Elizabeth Peters - Trojan Gold

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.