Elizabeth Peters - Trojan Gold

“Yes. Her name is Clara—”

“After Clara Schumann,” I said with a smile. “The great love of Brahms’s life. I’m so glad she’s with you. Frau Hoffman said she had gotten rid of her, and I was afraid…”

“I would not let Anton’s pet come to harm.”

The cat leaped onto the table with the air of spontaneous flight common to Siamese. It sauntered casually toward the sandwich, looking as if food were the farthest thing from its mind. The old man pulled out a chunk of ham and offered it; after sniffing the morsel, the cat condescended to accept it.

“I am not a lover of cats,” Müller admitted. “And this one does not love me; she misses Anton. But we respect one another.”

“That’s about the most you can expect from a cat,” I said, holding out my hand. I didn’t expect the aristocratic animal to respond; in fact, her initial reaction was a long hard stare from eyes as blue and brilliant as—as other eyes I knew. After she had finished the ham, she sauntered toward me and butted my hand with her head.

“She does remember me,” I said, flattered.

“No doubt. She is very intelligent, and very choosy about her friends. It is a compliment.”

The cat began to purr as my fingers moved across its head and behind its ears. “Would you like to have her?” Müller asked.

I pulled my hand away. Deeply affronted, the cat turned its back and sat down with a thump. “Good God, no. I mean—I can’t. I have a dog—a Doberman. They wouldn’t get along.”

“She is company for me,” the old man admitted, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the cat would hear and take advantage. “But she will outlive me—she is not two years old. I would like to think she will find a home when I am gone.”

“Oh, that won’t be for a long time,” I said firmly.

I gave him my card, and he promised to let me know when the Schrank was ready. Clara relented and allowed me to scratch her chin. I was almost at the door when Müller’s quiet voice stopped me.

“There is some reason why you came, isn’t there? Something beyond coincidence and kindness.”

“I don’t want…” I began.

“I don’t want either.” He grinned broadly. “At my age I have not the time or the strength for distractions. There is work I must finish before I die. But if there is a thing I can do for my friend, you must tell me.”

“I will tell you,” I said.

“That is good. Go with God, Fräulein. I hope you will not have need of His help.”

I hoped so, too, but the picture was looking blacker and blacker. Müller’s description of Hoffman’s death had shocked me badly. Hit and run? There was no evidence of anything more sinister, but it was, to say the least, an ugly coincidence that Hoffman had actually been on his way to mail the letter to me when he was struck down.

I was so distracted I almost walked past my car. Pausing, I heard my empty stomach protest; Herr Müller’s ham sandwich had reminded it that lunchtime was long past. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to eat in Bad Steinbach or drive on to Garmisch. Then I saw something that decided me. It was a familiar maroon Mercedes, parked, with unbelievable effrontery, only a short distance from my car.

I marched straight into the restaurant without going through the lobby; and there he was, at one of the best tables near the window. The table was piled with platters, some empty, some in the process of being emptied. He had been watching for me; he raised his hand and waved furiously.

“I saved you a place,” he announced, indicating a chair.

“A chair you have saved, but not a square inch on the table.” I sat down. “Don’t tell me you followed me, Schmidt, because I know you didn’t. How did you get here?”

Schmidt waved at the waitress. She responded a lot faster than she had done for me. “What will you have?” he asked. “The Bavarian burger is very interessant .”

“I’ll bet it is.” There was enough food left on the table to feed a platoon. I ordered beer, then changed it to coffee, and began browsing among Schmidt’s remaining entrees. He protested, but I told him it was for his own good. He ate too much anyway.

“So,” I said, reaching for a sausage. “You haven’t answered my question.”

He was so pleased with himself he didn’t bother bawling me out for trying to elude him. “Pure deduction,” he said, grinning greasily. “Sheer, brilliant detective work. Ratiocination of the most superb intellectual—”

“Specifically?” I suggested.

“I recognized the man in the photograph you showed me.” Schmidt snatched the sausage out of my hand. “I told you I had seen him before. You thought I boasted, but it was the truth. Never do I forget a face, or a name.”

“Schmidt—” I began.

“I thought about it as I drove home last night,” Schmidt went blithely on. “It worried at me, you understand. I thought he must be connected with art or antiquities, or I would not know him, and I had also on my mind this matter of the Trojan treasure; and suddenly, snap, click, the pieces went together. I had seen articles by this man in old journals. After I got home I found them. Guess, Vicky, what the articles were about?”

“Schmidt, please don’t—”

There was no stopping him, he was so pleased with himself; his voice got louder and louder as he continued. “Troy! Yes, you will not believe it, but it is true, he was on the staff of Blegen during the excavations of the late thirties. To make it certain, I looked up the excavation reports and found in them a group photograph. He was there, standing next to Blegen himself—much changed, yes, but the same man, only a student at the time, but appointed in 1939 to the post of assistant in pre-Hellenic art at the Staatliches—”

His voice rose in a triumphant bellow. Half the people in the restaurant were staring. I picked up a piece of celery and shoved it into his mouth.

Schmidt’s eyes popped indignantly. He hates celery, and any other food that is good for him.

“For God’s sake, Schmidt, don’t broadcast it to the whole town,” I hissed. “You shouldn’t have come here. They are already suspicious of me, and now you’ve made matters worse.”

Schmidt swallowed the chunk of celery he had inadvertently bitten off, grimaced at the rest of the stalk and pushed it aside. He looked a little subdued.

“How can I help but make a mistake when you lie to me?” he demanded. “You tell me the hotel is in Garmisch, which is not true; I must ask at the tourist bureau, to find the Hotel Hexenhut in Bad Steinbach. The earliest this morning I have telephoned you, to tell you what I have learned, and there is no answer. I rush to your house and no one is there—the poor dog, he is crying in the basement—”

“I called Carl and asked him to stop by after work, to feed Caesar and take him for a walk,” I said. Schmidt had me on the defensive, and not just on Caesar’s account.

“He needs a friend,” Schmidt said seriously. “You should have another dog.”

“Two dogs like Caesar and I wouldn’t have a house,” I said. “Don’t change the subject, Schmidt. I didn’t know about Hoffman’s academic background.”

“Ha, is it true?” Schmidt’s pout changed to a broad, pleased grin. “Has Papa Schmidt put over one on the clever detective?”

“It’s true,” I admitted. “I underestimated you, Schmidt, and I apologize. That information answers one of the questions I’ve been asking myself: What was a Bavarian innkeeper doing with a museum treasure? It wasn’t until late last night that I discovered he was the one who sent me the photograph. I—uh—I got so excited I went rushing out without calling you—”

“You see the difference between us,” Schmidt said reproachfully. “I rush to see you, you rush away from me.”