Silhouette in Scarlet (22 page)

He blinked. ‘Why don’t you go back and get something to eat? It must be close to lunchtime.’

‘Damned if I will.’

‘I promise I won’t touch him while you are gone.’

‘No.’ I sat down, cross-legged. ‘I want to watch.’

Max snapped out an expletive, turned on his heel, and addressed Rudi. ‘Start walking.’

‘In which direction, Max?’

Another argument ensued. Max suggested one direction, John another (which Max instantly dismissed), and Georg offered to calculate the spatial errors that would result from a mistaken bearing of
five or ten degrees. Finally Max did what I would have done. He told Rudi to use Willy, still rigid as a flagpole in the middle of the pasture, as his focal point, and walk straight towards him.
Somewhat to my surprise the resultant path took Rudi along the line John had indicated. When Rudi finished counting, he and Willy were only a few feet apart.

Max looked pleased. ‘It appears to work. The error is no more than might be expected.’

‘But your method is riddled with errors,’ Georg complained, in a pettish tone. ‘You assume too much; you compound your errors by – ’

‘Be quiet,’ Max ordered. ‘The rest of you – dig.’

Up to this point John had been uncharacteristically quiet, his only contributions consisting of brief comments and suggestions. Max hadn’t forbidden direct communication, so I said to
John, ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’

‘Christ, no, I’m not all right. I’m sick.’

‘Serves you right,’ Max said, without turning. ‘Those disgusting eggs of yours have unsettled my stomach as well.’

‘I could make a delicious stew,’ John muttered, swaying like a birch in a breeze. ‘Let me go back and lie down for a bit, Max, and I’ll cook – ’

‘I allowed you to prepare breakfast because I was watching every move you made,’ was the curt reply. ‘If you are bored, you can give Hans help with the digging. Your upset
stomach will be cured soon enough.’

I honestly don’t believe he knew what he was doing. It was all part of the day’s work to him. But anticipation is agonizing in itself, and offhand references to a man’s
imminent demise don’t settle his nerves. John turned a shade greener, and I said angrily, ‘Lay off, Max. He’s going to pass out.’

‘No,’ John said wanly. ‘Not until I have to.’ Max took this as a reference to the moment of permanent collapse that was rapidly approaching and gave John a sour smile. I
suspected another significance, and took due note of the suggestion.

The digging went on apace. I counted heads. The only one of the gang who was missing was Pierre. Leif had disappeared. I had not noticed his absence, which is some indication of my state of
nerves. When I asked Max where he was, I was told he had gone to get water. Georg was thirsty.

Thirst wasn’t Georg’s only problem. He sat staring at his notebook, pretending to make his useless calculations. His fingers were shaking badly. No wonder his mathematics had been
inaccurate.

Before long Leif returned, carrying a thermos. He started to offer me the first drink; Georg snatched the cup out of his hands. ‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, wiping dribbles
off his chin with his sleeve. ‘A man could die of thirst before you helped him. Give me more.’

Leif obliged, with an apologetic glance at me. ‘Perhaps you should rest for a while, Georg,’ he suggested.

‘The hell with resting. I’m needed here. These morons are digging in the wrong place.’

‘I think they aren’t digging deep enough,’ I offered.

Max bit his lip. ‘Dig deeper,’ he ordered.

As the pit deepened, so did Max’s impatience. When Hans, whose excavation techiques were obviously unpractised, tossed a shovelful of dirt into Max’s face, the latter lost his
temper.

‘Enough, enough,’ he sputtered, spitting out mud. ‘This is madness. Smythe – ’

‘It’s around here somewhere,’ John insisted. ‘I told you the estimates were rough. What about there? Dig there.’

He indicated one of the pits that had been dug the day before. Max sneered. ‘A naive effort, Smythe. We have explored that area.’

‘Maybe you didn’t dig deep enough,’ I said. With a look that eloquently expressed his opinion of my contribution Max thrust a shovel into John’s reluctant hands.
‘You think it is there? You think we did not dig deep enough?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ John protested. ‘She was the one – ’

‘Dig.’

‘Max, old chum, I’d love to, but my wrist – ’

‘Dig!’

The least I could do was add a few more seconds to the delaying action. John was obviously getting desperate.

‘He can’t dig with a sprained wrist,’ I said. ‘Give me the shovel, John.’

We played tug of war, mutually protesting, until Max intervened. John started digging, ostentatiously favouring his right arm. As he deposited the third spadeful to one side, I saw something
shine.

Max saw it at the same moment. Our cries blended. ‘Wait. Stop digging.’

The other diggers, sweating even in the chilly air, were happy to assume the order was directed at them. When Max fished the object out of the dirt and held it up, all eyes were upon him. He let
out a little hiss of breath and a slow smile curved his lips.

‘It appears I did you an injustice, Smythe.’

The brooch would be a good three inches in diameter when the crumpled gold was straightened. The tortuous patterns of Anglo-Saxon design formed writhing abstract animal forms around the rim,
encircling a rough polished stone. Deep in its garnet depths a sullen glow of crimson glimmered. It was a lovely thing, quite typical of its period. I would have expected nothing less. John dealt
with only expert forgers.

I didn’t doubt for an instant that John had planted the brooch during the night. I was afraid to look at him. Max was as tickled as a kid who sees a fat, bearded man in a red suit coming
down the chimney, after he has decided there is no Santa Claus.

‘I told you,’ John said.

‘Get out of the way.’ Max snatched the shovel from him. In his exuberance he almost went so far as to dig himself. Recollecting himself in time, he handed the shovel to Rudi.
‘Carefully’ he cautioned. ‘Carefully.’

‘Shouldn’t use spades,’ Georg muttered thickly. ‘Bad technique. Trowels, brushes . . .’

Leif, who had pressed forward as eagerly as the others at the seductive gleam of gold, turned anxiously to his brother.

‘Georg, you are not well. Come back to the house. I will help you.’

Georg struck his arm aside. ‘Don’t need your help. Leave me alone, damn it.’ He marched off.

‘Maybe you had better go with him,’ I said.

Leif shook his head. ‘He is angry with me. I can’t help him now. But later – I will take him to a hospital, a sanitarium. They will cure him.’ He looked at me as if
expecting agreement. All I could say was ‘I hope so.’

‘They will cure him! He will resume his career, he will succeed. And I will make sure no other devils like this one corrupt him.’

He turned to John, who returned his glare with bland indifference. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Leif,’ he said. ‘Once a junkie, always a junkie.’

‘I ignore your cheap taunts,’ Leif said. ‘You know the saying: He who laughs last . . .’

‘Tactless,’ John said. ‘Uncouth and tactless, Leif. An honest, law-abiding chap like you shouldn’t revel in murder, even mine.’

The diggers took the hole down almost six feet before they gave up. They weren’t disheartened, however; as Max himself admitted, the treasure trove might have been scattered to some
degree. They started another excavation beside the first.

According to my watch, it was after one o’clock. In another nine or ten hours the light would be as dim as it was going to get. I gave the quiescent clouds a critical stare. A good wet,
dark, noisy thunderstorm would be a big help.

The discovery of the brooch had whetted appetites that had become jaded, and prolonged the search. Yet I held to my original belief that Max would leave the island that night. There would be no
darkness to veil his departure, but the chance of being observed would be lessened if he waited till the townspeople were asleep. He would have to halt the excavation by late afternoon in order to
complete his preparations for departure – packing, repairing the boat, killing John – and by that time he would be extremely exasperated, for he would find nothing. There was no
treasure trove, at least not in the spot where he was digging – only John’s fake brooch.

All of which meant that I didn’t dare wait until suppertime to use the contents of the bottle with which John had thoughtfully provided me. His assumption that I would know what it was,
and what to do with it, was flattering, but I wished he had taken the time to drop a few hints. I had sneaked a peek at it after breakfast; it was a crystalline white powder with no perceptible
odour or other distinguishing characteristics. I didn’t taste it. For all I knew, it might be cyanide or some other deadly poison, the slightest nibble of which would send me rolling around
the room with my heels touching my head.

I was not keen on the idea of becoming a mass poisoner. However, I thought it unlikely that John would carry a lethal substance around with him. He wasn’t the type to swallow cyanide to
avoid torture; he’d go on squirming and scheming until the last breath. More likely the powder had come from Georg’s pack – coke, heroin, morphine, God knows what. How John had
covered up the theft I could not imagine; presumably he had managed to make it look like an accident, or carelessness on Georg’s part. Wherever it had originated, it was obviously not meant
for my own use, so I had to assume he wanted me to bestow it on the thugs.

Shortly thereafter I was relieved to find my deductions confirmed. John began twitching and clutching his stomach. ‘I’m in agony,’ he moaned. ‘It’s probably a
ruptured spleen.’

‘Probably hunger pangs,’ I said, and was rewarded by a quick glance of approval. I went on, ‘Maybe Max will let you go back to the house and make yourself a sandwich. You can
make one for me while you’re at it.’

‘You’d ask a dying man – a man suffering from extreme inanition – to make you a sandwich?’

‘Your playacting is becoming banal, Smythe,’ Max said. ‘You read too many sensational novels. It is only in fiction that warders are tricked into carelessness by a pretence of
illness.’

However, the mention of food had its effect on the diggers. They had been hard at it for several hours, and it was exercise of a type to which they were not accustomed. The wind had dropped to a
breathless hush that was more threatening than a gale. Rudi finally summoned up enough nerve to ask Max if they could take a break. ‘We cannot work all day without food, Max,’ he added
sullenly.

‘Don’t expect me to do the cooking,’ John said, between groans.

‘Dr Bliss and I will be the chefs,’ Max said. ‘Rudi, take that section down another foot, then stop. Bring Smythe back with you – and watch him.’

Max spoke only once during the walk. ‘I am tempted to lock you in your room this afternoon, Dr Bliss.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I cannot trust you,’ Max explained, in an accusing voice. ‘You might try to escape.’

Any comment on this seemed superfluous. We proceeded in silence.

Though the deep freeze and the pantry shelves were bulging, supplies of perishables like milk and eggs were getting low. The island must have a regular delivery service from the mainland for
items of that sort – another reason why time was running out for Max. He couldn’t kidnap the milkman and the baker when they made their rounds; someone would wonder what had happened to
them. Any visit from an outsider carried the risk of discovery.

I poured the rest of the milk into a pitcher and put it on the table. Max pulled out a chair and sat down. He had no intention of helping me – he just wanted to keep an eye on me.
‘Sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Cheese, ham – nothing complicated.’

‘We’re almost out of bread.’

‘There is more in the freezer.’

‘It’s frozen solid.’

‘Then unfreeze it.’

I put a couple of loaves in the oven and switched it on. As I moved back and forth between pantry and sink, refrigerator and stove, I had ample opportunity to dispose of the white powder. It
would take only a second or two to dump it into – into what? Not the milk; the pitcher was at Max’s elbow. Besides, he and Hans were the only members of the gang who drank milk.

‘What about some soup?’ I suggested. ‘There’s tomato, chicken noodle – ’

‘No soup.’

I don’t think he was really worried about my slipping something into the soup; his objection was pure reflex, instinctive professional caution. Sugar? I thought. No good. Some of them took
their coffee black. I plugged in the gleaming chrome-and-porce-lain device Mrs Andersson used for making coffee, and tested the bread. It was pre-sliced; I was able to separate the slices and
spread them on the counter to finish thawing. As I did so, I heard voices outside. The diggers were back. I had to make up my mind in a hurry. With all of them milling around the kitchen, my
chances of being detected rose a hundredfold.

So I put it in the butter. It was soft, since Max had not let me clear away after breakfast. It also showed signs of having been licked. ‘Wonderful for hair balls,’ I said aloud,
mixing furiously.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing,’ If I hadn’t been so rattled, I wouldn’t have spoken; for all his fondess of animals, Max might be one of those fastidious souls who would refuse to eat food a
cat had tasted. The cat had clearly been on the table; there wasn’t a scrap of bacon left, and several plates were suspiciously clean.

I started putting the sandwiches together. No self-respecting Swede would have touched them; they were slapped into shape with such speed that the contents leaked over the sides. I took care not
to let the butter ooze, though. It was strangely lumpy-looking.

Grimy, sweaty, and dishevelled, the diggers filed in and took their places. Hans grabbed a sandwich, and my heart stopped with a grinding thud as he pried back the top piece of bread and peered
at what was inside.

‘
Gibt es keinen Senf?’
he inquired.