Elizabeth Peters - Silhouette in Scarlet

‘But she is hiding in the broom closet while the Huns search the house,’ he exclaimed. ‘How will she escape? Did not Attila remark, at the end of chapter four hundred and twenty, “We have not looked in the broom closet”? This time, surely . . .’

‘She won’t be raped,’ I said. ‘It’s against my principles to allow a heroine to be raped.’

‘What of that night in the perfumed, silk-swathed tent of the Emir Ahmed?’

‘That was not rape.’

‘Ah, so,’ said Schmidt, like Fu Manchu.

‘You’ll just have to wait, Schmidt. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’

‘Could you not give me a small hint?’

I couldn’t. I never know myself what Rosanna is going to do until I sit down at the typewriter. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The new Valerie Valentine is out – it’s called Passion’s Burning Lust. That should hold you for two weeks.’

‘She is good, but not as good as you,’ Schmidt said. ‘She has not your imagination.’

He gave me one of his pouts – an elderly baby yearning for his bottle. I shook my head. Schmidt sighed.

‘Oh, very well. I hope you enjoy yourself.’

‘So do I,’ I said grimly.

‘The land of your ancestors,’ Schmidt mused. ‘Seeking out your roots – yes, it is very romantic. You will stay at the Grand?’

‘Fat chance. It’s too expensive.’

‘But you must stay there. It is very romantic. And very convenient.’

He meant it was convenient for him. He’d know how to find me if he started to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. It was a tempting idea, though. The Grand is almost as romantic as Schmidt thinks it is, one of the famous old hotels of Europe. And – needless to say – it was not the hotel where John had booked a room for me.

‘Yes,’ Schmidt insisted. ‘You will stay at the Grand. The manager is an acquaintance of mine. I will telephone at once.’

Oh, well, I thought. Why not? In for a penny, in for a few thousand kronor. I could always move to a cheaper place if I ran short of cash.

It was raining what else? – the day I left, after depositing Caesar at a hideously expensive kennel. It was – of course – also raining in Stockholm. The plane glided down through soupy grey clouds into a landscape so shrouded in mist I couldn’t see a thing. Resignedly I struggled into the raincoat I had brought in the hope that I wouldn’t need it.

I had decided to use the plane reservation. I doubted that John would meet me at the airport; he was conceited enough to assume I would trot obediently to the hotel he had selected and sit with folded hands until he condescended to get in touch with me. But with John I would never be certain. I came out of customs in a wary crouch, looking for trouble in the form of a dapper blond crook.

There were a good many fair heads visible, but none had the silver-gilt glimmer of John’s. Reassured, I straightened up and went looking for the currency exchange.

I love airports – the bustle and excitement, the air of expectation – people beginning or ending adventures of their own – tearful farewells, smiling reunions. The well-dressed balding man with the expensive briefcase and the frown of concentration – he might be a diplomat on a secret mission to an eastern trouble spot, or a businessman, brooding on the complexities of a billion-dollar deal, or a nervous husband meeting a lady friend in Copenhagen for the weekend and hoping to God his wife wouldn’t call the office. (Don’t worry about the well-dressed man, you’ll never see him again. He’s just an example of my imagination at work.)

Nobody was paying any attention to me. You have no idea how great that made me feel. Bavarians are short and stocky and brown-haired. Usually I’m a head taller than any woman in a Munich crowd, taller than most of the men, and my yellow head glares like a beacon. But this place was filled with Swedes wonderful, tall, blond Swedes. There were at least three females in the vicinity who were my height. I knew then that the trip was going to be a success. Wonderful country! Wonderful people! Roots!

I was so dazzled by this discovery that I didn’t mind the fact that I had, as usual, selected the slowest moving of the lines at the currency exchange. Some poor idiot with no idea of what he wanted or how to ask for it was at the counter arguing with the teller; the people ahead of me in line grimaced, muttered, or left to try their luck in another queue. I just stood there admiring the view. Tall, blond people – people like me. I knew how Gulliver felt when he got back from Lilliput.

One man caught my eye, and not only because he was inches taller than his tall countrymen. He had to be a Swede. With a horned helmet on that magnificent thatch of flaxen hair, and a coat of chain mail covering those magnificent shoulders, he’d have been the image of a Viking warrior, like the ones in the books I read when I was a kid. Never mind that the Vikings didn’t wear horned helmets; the illustrations in the book had imprinted the image onto my brain. This man even had a long, droopy mustache like the one sported by Leif Eriksson.

He stood sideways to me, reading a newspaper, and was unaware of being observed. I continued to stare, hoping he would look in my direction. Finally he shifted and glanced up. So much for the power of the piercing stare; he didn’t look at me. I followed his gaze to discover what was so much more fascinating than me.

Characteristically, John had overdone the disguise just a bit. I guess he was trying to look like a Near Easterner of some variety. He had the build for it – slight, slim, lithe. Now his hair was dark and his complexion was a smooth, pale olive. The little black moustache and the too-well-tailored suit suggested Rudolf Valentino. I might not have recognized him if he hadn’t been ignoring me so ostentatiously. As he stared fixedly into the middle distance his profile was turned to me, and the outline of that impeccable structure was unmistakable.

The sight of him brought on an overwhelming flood of emotion – frustrated anger, amusement, contempt, and another feeling, of the sort that Schmidt would probably call ‘romantic’. (By now you should have a pretty good idea of what that word means to Schmidt.) The first emotion predominated. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t wonder why he was in disguise; the mere fact that he preferred not to be noticed was reason enough to publicize his presence. I opened my big mouth and yelled, ‘Hey, John. John Smythe! Hi, there, John.’

My voice, at full volume, has been compared with that of Brunhild leading the ride of the Valkyries. John started convulsively. Every head within a thirty-yard radius turned towards me. I waved, I stood on tiptoe, I pointed. The heads turned in John’s direction.

A wave of colour – sheer rage, I’m sure – darkened his cheek to olive drab. I knew his ability to combine speed of movement with inconspicuousness; one minute he was there, the next he was gone. It seemed to me that there was an odd little eddy of movement around the spot he had vacated – a kind of swirl of bodies.

The man behind me nudged me. The line was moving. I closed up the gap that had opened between me and the person ahead.

I had not the least intention of going after John. What bothered me was the impression that someone else had done just that. Uneasily I contemplated his original location, by a pillar next to the newsstand. It was a logical place for people to meet if they missed one another at the gate or the exit from customs. The crowd seemed thinner now. I tried to recall individual faces and shapes, but to no avail; I had not been paying attention to anyone but John and the Viking. The latter was still there, and he was still thoroughly uninterested in me. Folding his newspaper, he tucked it under his arm and strolled away.