Elizabeth Peters - Trojan Gold

“Public enemy number one.”

“More like number one hundred and ten. I never aspired to greatness. Neither do I aspire to spending ten to fifteen years in prison.”

“So you won’t help me.”

“No.”

“All right.” I reached for the handle of the door.

John’s hand closed over mine. “Don’t be a sorehead. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll reminisce about old times.”

“No, thanks. You can drop me at my car if you will. It’s parked near the gallery.”

Conversation during the drive back was minimal. His brow unclouded, his hands light on the wheel, John whistled tunefully as he drove. I recognized the song: “Oh Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roving?”

Good question. John acted like a man who was at peace with the world, having fulfilled a tedious duty to an old acquaintance. His behavior was unexceptional, his logic was unassailable—and he had been courteous enough to refrain from hinting, even obliquely, that I must have invented the whole preposterous story as an excuse for trying to locate him.

I could have killed him.

“That’s my car,” I said, pointing.

“I know,” said John, driving past.

“Of course you do. I should send you the mechanic’s bill.”

“I trust it wasn’t excessive,” John said anxiously. “There were only a few minuscule wires dislocated.” He turned the corner and stopped. “This is a bit more private,” he explained. “I presume you’d rather not be seen in my company.”

“You mean you’d rather not be seen in mine.”

“Just a precaution. You do have an untidy habit of attracting predators.” Before I could reply to this blow below the belt—the most recent set of predators had been put on my trail by John himself—he leaned across me and opened my door.

I took the hint. For fear of scraping his precious tires, he had stopped a safe distance from the curb, and I stepped out into six inches of icy slush.

I turned. “I won’t bother putting an advertisement in the papers when I find the gold. You’ll see the headlines.”

“Would you mind letting go of the door?”

“Oh—sorry.”

Instead of closing it, he remained stretched out across the seat, peering up at me from under lowered brows. “You aren’t going to take my well-meant advice?”

“No.”

John’s frown deepened. “Do you know something you haven’t told me?”

“A few ideas are swimming briskly about in my head,” I said. “But they needn’t concern you. You aren’t interested.”

Still prone, he took a card and a pen from his pocket. “I might be able to extend a few tentacles into the old-boy network. See if anything is stirring.”

I watched him scribble on the card. “I’d appreciate that. But please don’t bother giving me a phone number; it would just turn out to be the Soviet chancellery or the Society for the Prevention of Extramarital Sex.”

John grinned reluctantly, but held on to the card. “I’ll be in touch. We might have dinner. Or perhaps a spot of extramarital—”

“Sorry. I’m saving myself for Tony.”

“Who’s Tony?”

“An old friend of mine. He’s coming all the way from Chicago to spend Christmas with me. He’s an assistant professor—six-five, tall, dark, and handsome.” I don’t know why I went on talking; I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “If Tony should fail me, I’m afraid I would have to consider Dieter’s application before yours. He’s shorter than you are, but he’ll be a curator at the Antikenmuseum by the time he’s forty. A nice, honest job.”

John propped his chin on his hands and politely smothered a yawn. “Do go on,” he urged. “How far down the list am I?”

The slush had soaked through my supposedly waterproof boots and my feet were getting numb. “Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll be seeing you. Or not, as the case may be.”

“Take this.” He handed me the card.

“Well!” I said, examining it.

John’s smile shone with seraphic innocence. “It’s an answering service,” he murmured.

The door slammed; the car pulled away.

“Bastard,” I said, staring after it.

I had spoken English; but many Münchener understand the language. A woman passing along the sidewalk stopped and looked at me. “Aren’t they all, dearie,” she said.

It was a good thing I had to keep my foot on the gas as I drove back to work. Otherwise I’d have been tempted to kick myself.

Though I felt sure he hadn’t meant to do so, John had given me a clue with one casual question. He hadn’t asked why the photograph had been sent to me. He had asked why the photograph had been sent to me . The stress made all difference. Why send it to me, of all people? And why in heaven’s name hadn’t it occurred to me to ask myself the question?

I knew why I hadn’t asked myself, and the answer did me no credit. Vanity, all is vanity, saith the poet. Whom else would a repentant thief look up but the great Victoria Bliss, art historian extraordinaire and famous amateur sleuth?

Which was nonsense. I wasn’t famous. In the field of pre-Hellenic art, I wasn’t even well known. I had not written on the subject or lectured about it.

Somewhere, at some time, I must have met the sender of that photograph, talked to him—bragged, more likely—about my status and my expertise.

I had no opportunity to explore the hypothesis that afternoon. When I dashed into the museum, already ten minutes late for a meeting, Schmidt was lying in wait for me. He was furious—not because I was late, but because I had eluded him earlier—and I had to stand there in my wet, icy boots while he bawled me out.

The meeting lasted for over two hours, and then I had a dozen odds and ends to deal with. When the long day was over, I drove straight home without bothering to see whether Schmidt was following me.

The first thing I did was to call the number on the card John had given me. It turned out to be an answering service, just as he had said. I had expected some kind of practical joke, and it wasn’t until the bored voice asked for whom I was calling that I realized I didn’t know.

“John Smythe?” I mumbled, making it a question.

“I am sorry, we have no client of that name.”

Hot with fury and embarrassment, I was about to hang up when it hit me. “Schmidt,” I said. “John—Johann Schmidt.”

“Your message?”

“Never mind,” I growled, and hung up.

Caesar growled too, and lunged for the phone. The strange black object had offended me; he was anxious to mete out the punishment it deserved. I pushed him away and was about to replace the phone when it rang. The caller was Schmidt, suggesting he drop by and take me out to dinner. I didn’t ask where he was; I suspected he was calling from the kiosk on the corner. I told him no, I didn’t want to go out, I was catching a cold, I had a headache and a lot of work to do. He didn’t believe me. Finally I hung up on him.

The phone kept ringing. Schmidt again; then Gerda, wanting me to go out with a cousin of hers who was in town for the holidays. I know what Gerda’s cousins are like—she had set me up with a blind date once before—so I declined. Schmidt called again. Another friend called, asking me to a party I didn’t want to go to. Schmidt called again. After that I unplugged the phone.

It took me some time to get the things I wanted together. The appointment books, receipts, and letters made a dusty, depressing heap on the coffee table—four years of my life reduced to a pile of papers. There was a pot of black coffee on the table, too, and Caesar’s head was on my feet. I didn’t have the heart to push it off, even after my toes went numb. Poor guy, he led a boring life—not even a pile of paper to remind him of past triumphs and past failures. He was alone all day; though he definitely preferred people to other forms of animal life, I suppose he’d have settled for a squirrel or even a mouse to keep him company. I had no mice, and although there were plenty of squirrels around, I couldn’t leave Caesar outside when I was away from home. Not only did he bark maniacally at the slightest sound or movement—to the extreme annoyance of my neighbors—but he could get over or under or through any fence constructed by human hands.