidly, you mean. You have silenced the only man who knew where it was hidden.”

“Perhaps he told her. A note, a letter, sent with the photograph—”

“And now you've lost that too. What the devil could have become of it?”

“I tell you, I don't know! Someone may have found it lying in the snow—”

“Are you sure that was the only copy? Did he communicate with anyone else?”

“No—I don't think so…How can I be sure? Any of them might—”

“Shut up and let me think.”

A long silence followed. She ran shaking fingers through her hair, nibbled on her bitten nails. Then the voice at the other end of the wire said, “I have received nothing. That would suggest that she was the only one he confided in.”

“Yes. Yes. We can deal with her—”

“As you dealt with the old man? I forbid it. Do you hear? Keep that degenerate follower of yours under control. Leave it to me.”

“Yes, my darling. I am sorry—”

“Rather late for regrets, isn't it?”

Tears filled her eyes, smearing her heavy makeup. “Don't be angry with me. You will break my heart. I promise, I will do whatever you say.”

“Do nothing. Keep searching. Notify me at once—at once, do you hear?—if she communicates with you. In the meantime, I will take steps to correct your mistake.”

“You think you can—”

“I have several ideas,” the far-off voice murmured.

 

For the next few days I was followed around Munich by little fat men—or, sometimes, little fat women. They were all Schmidt. He loves dressing up in funny costumes. I wouldn't dream of destroy
ing his illusion that he is a great detective, so I pretended not to recognize him. I didn't try to lose him either, which wouldn't have been hard.

I would have lost him if I had been doing what he thought I was doing—heading for a rendezvous with the mysterious, the enigmatic Robin Hood of crime. Schmidt assumed that though John had vanished from the rest of the world, he had kept in touch with the love of his life. Maybe he had—but obviously I wasn't it.

The stain on the wrapping paper was human blood, all right. This fact, among others, convinced me John was not the sender. The sight of blood made him sick—especially, as he had candidly admitted, his own. Nor would he have left me hanging in limbo. He'd have sent a follow-up message.

I studied that damned photograph, with the naked eye and the magnifying glass, until every detail was imprinted on my brain. If there was a hidden clue, I failed to find it. Schmidt had no better luck than I. He kept stealing the photo, and I had to keep stealing it back; and I knew that if he had found something I overlooked, he wouldn't be able to resist bragging about it. I made a point of arriving early at work so I could intercept the mail before Gerda messed around with it. I infuriated the switchboard operator with my daily demand of “Are you sure no one else called?”

She was sure.

Except for Schmidt's comedy routine, it was a dull week. Even his appearance as a pint-sized Erich von Stroheim, complete with monocle, didn't cheer me up. Schmidt's eye muscles weren't up to the job of retaining the monocle, it kept falling out,
and whenever I looked back at him, all I saw was his rotund rump as he pawed at the snowdrifts looking for his prop. That pursuit ended when some woman started beating him with her purse and accusing him of trying to look up her skirts. I guess he talked her out of calling a cop. I didn't intervene, since I wasn't supposed to know who he was.

I'm not one of those unfortunate people who sink into a deep depression during the holidays. Usually I love Christmas, and
Weihnachten
in Bavaria is lots of fun. Streets and shops were strung with greens; Christmas trees sparkled in every square and plaza. The Kristkindlmarkt was in full swing, as it had been for over a hundred and fifty years; booths and stands crowded the square under the shadow of Der Alte Peter, who is not an elderly gentleman but an elderly church. In the evening, lanterns and candles and strings of rainbow lights shone like fallen stars in the blue dusk, and trumpeters on the church tower played the old carols; the clear, bright notes drifted down like music from heaven, blending with the gently falling snow. Every variety of Christmas decoration was for sale, from gilded gingerbread to handmade ornaments; and I lingered at the booths featuring the lovely carved creches. I couldn't afford any of the ones I wanted, so I bought
Pfeffernüsse
and sugared almonds for Schmidt, and a gilded bare branch strung with hard candies—a kindly compromise of the old legend in which the saint brings sweeties to the good little children and switches to the naughty ones.

In other words, I did my damnedest to cultivate some Christmas spirit. I had only limited success.
The gold bracelet I bought mother recalled the glitter of Helen's diadem; a street sign reminded me that the small town of Dachau was only a few miles away and made me wonder why I was worrying about the fate of a few chunks of lifeless metal, compared to the wreckage of human life in that awful cataclysm.

Even the toy stores didn't cheer me up. German toy stores are superb, but I was pretty sure my nieces and nephews would prefer copies of American superheroes made in Taiwan to the beautifully crafted castles and storybook dolls and stuffed, cuddly animals. I loaded up on heroes for the kids and consoled myself with a stuffed kitten. I adore stuffed animals, but I have a hard time building a collection because Caesar keeps eating them. The kitten was lifesized and amazingly lifelike—a Siamese with seal-brown ears and tail, a pink nose, and blue glass eyes. At the moment, however, I was not too fond of blue eyes, what with Schmidt dogging my every move and John not dogging me….

I also bought a robe and nightgown. They were Italian-made, sheer white batiste dripping with lace and embroidery. After I got back to work that day, I spread the robe out across the desk and stared at it. I cannot honestly say I do not know what possessed me to buy such a useless, extravagant item. I knew exactly what had possessed me. It wasn't even my style; as my mother keeps insisting, I look better in tailored clothes.

When the telephone rang I lunged for it, hoping the caller would be someone interesting enough to take my mind off my increasing insanity.

At first I didn't recognize his voice. Even after he
had identified himself, I remained doubtful. “Are you sick or something? You sound funny.”

“Humor is not my aim,” said Tony. “This is a business call.”

“The word was ill-chosen,” I admitted. “Seriously—are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in Illinois, of course. Are you going to the meetings this year?”

“Which meetings? Oh—Turin. No, I don't think so.”

“You went last year.”

I had not taken him seriously when he said the call was business; one never knows when the IRS may be bugging one's telephone. But the formal, almost accusatory tone was not like the Tony I knew.

“Last year the meetings were only sixty miles from Munich,” I explained patiently. “And there were several sessions on art history. Are you going?”

“Yes. I—uh—I had hoped to see you.”

“Well, you won't unless you stop over in Munich.”

“May I? I wouldn't want to interfere with your plans—”

“Tony, you sound like Miss Manners' older brother. I'd love to see you. I can't think of anything I'd like better. I have no plans—I'll be all alone—”

“What about that weird little boss of yours?”

“Schmidt,” I said in exasperation. “His name is Schmidt, as you know perfectly well. I usually do
spend Christmas with him unless I go home, but this year he's going to his sister's. He can't stand the woman—she's one of those tightlipped disapproving types—and he hates her husband, too; but she trapped him and he couldn't think of an excuse—”

“Oh,” Tony said, in a sepulchral bass rumble, like Boris Karloff. “All right. How does the twenty-first suit you?”

I assured him nothing in this world or the next would give me greater pleasure than to pick him up at the airport on December 21.

“Okay,” Tony mumbled. “See you then.”

The click of the far-off receiver caught me with my mouth open and my rapturous enthusiasm half-expressed. He sounded as if he was even more depressed than I was. Instead of cheering one another, we might end up in a joint suicide pact. Then something else hit me. Tony had not asked me to marry him.

Tony always asked me to marry him. He had been asking me for years. One of the reasons why he disliked Schmidt was that he blamed the old boy for luring me from the primrose path that led to the cottage door and the little frilly aprons and the houseful of babies. This was completely unjust, since I wouldn't have married Tony even if Schmidt had not offered me a job.

Not that I wasn't fond of Tony, who is tall (really tall, I mean, six inches taller than I am), dark, and handsome, if you like the lean aesthetic type, which I definitely do. I met him at the midwestern college where we were both starving instructors, and we had spent one wild summer in Germany on the
trail of a lost masterpiece of medieval sculpture. The successful climax of the hunt had won me a job offer from Schmidt, and it hadn't hurt Tony's career either; he was now an assistant professor at the University of Chicago with a consultative post at the Art Institute.

I loved Tony, but I wasn't in love with him—nor was I in love with the idea of marriage as such. I'm not knocking the institution; it seems to work fine for a lot of people. But not for me. Not for a while, at any rate.

Anyway, he had probably decided to propose in person. That must be the explanation. I had only imagined he sounded odd. Maybe he was recovering from flu. Maybe my own evil mood had affected my hearing. He was always good company—dear old Tony—a face from home, someone with whom to share the festive season….

I started to feel more cheerful. Things were working out after all. It was a good thing John had not responded to my loony message. There were no two people I was less anxious to introduce than John and Tony. Unless it was John and Schmidt.

John's failure to respond didn't mean he was dead. He might not see the advertisement. He might see it and choose not to reply. A superstitious man might regard me as something of a jinx. Not only had I wrecked several of his business ventures, but I had been indirectly responsible for the infliction of grave bodily harm upon his person. The ad had only appeared a few days ago. He might yet…

If I married Tony, I would never have to spend Christmas alone ever again.

When I realized what I was thinking, I was so horrified I rushed out of the office and then had to go back for my coat. I really must be cracking up if that struck my subconscious as a legitimate excuse for matrimony. Christmas comes but once a year, for God's sake.