Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [7]
I worked myself into such a state of rage and horror that I made a fatal mistake. I didn’t feel Tony’s breath on the back of my neck until he let it out in a windy gasp.
Clutching the book to my bosom, I turned my head. My forehead hit Tony on the nose. A blow on that appendage hurts; it maddens the victim. Holding his nose with one hand, Tony grabbed with the other. Instinctively I resisted. An undignified struggle ensued. I gave up the book, finally, rather than see it damaged. Tony was mad enough to tear the pages apart.
He was panting when he sat back, clutching his prize and eyeing me warily.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said coldly. ‘You’re safe from me.’
‘Thanks. You female Benedict Arnold, were you going to keep this a secret?’
‘Keep what a secret?’
‘Don’t be cute, it doesn’t suit you. I was reading over your shoulder for some time, Vicky. And I know my Riemenschneider as well as you do.’
I maintained a haughty silence while he read the letters again. When he looked up from the book, his eyes were shining.
‘Hey,’ he said, grinning like a boy idiot. ‘Hey. Do you realize – ’
‘I realize that we are late. That we are going to be even later. If you want to offend Mr Myers – ’
‘All right,’ Tony said. ‘All right!’
He got to his feet – always a fascinating process to watch, because of the length of his arms and legs – and glowered down at me.
‘All right,’ he repeated monotonously. ‘If that’s how you’re going to be, then that’s how – uh – you’re going to be. Let’s go.’
He was still carrying the book when he stormed out of the door.
I turned off the lights and made sure the door was locked. I put on my coat. I had seen Tony’s overcoat slung over a chair, and I left it there. They say righteous indignation is very warming, and I am nobody’s keeper. By the time I got downstairs, I decided I’d better calm Tony. He is the world’s most maniacal driver even when he’s in a good mood, and the combination of icy streets and Tony’s rage could be fatal – to me.
He was in the car, waiting, when I reached the street. That was a relief; I half expected him to drive off and leave me. As I got in I said meekly.
‘Okay, Tony, I apologize. Of course I wasn’t going to hold out on you. You startled me, that’s all.’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Tony. But he was mollified; we started off with only a little skid, turning halfway around. Tony straightened the car out and we proceeded at a moderate fifty.
‘I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking,’ I went on. ‘But I also think we’re both going off half-cocked. It’s pretty vague, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Tony.
He’s about as sly as Christopher Robin. His tone and his prompt acquiescence told me all I needed to know about where Tony was going to spend the summer.
I took advantage of his silence to make a few plans of my own. The evidence was far from conclusive. Burckhardt had not been specific about details, which was not surprising; I didn’t suppose for a moment that he had penned the letter with his own mailed fist. He was probably semiliterate, like many of his noble contemporaries. No, the letter had been dictated to a secretary or public letter writer, and Burckhardt would naturally avoid names. But the given details fit the case. How many objects of value could there be, belonging to a Count of Drachenstein, that had been ‘commissioned’ from an old man of Würzburg? The letter even mentioned a bond, or surety, given by the old man for jewels such as the legend described.
I winced as Tony narrowly avoided a scuttling pedestrian, and went on thinking. The author of the book had not been concerned with art history or offbeat legends. He had only quoted Burckhardt because, in other parts of the letters, the count had described the fighting. Unless someone knew the legend, he wouldn’t notice the vital details, thanks to Burckhardt’s caution. But I was reasonably certain that the letters did indeed refer to Riemerschneider’s lost masterpiece. Burckhardt mentioned sending ‘it’ home. Even