Silhouette in Scarlet (15 page)

I knew I had to hear it sooner or later, and I despised myself for being so reluctant to learn the truth. ‘All right, all right,’ I said resignedly. ‘Let’s go up and sit
in the garden. If I have to listen to a rotten story, I might as well have something pretty to look at.’

It was as rotten a story as I could have imagined. Even the scent of the flowers didn’t lessen the sickness that mounted as I heard what Leif had to say.

‘He is only twenty-six. You would not think it to see him, would you? Even as a child he was brilliant, a genius. He won his doctorate from your Harvard University and was appointed to the
dig at Tiryns in Greece. You read, perhaps, of the discovery of the royal tombs?’

Naturally I had; it had been the archaeological sensation of the year. So that was why Georg Hasseltine’s name was familiar to me.

‘It could have been the making of his career,’ Leif said somberly. ‘Instead it was the end of him. By accident the director discovered that one of the treasures – a
golden mask, like the ones found at Mycenae – was a clever fake. Georg had stolen and sold the original. You can guess to whom he sold it.’

Even if I had not known, I would have recognized John’s fine Italian hand. He didn’t go in for blatant breaking and entering. Half the museums in Europe owned fraudulent pieces, left
by John in place of the originals he had made off with. I don’t know what perverse instinct made me try to defend him.

‘Your brother could have refused his offer,’ I said.

‘He was only a boy! And there was a woman – someone Smythe had supplied, I do not doubt, along with the deadly white powder to which Georg is now a slave . . . You know the
man’s power over the innocent. He ruined Georg. There was no scandal – universities do not love publicity – but the word was passed. No one would employ him. In despair he turned
to petty crime. Whenever I found him and tried to help, he eluded me. And always he has searched for Smythe, to take revenge. I followed him across half the world. Not to help him kill, as you
think – no. I would not weep to see that man destroyed, but I could not let my brother commit murder.’

I patted his arm sympathetically. Georg was a weak fool, who had traded an honourable career for quick profit, but that didn’t excuse what John had done.

‘And now he has fallen again.’ With a groan Leif buried his head in his hands. ‘Helping these criminals to rob . . .’

‘Maybe he’s only pretending to cooperate – gaining Max’s confidence in order to double-cross him.’

The phrase was not well chosen. Leif shook his heed desparingly. ‘I wish I could believe it. But I dare not. Do not trust him, Vicky. Tell him nothing of your plans.’

I was relieved I hadn’t had to make that point myself. ‘I won’t, Leif.’

‘You have plans?’ He studied me keenly, then smiled. ‘Yes, you do. You are stubborn. You don’t give in. What is a man to do with such a woman?’

‘Just don’t get in my way, Leif.’

‘I would be afraid!’ His eyes widened in pretended terror.

I had to admire his resilience from tragedy to corny jokes in the space of a few seconds. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if you are determined, I must help you. What shall we do?’

‘The first thing is to find Gus.’

‘How?’

‘I think he’s here, on the island.’ I explained why I thought so. Leif nodded.

‘It is reasonable. But if you are wrong?’

‘Then I’m wrong. But what’s the harm in looking? We can’t make a move until Gus is free.’

‘What kind of move?’ He put his arm around me.

I pulled away. ‘Not now, Leif. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Rest and be still for a moment,’ Leif said softly. ‘You are forcing yourself beyond your strength. Your heart is pounding.’

He had cause to know. I tried to relax. Even my teeth were clenched.

The wind stitched the water into little white ruffles, and a flock of fleecy clouds glided serenely across the sky. Above the emerald hills snowcapped mountains shone in the sun.

‘It’s no use,’ I said, wriggling out from Leif’s embrace. ‘I can’t relax, I can’t sit still, and I don’t want you to pat me and ask stupid
questions. I want you to
do
something.’

‘I will do whatever you want. Only tell me.’

‘I’m trying to think. With the boats out of commission, there’s no way of getting off the island. Maybe you could swim to shore; maybe I could. But I doubt that Gus is able,
not with that leg of his.’

‘That is right. I have a plan.’

‘Yes?’ I turned hopefully.

‘We find the old man.’ Leif tossed this off as if it were a matter of locating a pair of misplaced spectacles. ‘Then you take him to a hiding place. In the trees, or – or
somewhere. I will swim the lake and go for help.’

‘What about your brother?’

Leif didn’t answer immediately. Lips pressed tightly together, forehead furrowed, he appeared to be wrestling with thoughts too painful for utterance. Finally he said, ‘I will take
care of Georg. But, Vicky – tell him nothing. Tell Smythe nothing. We can trust no one except our two selves.’

Much as I hate having the narrative interrupted by long paragraphs of description, I guess I had better give you some idea of the terrain, since it figures prominently in
suceeding events. As I said, the shape of the island was roughly triangular, the sides longer than the base, and the end blunted. The house was located on this blunt end. Behind the house the land
rose, culminating in a plateau of rough pasture that formed the central portion of the island. The western side of the triangle was heavily wooded, in a belt that curved northward and expanded to
fill the base of the triangle. On the east the land sloped down to the water, ending in a boggy section of swampland. Searching for Gus, and for any other useful piece of information we might
encounter, Leif and I followed a gravelled path that encircled the house. Behind the main building lay a group of sheds and stables, a big beautiful stone barn, and, in their own hedged enclosure,
several small cottages that had probably housed servants in the days when the main house was fully staffed. Though their tiny yards were free of weeds, and their windows shone cleanly, they
appeared to be unoccupied – even by a prisoner.

As we approached the barn, a man stepped out from behind the wall. He had the swarthy, brachycephalic look of a southern Italian or Sicilian, but I was unable to confirm this identification by
his speech, since he said not a word.

He simply showed us his rifle. We took the hint.

‘Could Gus be in one of those sheds?’ I asked, when we were out of earshot.

‘More likely the man is guarding tools that we might use as weapons.’

Our path led through a gate in a high stone wall, into a grove of trees. Unlike the natural woodland that fringed much of the island, these giant firs appeared to have been planted as a
windbreak. They were well tended, and the ground was free of underbrush. The breeze murmured in the high branches; the sound of our footsteps was deadened by a thick layer of fallen needles.

Coming out of the trees, we climbed a steep slope and found ourselves on the plateau. In the middle of the pasture I saw a group of men – or, to put it more accurately, the torsos of a
group of men. The high grass hid the lower parts of their bodies.

At one time the pasture had been cultivated. Nobody had ploughed it recently, though. It had been allowed to revert to grass, weeds, and wild flowers. The growth seemed unusually luxuriant for
the climate and the season. Perhaps Gus’s grandpa’s experiments had involved a lavish use of fertilizer.

Leif pushed gallantly ahead, trampling down the grass and muttering about snakes. I doubted there were any, but I stored the idea away for the purposes of harassment. City slickers, who take
muggers, traffic, and pollution for granted, tend to panic when faced with rural perils.

Never had I seen so obvious a collection of urbanites. Georg was the only one who wasn’t staring uneasily at the wide-open spaces. The false euphoria of the drug he used was at its peak;
he was talking animatedly, punctuating his speech with expansive gestures. As we drew closer I heard him say:

‘It will take at least a month. With only six men, and no proper tools perhaps longer. Surely you must have more specific information.’ Max must have seen us – singly, Leif and
I were hard to miss, and as a pair we were outstanding – but since he paid me no attention, I saw no reason why I should favour him with a ‘Good morning.’ I sat down on a boulder
and watched with malicious pleasure as Max helplessly surveyed the sea of grass stretching out all around. If you have ever tried to dig a garden – a moderate-sized plot, thirty feet on a
side – you can understand the little man’s distress.

‘The pasture behind the house,’ he said finally. ‘That is all I know.’

‘But you have nothing!’ Georg waved his arms. ‘Not the most rudimentary equipment for a dig.’

Max indicated a wheelbarrow. ‘Picks, shovels, hoes – ’

‘And a metal detector.’ Georg lifted the instrument off the wheelbarrow and sneered at it. ‘Excellent for finding tin cans on beaches. Hopeless for your purpose. Now if you had
brought a proton magnetometer, or an electrical resistivity instrument . . .’

‘I can get them,’ Max said eagerly. ‘I will send Hans – ’

‘No use.’ Georg waved the offer aside. ‘Oh, perhaps if the circumstances were different . . . But you have no trained personnel. I cannot do everything myself.’

Max’s eyes wandered in my direction. I waved a casual hand. ‘Count me out, Max. I’m no archaeologist. I wouldn’t know a proton whatchamacallit from a toaster.’

‘Also,’ Georg went on, ‘in such a stony soil, and an area of heavy rainfall . . .’

Max gritted his teeth. ‘How long would such a survey take, with these instruments?’

‘Hmmm.’ Georg fondled his beard. ‘We would need a source of electricity, naturally. The probes of the resistivity meter should be placed no more than one metre apart –
’

A bleat of fury came from Max. ‘One metre? Do you know the size of this field?’

‘About three acres, I would suppose,’ was the calm reply.

‘We dig,’ Max said shortly. ‘All of us.’

‘Very well,’ Georg said. ‘First we must mow the field.’

It would take too long and serve no useful purpose to report Max’s comments. Eventually one of the men was sent to the house to fetch scythes, and the work began.

Leif wandered off, perhaps fearing that Max would put him to work. He needn’t have worried; Max wasn’t naive enough to put a large cutting instrument into Leif’s hands. He
missed a treat. Watching those inept goons trying to cut grass made my morning. Nobody got decapitated, but Pierre almost lost his left foot to a wild swipe from Hans.

When the slapstick palled, I got up and strolled around, giving the mowers a wide berth. To the northwest, almost hidden by the trees, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the roof of a
building. When I sauntered to that side of the pasture, a sharp command from Max sent one of the boys after me, waving his gun. So I went back to my rock.

Towards midday John appeared, picking a delicate path through the weeds. His attire was country-casual: old tweeds, a cashmere sweater, and a tie with the insignia of some institution –
possibly Sing-Sing or Wormwood Scrubbs.

After a leisurely survey of the proceedings he joined me on my rock, dusting off the surface with an immaculate handkerchief before planting his tailored bottom on it.

I rose ostentatiously, and he said, ‘Now, now, this is no time for petty spite. We ought to have a little chat about . . .’ Max trotted towards us and John went on, without a change
of tone, ‘. . . lunch. Who’s in charge of the kitchen?’

‘A good question,’ Max said.

‘I suppose you all expect me to do it,’ I grumbled.

‘You object?’ Max inquired.

‘Of course I object. But I guess I haven’t much choice.’

Before Max could comment, John said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t advise it, Max. When a liberated woman offers to take on a chore that violates her precious principles, she always has an
ulterior motive.’

‘I do not underrate Dr Bliss’s intelligence,’ Max said. ‘We can subsist on cold meats and cheese for a few days.’

He gave me a patronizing smile. I said, addressing the air six inches above John’s head, ‘You lousy fink.’

‘It was a rather ingenuous attempt,’ John said. ‘Max is not ingenuous.’

‘No,’ Max agreed. ‘Nor am I stupid enough to permit the two of you to confer privately. Smythe, since you are so concerned about your stomach, I will put you in charge. Bring
the food here. We will have a luncheon al fresco – a picnic, as you would say.’

‘What makes you think he won’t poison you?’ I asked. ‘His motive is more pressing than mine.’

‘I am glad you realize that.’ Max bowed. ‘He will not poison the food because Pierre will watch every move he makes. Nothing elaborate, Smythe – bread, cheese, ham, beer.
And don’t forget a bottle opener.’

Pierre was happy to be reassigned. His cohorts looked at him enviously as they mopped their dripping faces. Grass speckled them like green freckles. Hans complained that he was getting a blister
on his thumb.