Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [18]
Not Leif’s. John haunted me like the ghost of an old murder. I hadn’t seen him for over twenty-four hours. Instead of reassuring me, that fact only made me exceedingly nervous.
His inadequate disguise at the airport might have been a precaution against me. He couldn’t be sure I would not be followed off the plane by half a dozen Munich cops. (I was sorry now I hadn’t thought of it.) However, by the time I reached the currency exchange, he had had me under surveillance for some time, and he must have been reasonably certain I was alone. My jovial hail wouldn’t have sent him scuttling for cover if I were the only person he had to worry about. My first assumption had been correct after all. Somebody was on his trail.
I had expected to hear from him before this. I had left the hotel that morning and walked, aimlessly and slowly, hoping he would seize the opportunity to contact me.
Men had tried to contact me. Two student types, a little Japanese gent draped with cameras, and a well-dressed, sanctimonious-looking man whose nationality was obscure, but whose command of English included some surprising words. None had been John. If he was following me, he was doing it very skilfully. If someone else was following me, he or she was also doing it very skilfully. In the bloom of my carefree youth I used to think I was a match for any number of villains, but I was older and wiser now, and I had to admit I probably wouldn’t spot a specific pursuer unless he was bright blue or wore a clown costume. People are so annoyingly conformist. All middle-aged, middle-sized businessmen dress alike, and students are the most conservative of all; most of the males were sporting beards that summer, and ninety per cent of them, male and female, wore designer jeans and T-shirts. A couple at a table nearby resembled most of the young people I had seen that morning: dark glasses covered the upper halves of their faces, and her close-cropped brown hair and his whiskers were part of the informal uniform they all slavishly followed.
My eyes moved over the other diners. The only thing I could be sure of was that Leif wasn’t among them. His height made him as conspicuous as a clown or a painted Pict. Whatever disguise he might adopt, he couldn’t hide that.
Then my roving eye focused on something that was familiar – a shabby grey sweater and a massive head of grey hair. His shoulders had an obsequious stoop as he addressed a group of older women sitting at a table for six. The women were laughing and shaking their heads.
As if he felt my eyes upon him, the little man straightened and turned. Across the width of the room our glances locked. He bowed and smiled. Balancing his briefcase awkwardly on one arm, he opened it and reached inside. The card he held up, like a picket’s poster, was only too familiar. There I was, in featureless outline, for all the restaurant to see.
I couldn’t be angry; he was so eager and so proud of his work, and so obviously in need of assistance in selling his unusual product. When he gestured at me, at the silhouette, and at the ladies, I nodded, embarrassed but unable to resist the appeal. With an even deeper bow he turned back to the women to make his pitch. They had the unmistakable stamp of happy American widows taking their annual summer holiday. I had seen a number of such parties in Munich. They clung to the bouffant hairdos of twenty years ago, and they always wore nice knit pantsuits. Now they were peering at me through their bifocals, nodding and laughing as the silhouette cutter demonstrated his skill -with me as the model.
I felt like one of those antique advertising posters that have two big hands with pointing fingers indicating the object of interest. One of the ladies waved at me. With a shrug I waved back. The silhouette cutter sat down and took out his materials. He had made his sale.
The brief interlude had distracted and entertained me,