Elizabeth Peters - Trojan Gold

The small place was crowded, the few tables occupied. I joined the man who was standing at the counter—a man with a bushy gray mustache and heavy matching brows. His knit cap was pulled low over his ears. I ordered coffee and bread from the bustling waitress and waited until it had been delivered before I turned to him.

“Why aren’t you answering your door?”

He had his back to the room, but his eyes remained fixed on the mirror behind the counter. There was a second door not far away; I knew if he saw anything that bothered him, he’d be out the door in a flash—leaving me with the check.

“I’ve moved,” he said after a moment. “Too many people know where I live.”

“What have you done with the cat?”

That inconsequential question drew a flash of blue eyes and a half-smile. “Locked her in the house with three days’ supply of food and water. Müller will be back by then.”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“How can you tell?”

“I can tell.”

“It’s Friedl. She’s wound so tight she’s ready to explode. She burst into my room this morning in a fit of hysterics and ordered me to leave—”

“Well, what can you expect after that performance last night?” The gray mustache quivered.

“Oh, that was just an excuse. I tell you, she’s terrified.”

“Perhaps this is the time to apply pressure.” There was no pity in his voice, only a cold ruthlessness. I knew he was right, but I hated him for being right—and I hated myself for agreeing.

“It’s for her own good,” I argued.

“Oh, quite. Poor little Friedl…. You won’t gain any information about the whereabouts of Hoffman’s treasure, but you might learn the identity of his murderer. If that detail concerns you….”

“It concerns me,” I said curtly. “We could be wrong, you know. All the members of the group are behaving exactly as one might expect them to. How do we know there isn’t an unknown third party involved?”

“Eighth or ninth party, rather. Whoever he is, he has murdered two people. Friedl may be next.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what has me so…” The cup I was holding wobbled. John’s hand closed over mine, steadying it.

“Then it behooves you to convince the lady—I use the term loosely—to spill her guts, before he can do it for her…. Sorry. ‘A man who could make so vile a pun would not scruple to pick a pocket.’”

“Amen. You’re neglecting to watch the mirror.”

“Oh, right.” John released my hand and assumed his former position. After a moment he said, “I believe you are overly concerned about the danger to Friedl. Through her, he has access to the hotel and to Hoffman’s papers and property. He’d be a fool to kill her so long as there is the slightest chance that she’ll find something, or remember something, that might help him. But if he ever finds out where it is…”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am always right,” John said.

“You keep saying ‘he.’ You don’t have any idea—”

“Not the slightest.” His eyes remained fixed on the mirror. Mine remained fixed on him. He hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I use the masculine pronoun for the sake of convenience. By all the standards of detective fiction, the villain ought to be Elise. She’s been less prominent in this affair than the others.”

“The least likely suspect? No, that’s Rosa D’ Addio. She isn’t even here.”

The corner of John’s mouth relaxed. “That sounds like Schmidt’s logic. She probably ignored the photograph. Any sane scholar would.”

“Exactly. Which brings us back to—”

“Your lot,” said John. “Speaking of which, or whom—”

I glanced over my shoulder. When I glanced back, he was gone.

I hadn’t seen any familiar faces. I assumed John had pulled another of his little tricks to distract me so he could slither away.

When I got back to the hotel, I found that my buddies had finished breakfast and were staked out in the lobby waiting for me. I thought I caught a glimpse of Dieter’s shrieking aquamarine jacket ducking back into the restaurant as I walked into the hotel; his wish to avoid me showed an unexpected sensitivity. Maybe Tony had read him a little lecture.

“Where is Jan?” I asked, sitting down on the couch next to Schmidt.

Schmidt chuckled. “In the kitchen. He is interrogating the cook, I think. A council of desperation! I have already questioned her, and the good woman knows nothing—except the recipe for the Bavarian burger, which she was kind enough to give—”

“Spare me,” I said, wincing.

“That reminds me,” said Schmidt. “I want my gun back.”

I failed to see the connection, but I said firmly, “You can’t have it.”

“It is a valuable weapon, a museum piece. I want—”

“I’m not going to steal it, Schmidt. Just keep it until…until later. And that reminds me …” I scowled at Tony. “What possessed you to let Schmidt out of the room with that weapon last night? He could have killed somebody.”

Tony had to raise his voice to be heard over Schmidt’s sputtering protests. “I hoped he would.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“He wouldn’t shoot you.” Tony thought a minute. “Unless it was by accident. Vicky, I am not going to comment on your sexual activities—”

“You damn well better not.”

“Because that is a private matter between you and your conscience. But I would like to know, if you will pardon my curiosity, what made you decide to stay on at Bad Steinbach.”

“Yes, I would like to know that, too,” said Schmidt. “You have found a clue? If you have, and you keep it to yourself, you can find yourself another position. I will set fire to you.”

“Not ‘set fire,’” I said automatically. “Oh, never mind. I don’t have a clue, Schmidt. I will come clean with you, though. I think Friedl may be having second thoughts. She’s wound tighter than one of Dieter’s trick snakes. It’s barely possible that, properly persuaded, she will break down and talk to me. Me,” I added, clutching Schmidt’s collar as he started to rise. “Confidences of that sort are best induced on a one-to-one basis.”

“Why not me to her?” Schmidt asked hopefully.

“I think Tony to her would be more effective,” I said. “But give me a crack at her first, okay?”

They agreed. Then Schmidt said, “Can I have my gun back?”

“No.”

“Humph.” He glanced at his watch. “Ha. It is time for Mittagessen .”

“Schmidt, you just ate a huge breakfast,” Tony protested.

“But it is now almost Mittag . Come, I will take you both to lunch. Then…Then what shall we do?”

“You guys can do anything you like,” I said agreeably. “I’m going to Garmisch. I have to do my Christmas shopping.”

“Christmas shopping!” Tony was incredulous.

“This is Christmas Eve,” I reminded him.

“Ha, yes,” Schmidt said eagerly. “And tonight we have the roast goose and the presents and the Christmas tree…. I will find a tree, a little one, and we will put the ornaments on it—”

“I thought you were going to your sister’s.”

“I will call and tell her I am dying,” said Schmidt. “I would rather be with you, Vicky.”

“Me, too, Schmidt.” I smiled at him. “And I’d rather be here than trying to explain to the Munich police why there’s a dead man in my garden.”

“So that is why you stay,” said Schmidt.

“It’s a good reason. What do you want for Christmas, Schmidt?”

I figured it was safe to leave Schmidt unattended. After lunch he would have a nice long nap, and then his shopping would keep him busy for the rest of the afternoon. Tony asked to go with me, expecting, I’m sure, that I would fob him off with some excuse or other. He was disarmed, poor innocent, when I said it was fine with me. “But you’ll have to go off on your own part of the time,” I warned him. “I’m not going to buy you a present with you looking over my shoulder.”