Trojan Gold (19 page)

He was worth looking at—tall and broad-shouldered, with a profile like that of a brooding eagle. A Wyatt Earp-type mustache framed a pensive, thoughtful mouth; brown hair curled over his ears and his high, intellectual brow.

“I've never seen him in my life,” Tony said blankly.

I said nothing.

“Ho,” shrieked Schmidt. “I told you I never forget a face. Only once have I met him. Only once, but I remember, and you, who have known him better, do not recall him. It is lucky for you I came here,
nicht
.”

“If you don't get to the point, I am going to kill you, Schmidt,” I said.

“It is Perlmutter,” Schmidt said triumphantly. “The assistant curator from East Berlin.”

“You're crazy,” Tony stuttered. “Perlmutter is a blond, this guy is brunet. Perlmutter doesn't have a mustache, this guy—”

It was Perlmutter. The outlines of that splendid profile were burned into my brain.

They say that if you stare at someone long enough, invisible waves of something or other will stretch out and attract his attention. There must be something to it. Perlmutter looked up and met my eyes. The instant recognition that transformed his face would have removed any lingering doubts I might have had, which I didn't.

Before I could react, he was on his feet and out the door to the street. By chance or by design, he had selected a table in a spot convenient for retreat.

I wasted a vital couple of seconds trying to decide which way to go—across the crowded room toward the door he had used, or back through the lobby. Tony wasted a vital couple of seconds bouncing off Schmidt, who had started in one direction while Tony tried to go the other way. Schmidt then compounded the problem by keeling over, his face set in an imbecilic grin of triumph.

Schmidt does that sometimes. It is the inevitable conclusion to his bouts of really serious drinking. They are rare events and occur only when something has happened to upset him. I wished I knew what had upset him this time, but questions would have to wait. He wouldn't be coherent for hours. I had seen it happen once before, when he learned of the death of a favorite nephew in a car crash.

Well, there he was, hanging limply between me and Tony. We had each grabbed an arm as his round red form sagged floorward. We looked help
lessly at one another over Schmidt's bowed head.

“What do we do now?” Tony asked.

“It's too late to follow Perlmutter…. Oh, hell. We'd better get him to bed.”

“Whose bed?” Tony asked warily.

It was a reasonable question. As we soon discovered, Schmidt did not have a room reserved, and the hotel was full-up. He may have had a reservation in Garmisch, but that was irrelevant since Schmidt was incapable of answering questions—or hearing them. He revived sufficiently to be dragged instead of carried; with one plump arm over a shoulder of each, we propelled him up the stairs to the second floor. Tony wanted to put him on the couch in my room.

“You have twin beds, don't you?”

“Yes. But—”

“Then he's yours. All yours. Every…adorable…chubby…pound.”

The minute Schmidt hit the mattress he was gone. I took his shoes off and covered him with the blanket. Smiling beatifically, Schmidt heaved a deep sigh and began to snore.

An expression of profound melancholy transformed Tony's face.

“Does he do that all night?”

Tony had unpacked, in his characteristically haphazard fashion; from among the litter on the dresser top, framed in silver, the lovely heart-shaped face of Ann Belfort smiled winsomely at me.

I smiled winsomely back. “Snore, you mean? Only when he's drunk. Nighty-night, Annie—I mean, Tony.”

Friedl had preserved one of the Hexenhut's pleasant old-fashioned customs; the chambermaid had turned down my bed and spread my nightgown gracefully across it. For the chambermaid's sake, I was glad I had brought my fancy new nightie instead of my old flannel pajamas. For my own sake, I was sorry I hadn't brought the jammies. The stove had been banked for the night, and as I knew from past experience, the room would be as cold as a frozen side of beef by morning, though it warmed quickly after someone revived the fire. I had usually managed to con Tony into proving his manhood while I remained snuggled under the downy warmth of the
Dauendecke
. Tomorrow I'd have to do it myself or wait for the chambermaid. Such are the disadvantages of celibacy.

I needed to see John. In this case, celibacy had nothing to do with it. Things were getting out of hand—suspects emerging from the woodwork, Tony narrowing in on the gold and on John (his accusations had been unnervingly accurate); and Schmidt…The old dear's rambling conversation had raised a host of new and ominous possibilities. One in particular, resulting from a casual comment I had been too preoccupied to notice at the time, came back to me now and made me all the more anxious to confront that sneaky, tricky, untrustworthy devil…. I forced my clenched hands to relax. Maybe I was reading too much into a single statement. Maybe I had better not raise the point. He'd never admit anything anyway. There were other, equally urgent matters to discuss. What had happened to John's scheme for getting Schmidt out of our hair? Not that the little rascal hadn't been
useful. I would never had spotted Perlmutter without Schmidt. That made five of the six.

I turned out the light and went to the window. Most of the town had gone to bed. The night was clear and cold. In the distance the snow-covered peaks of the Stuben Mountains shone with a faint, eerie glow against the darkness. Far up on the dark heights of the Hexenhut, a single Christmas tree burned blue and scarlet and white, like a dollhouse miniature.

I realized that I had made a slight mistake in strategy—or is it tactics? I couldn't leave the hotel by the normal route without being seen and recognized. There isn't much to do in Bad Steinbach at midnight. Even a casual observer might wonder where I was going at that hour; and, as I had just learned, some of the observers might not be so casual. How was I going to get to Müller's shop unseen?

The answer was only too obvious. With a sigh and a shiver, I opened the window and went out onto the balcony. Investigation showed a nice convenient snowbank directly below. A single bulb beside a side entrance gave more light than I would have liked, but there didn't seem to be anyone around. That didn't mean there wasn't someone watching, but I had to take the chance.

I was about to lower myself off the balcony when it occurred to me that I might have a little problem returning by the same route. I went back inside, turned on the light, and investigated the backpack I carry on such excursions instead of a purse. There were a lot of peculiar items in the pack, but no rope. I hadn't really expected there would be. The
only alternative seemed to be a towel or bed sheet. I balked at that idea; it was too much like the sort of thing Schmidt would think of, and a knotted sheet dangling from a hotel window was likely to attract attention. I would simply have to return through the front door and the lobby. It wouldn't matter so much if I was seen returning, so long as no one knew where I was returning from.

The snowbank was cold. I don't know why that should have surprised me.

Avoiding the lighted entrance of the hotel, I skirted the Marktplatz. A roofed arcade over some of the shop fronts cast a welcome shadow. There were a few other people abroad, but when I reached the mouth of the narrow, pitch-black alley, no one seemed to be interested in my activities, so I proceeded on my way. Only a faint glow from the snow underfoot marked the path. Despite my heavy gloves, my fingers were stiff with cold before I got the gate open and re-latched. Not a gleam of light showed from the house. I found the door, by touch, and knocked.

An icy breeze brushed my face and set the foliage sighing. Something hit the ground with a soft thud; I knew it must be snow falling from the laden branches of the trees, but my pulse skipped a beat or two. I was about to turn away when the door swung silently open into a space of absolute blackness.

The warm familiar smell of shavings and wood smoke wafting out of the house did not move me to enter. I stood squinting into the black silence until a hand wrapped around my arm and yanked me inside. My nerves were in such a state that I swung
wildly at the dark. I missed him, of course; the door closed, two arms wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides, and two lips planted themselves firmly on mine. I had always suspected he could see in the dark.

“It is you,” John said, after a prolonged interval.

“Who did you think it was?”

“One never knows.” He continued to hold me immobile. I knew the futility of struggling against a man who knew more dirty, underhanded wrestling holds than Bruce Lee. Besides, I couldn't see a thing. Besides, I didn't especially want to struggle.

“No more hitting?” he inquired hopefully.

“Sorry about that. I find all this a trifle unnerving.”

“You aren't the only one.” He let me go. Then a light went on. It came from a door to the right—the door into the workshop, which John had opened. He gestured. “In here.”

He had made himself comfortable. The room now contained an overstuffed chair and a reading lamp, next to the workbench, where a tall slim bottle stood in incongruous juxtaposition to Müller's tools.

I was about to ask what had become of the cat when a muffled yowl and the sound of claws on wood gave me the answer. Clara was in the parlor, across the hall. Clara didn't want to be in the parlor, across the hall.

“A nice warm purring cat would add to the creature comforts,” I suggested.

John pushed me into the shop and closed the door. I could still hear Clara. The complaints of a
Siamese cat are hard on the ears—and, after a time, on the nerves. John said shortly, “That is not a nice warm purring cat.”

“You can't keep her in there all the time.”

John turned to face me, displaying a neat row of parallel scratches along one cheek. “Oh yes, I can,” he said.

“But the poor thing…”

“Forget the damned cat,” said John. “It won't be neglected; have you ever known me to be cruel to a living creature? Don't answer that….”

“A complete inventory would take too long,” I agreed.

John's face darkened. His sense of humor was decidedly under par that evening. “I haven't time to exchange feeble witticisms with you. Any news?”

“Quite a lot.” I sat down in the chair and picked up the glass from which he had been drinking. “Delicate and fruity, with a fresh bouquet,” I said appreciatively, after sampling the contents. “Piesporter Goldtröpfchen? Or do you call it hock?”

“I don't call it anything, I just drink it.” He poured wine into another glass and hoisted one hip onto the table.

“Guess who I ran into this evening,” I said coyly.

“I don't have to guess. I saw you being matey with your colleagues in Garmisch.”

“Oh, those convenient ski masks,” I murmured.

“As you say. One was the chap from Berlin—I recognized him from your snapshots. Who was the woman?”

“Elise. She's dyed her hair.”

“Aha. That makes two of them. Three if we include your lengthy admirer.”

“Four. Jan Perlmutter is in Bad Steinbach.”

That didn't surprise him either. “I rather thought he might be.”

“Did you rather think Schmidt might be here?” I inquired, hoping to puncture that smug, know-it-all façade.

I succeeded. He stopped swinging his foot and slammed it to the floor. “Schmidt here? I told him to stay in Munich!”

“I know it must be a blow to your reputation as world's champion spinner of fantastic stories, but you obviously failed to convince Schmidt.” I held out my empty glass and added generously, “He isn't easy to convince. Even a master liar like you—”

Frowning, John splashed wine into my glass. “I told him I wanted him to stand guard over your house—promised him armed desperadoes, attack, invasion, or some other form of entertainment. I fully expected the little elf would arm himself to the teeth and squat there indefinitely. You don't suppose…”

“Impossible. There wasn't a mark on him.” I chewed on my lower lip; then I said reluctantly, “He was absolutely bombed by the time we found him. He doesn't do that without good and sufficient reason.”

“What did he say?”

“He mentioned you. He didn't explain, though; he had just spotted Perlmutter and was all excited about him. Then he—well, he passed out.”

“Wake him.”

“No use. He's out for the next six hours, I've seen it before. I'll talk to him in the morning.”

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. “I don't like this.”

“I don't like any of it. How about you? Any luck?”

“Only in a negative sense. Look here.” He put his glass down. The back of the shop was dark; when he pulled the chain of a hanging bulb, I saw that the pieces of the
Schrank
had been neatly arranged in something like the original order—the back against the wall, the two side pieces next to them, and, in between, a pile of rougher boards that were obviously the shelves. John picked up the topmost of these; it was a solid slab of hardwood three-quarters of an inch thick, unadorned and unfinished. He turned it to the light. The marks were clearly visible—slightly indented, faintly stained.

“Something stood on that shelf for years, probably decades,” he said. “Something heavy and rectangular—”

“The treasure chest?” I said dubiously. “Boy, talk about jumping to conclusions—”

“I know it was a chest.” John put the shelf down and indicated a smaller pile of scraps, off to one side. “Here are the pieces of it. The dimensions fit the marks on the shelf. Now observe—there is nothing up my sleeve….” He carried the scraps to the workbench and laid them out. “Bottom, sides, top. It's oak, hardened with age. Even Freddy must have had a spot of bother chopping it up. Threads caught on splinters within indicate it was once lined with wool, possibly a piece of blanket.” I opened my mouth to object; John raised a minatory
finger. “Wait. The best is yet to come.” From his breast pocket he took a small plasticized envelope, the kind jewelers use, and waved it. Sparks flared and danced. I snatched it from him.