Trojan Gold (32 page)

“Hold it, Schmidt,” he said. “You can't blame this on Vicky. On the basis of the information we had, her deduction was eminently logical—and don't forget, we both went for it. So we were mistaken. The job had to be done.”

Schmidt said, “Humph.” I said, “Thanks, Tony,” and I meant it; but his kindly, if somewhat patronizing, consideration for my feelings couldn't wipe out my own sense of chagrin. I would never forget the awful sinking sensation that seized me when I realized my brilliant if belated deductions had been flatout wrong. The fact that everyone else, including John, had also been wrong, was small consolation. The policemen hadn't actually snickered, but there had been quite a few suppressed grins and meaningful glances.

Avoiding those glances, I had found myself scanning the hillside, half-expecting to see a lurking form or the gleam of sunlight on a head of fair hair. I had left John recumbent in bed, looking as frail and pathetic as only John could look, but I had not been under any delusions as to his intentions or his capabilities. Nor had I been at all surprised to find no trace of him when I returned to the hotel. The chambermaid had tidied the room and made the bed; there was not even a crumpled pillowcase to show he had ever been there.

“Well, then,” said Schmidt briskly, “why are we wasting time talking? We must return to Munich at once—we must organize ourselves. The gold is out
there somewhere; now that its presence has been made public, there is no hope of concealment, so we may as well invite cooperation, eh? Yes, yes; all the museums and universities will join in the search—fine-tooth combs—strong young graduate students….” He rubbed his hands together, his good humor completely restored by the picture taking shape in his mind—hundreds of hapless underlings crawling over the mountains of Bavaria, under the direction of that brilliant mastermind, Anton Z. Schmidt.

Frankly, the prospect left me cold. If the gold was ever found, it would be as the result of ordinary, painstaking police-type investigation of Hoffman's activities over the months preceding his death, interrogation of everyone who had spoken with him, consultation with local guides and mountaineers who knew the terrain and could suggest likely hiding places. All very efficient and very boring.

“Hurry, Vicky,” Schmidt ordered. “Why are you so slow?
Die Weiber, die Weiber
, always they delay—”

I put my mutilated nightgown into the suitcase and closed it. “I'm ready. Except for Clara. She was in your room, Schmidt; why don't you go and get her?”

“You are adopting her, then?” Schmidt asked.

“It was predestined,” I said with a sigh. “I called Herr Müller this morning; he wants to stay with his daughter for a few weeks, and he doesn't trust the neighbors to look after Clara properly, and…To make a long story short, he talked me into it. He always wanted me to take her.”

“That is good,” Schmidt said seriously. “The
poor Caesar, he will have someone to play with,”

He went trotting out. Tony leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through the tumbled waves of his hair. “I still don't understand everything that happened,” he grumbled. “I never suspected Dieter.”

I hadn't either, but I didn't say so. I felt I had been humiliated quite enough already. “There are some things none of us will ever understand; the only people who knew the truth are dead. This isn't one of those neat storybook solutions, where the detective triumphantly ties up all the loose ends and exposes all the unknown motives. But the general outline is clear, isn't it? I was the only one to whom Hoffman sent a photograph of his wife. Either there was a return address on the envelope, or he intended to follow it up with a letter. I think—I'm almost sure—he was still hesitating. His initial infatuation with Friedl had cooled, he had realized she couldn't be trusted with his secret—but it never would have occurred to him that he might be in danger from her. He was anticipating only an inevitable, but hopefully not imminent, natural death, so he saw no need for haste.”

“That seems reasonable,” Tony admitted. “But you'll never prove it.”

“I don't have to prove it. I said this wasn't a storybook ending…. In fact, I don't believe Friedl meant to kill Hoffman. She knew he was about to communicate with me, and she ordered Freddy to stop him. Freddy goofed—or perhaps he misinterpreted her orders. Neither of them was very bright. It was sheer bad luck for them that Müller found the envelope before one of them could retrieve it.
When Dieter learned what had happened, he decided he had better come to Bad Steinbach and supervise matters in person. They weren't sure that I had received the photograph until I showed up, along with Schmidt; but Dieter had already taken the precaution of sending similar photos to all the others. He didn't have copies of the one of Frau Hoffman, so he had to settle for Frau Schliemann.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Tony admitted. “He wanted an excuse for being here, if one of us spotted him—”

“And it got Jan Perlmutter here as well. Jan was supposed to be the fall guy in case things went wrong. That's why he got a clue you and the others didn't get. Dieter never meant you to show up; and he only brought Elise along as camouflage.”

“It's an awfully complicated, convoluted plot,” Tony said.

“Dieter had a complicated, convoluted mind—as evidenced by some of his practical jokes. We'll never know for certain why he killed Freddy, but Freddy was a danger to him all along; he knew Dieter's identity and wasn't above a spot of blackmail. Tossing the body into my garden was just another little spot of confusion. Then Friedl started to crack. Her nice simple little plan of finding the loot and peddling it through Dieter had taken on alarming dimensions and the treasure was still missing. She was jealous of him—look at the way she flew off the handle after she found out he had come to my room—and more than a little afraid of him. She was ready to confess, I'm sure; he realized it too, and got rid of her; called both of us, imitating
her voice, to set us up. The more suspects, the better.”

“I guess that clears most of it up,” Tony said.

“Not quite all.” I folded my arms. “I didn't have a chance to give you my Christmas present, Tony, and now I can't find the card—Clara must have chewed it up. So I will eschew subtleties and say straight out, What the hell is the idea of lying to me about imaginary Annie?”

Tony blushed. “Oh,” he muttered. “I was afraid you had figured that all out.”

“You were right. Well?”

Tony sprang from his chair and wrapped his arms around me. “You know why, Vicky. Damn it, you've been putting me off for years. I thought if you thought—”

“A little reverse psychology?”

“Right. Vicky, I'm crazy about you. You know that. I always will be. Won't you—”

“No. I'm sorry, Tony.”

I didn't try to free myself. After a moment, his arms relaxed their hold. “It's him, isn't it?”

“He,” I said, without thinking.

“Dammit, don't criticize my grammar when I'm baring my soul to you,” Tony shouted. “And don't laugh at me!”

“I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at
you
, Tony.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“Oh, sure. Not that that has anything to do with it.”

Tony flapped his arms. “I don't get it.”

“Don't try. It doesn't even make sense to me. Let's get going. We'll have a nice, friendly, belated Christmas Eve tonight, before you leave for Turin
in the morning. I hope and trust that by this time the police have removed Freddy; his presence might cast a certain pall over the celebration. We'll stop by Carl's and pick up Caesar and introduce him to…What's taking Schmidt so long?”

“‘Peace! Break thee off,'” said Tony; “‘look where it comes again!'”

He had recovered sufficiently to smile and to quote Shakespeare, so I decided my refusal hadn't broken his heart after all. “‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” I agreed. “What happened to you, Schmidt?'”

As Schmidt pointed out, at some length, the answer was self-evident. He had Clara clamped under one arm, and his other hand held her jaws closed. Both hands were crisscrossed by bleeding scratches. Clara's blazing eyes and muffled growls indicated that though temporarily overpowered, she was not subdued. She didn't scratch me or Tony. She bit Tony, and she squirmed and howled when I tried to free her from the red ribbon tied around her neck. The bow was under her chin, and so lacerated I had to cut the ribbon off. It took all three of us to cram her in the carrier I had bought that morning.

“Cats hate bows,” I explained to Schmidt, who was sucking his wounds. “It was a pretty thought, Schmidt, but—”

“Do you think I would be so stupid?” Schmidt demanded. “I did not put the ribbon on her. I thought you had. She was in the wardrobe; that is why it took me so long to find her, and when I did, she—”

“I see what she did.” I turned the ribbon over in
my hands. A small package had been tied firmly to the bow. Clara's teeth had penetrated, but not destroyed it. I ripped it open under the curious eyes of Tony and Schmidt.

Inside was a small golden rose, enameled in scarlet and crimson, with green leaves. An attached ring enabled it to be worn as a charm on a bracelet or as a pendant. It wasn't the sort of thing one could pick up at a local shop; the exquisite workmanship and soft colors showed the hand of a master goldsmith, probably a long-dead master, for it was old—Persian work, at a guess.

“How romantic,” said Schmidt.

“Isn't it?” I agreed. Actually, I found the paper wrapped around the trinket even more romantic—it was a receipt from a famous antiquarian jeweler's in Manhattan, and it was marked “Paid.” Nice to get a present I would not have to return to its rightful owner…. But I think the thing that touched me most was my hero's gallantry in taking on Clara singlehanded.

I tucked the packet into my pocket. “Let's go.”

Schmidt seemed to feel that some further ceremony was called for. He couldn't decide in which direction to face, to address the absent and admired one; after spinning around a few times, he settled on the window. Raising one hand in solemn respect, he declaimed, “
Ave atque vale
, Sir John. The memory of your gallantry will live, green in our hearts—”

“You sound like a funeral sermon, Schmidt,” I said.

Tony was still in a Shakespearean mood. “How
about ‘When shall we three meet again?'” he suggested sarcastically.

I don't think Schmidt recognized the source. “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed. “Very appropriate. How does it go on?”

He and Tony went out together, Tony reciting “‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won…'”

They had left me to handle the carrier. I picked it up and followed them. The quotation was more appropriate than Schmidt or Tony knew. I had won this battle, and John had lost something more important to him than Trojan gold. Served him right…. I wondered how the next round would turn out.