Elizabeth Peters - Trojan Gold

I was out of my car before the echoes of the crash had died, running frantically toward the wreck. The Mercedes was skewed sideways; the front wheels were off the ground, still spinning.

Schmidt was slumped over the wheel, his poor pathetic bald head shining in the sunlight. Of course he wasn’t wearing his seat belt; he never did, the damned fool…. I wrenched the door open and reached for him.

The bullet spanged off the rear fender with a sound like a cymbal. The echoes rattled so furiously that I thought it was a semiautomatic. Before they died, another shot sent them flying again. Missed me by a mile…but there were a lot of potential targets. My tires, me, Schmidt, the gas tank…As I tugged frantically at Schmidt’s dead weight, I could have sworn I heard a gentle trickle of liquid. I didn’t need my imagination to tell me the tank was already ruptured; I could smell the gas.

Terror lent strength to my not inconsiderable muscles; I gave a mighty heave, and Schmidt came out like a cork from a bottle. Somehow I kept my feet, towing him as I backed away. I might be doing him a deadly injury by moving him, but we’d both be fried like Wiener schnitzels if that gas tank went up.

God, he was heavy! I couldn’t move fast enough. I felt as if I were towing a cast-iron statue, as if my feet were mired in glue. The air at the back of the Mercedes quivered, distorted by fumes, by heat…. How long before it blew?

Schmidt lay like a stuffed toy, his hands trailing limply. I could have sworn there was a smile on his face, damn him—bless him—oh, Schmidt, I thought, don’t die. Don’t just lie there and make me drag you.

I was still moving, but it didn’t feel as if I were. My feet went up and down, as if on a treadmill, and the scenery didn’t change, the wrecked car didn’t get any farther away. It occurred to me that I ought to get myself and Schmidt behind that convenient snowbank. I could have managed the first part of the program, but not the second; dragging Schmidt was hard enough, lifting him was out of the question. Was that a flicker of flame I saw, in the shaken air?…

He only brushed me in passing, but my knees were like wet noodles, and when he hoisted Schmidt up over his shoulder, I sat down with a solid thud.

“For God’s sake, this is no time to take a rest,” he said breathlessly. A hand clamped over my arm and yanked me to my feet.

The hand was in the small of my back when we reached the snowbank, but I didn’t need its pressure to send me up and over. I had a flashing glimpse of Schmidt sailing through the air like Santa Claus falling from his sleigh; then I landed face down in the snow and tried to burrow under it as the world went up in flame and thunder.

The echoes of the explosion went on for a thousand years. After they had died, I decided it was safe to raise my head. The first thing I saw was Schmidt’s face, less than a foot away. Cold had reddened it to a shade only slightly less brilliant than the crimson of his suit, and rivulets of frozen blood traced fantastic patterns across his forehead. But his eyes were wide open and when he saw me, his chapped lips cracked in a smile.

I grabbed him by his ears and rained passionate kisses on his dimpled cheeks and bright red nose and grinning mouth. “Schmidt, you devil—you crazy old goat—are you all right, you damned fool? Oh, Schmidt, how could you be so incredibly stupid, you idiot?”

Schmidt giggled. A voice behind me remarked in saccharine tones, “This is the very ecstasy of love.”

I rolled over. John was sitting with his back up against the packed snow of the bank, a cigarette in one hand. He was wearing a rather effeminate pale blue down jacket and darker pants. A ski mask, patterned in lozenges of navy and green, gave him the look of a tattooed Maori warrior.

“Thank you,” I said formally, “for saving our lives.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure. And now, if you will forgive me—”

He started to rise. I threw myself at him and grabbed his ankle. “John, there’s a man out there with a rifle—”

“Not any longer. However, if I don’t waste any more time chatting with you, I may be able to discover which of your numerous enemies has been missing from his or her appointed place. Do excuse me.”

“Wait, wait.” Schmidt was snorting and flailing around in the snow like a red octopus. “I have questions—many questions—”

“I’m sure you do.” Even white teeth flashed in the mouth hole of the mask.

I said resignedly, “Schmidt, meet Schmidt.”

“Schmidt?” My boss’s bellow of laughter made the echoes ring. “Ha, yes. Schmidt—Smythe—very good. I am so glad—”

“Yes, well, my rapture is also extreme,” John said politely. He twitched his foot out of my numbing grasp and rose lithely to his feet. “Vicky, you’d better get Kris Kringle to a fire and a doctor. Auf Wiedersehen .”

He scrambled over the bank and disappeared from sight. I got to my feet, ignoring Schmidt’s breathless appeals for assistance, information, and so on, and was in time to see the pale blue outfit disappear in the trees. A moment later an automobile engine started up, revved a few times, and faded. He had been following me the whole time. That diabolical road had required so much of my attention I hadn’t watched for following vehicles.

Schmidt’s Mercedes was blazing merrily away. I hoped it wouldn’t start a forest fire. My own car was closer to the blaze than I liked.

“Wait here,” I told Schmidt. “I’ll turn around and come back and collect you.”

By the time I had reported the accident and taken Schmidt to be overhauled by a doctor, night had fallen on the charming mountain village of Bad Steinbach. I was prepared to spend the night—though not by choice—in the Gasthaus Hexenhut if Schmidt’s injuries demanded it, but he had come out relatively unscathed—only a bump and a cut on his forehead, which had hit the steering wheel. All those layers of fat had protected his body; he didn’t even have a cracked rib. However, he was out of sorts because the doctor had slapped a large-sized Band-Aid on his wound instead of swathing him in bandages like a hero in the movies, so I agreed to stop in Garmisch to replenish his strength, i.e., eat.

He insisted on one of the best restaurants in town. He was paying, so I didn’t object. When he had eaten his soup and a big hunk of saddle of venison, mit Preiselbeeren and all the rest, he announced that he was now feeling well enough to discuss our next move.

“What next move? We’re going straight back to Munich and you are going straight to bed.”

“There are many things we must discuss,” said Schmidt seriously. “To think I have seen him at last—the great, the famous Sir John Smythe!”

“The infamous Sir John Smythe. You didn’t see him, you only saw that mask.”

“I would have known him anywhere,” said Schmidt romantically. “Who else would appear out of thin air to save us from a flaming death? But you, Vicky—you have deceived me. You were not surprised to see him. You knew he was still alive—you have been seeing him, making love with him all these months—”

“Schmidt, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I think you’re jealous.”

Schmidt’s petulant scowl relaxed. “It was very nice when you were kissing me,” he said.

I couldn’t help smiling. “I am rather fond of you, you old goat.”

“Yes, but that is another thing. Always you say rude things to me, even when you thought I was dying. You blamed me for the accident, but it was not my fault, was it, if some madman shot out the tire of my car? I was driving magnificently until that moment—”

“You were driving like a maniac, as you always do. Hadn’t it occurred to you that we had been sent on a wild-goose chase, possibly into a trap? If I had been alone, I’d have turned back long before it happened.”