Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [23]
I found a cafe and ordered coffee. Taking the catalogue of the Hansson collection from my purse, I turned to the description of the chalice.
The answer jumped out of the surrounding print as if it were outlined in red – one word that linked the jumbled fragments together into a coherent whole. The name of the chalice.
Yes, it had a name. Many unique objects do – the Ardagh chalice, the Kingston brooch, the Sutton Hoo treasure. They are called after the places where they were found, in tombs and barrows and fields. The proper name of my treasure was the Karlsholm chalice.
My eyes had passed over that word a dozen times without noting its significance, but my good old reliable subconscious had made the connection – that inward eye that is the bliss of solitude and, upon occasion, the salvation of Bliss. Wordsworth’s inward eye had turned up daffodils. Mine had produced the chalice itself, without outré symbolism or Freudian nonsense. And I had missed it again. This time I couldn’t miss it. Only moments earlier I had glanced at the paper with Gustaf’s address. That’s where he lived – in Karlsholm.
Chapter Four
I DECIDED TO GO back to the hotel instead of struggling with the intricacies of a pay phone. I found several messages waiting for me. Two were from Schmidt, one was from Leif. The latter had called at eleven-ten, right after I left the hotel. He had not left a number, but said he would call back at six.
I looked at my watch. It was already after five, too late for some of the calls I needed to make. Served me right, too. I should have taken action that morning instead of trying to play ostrich. Nasty things don’t go away when you hide your head, that just gives them a chance to sneak up on you.
I tried the bank first, on the off chance, but there was no answer. Bankers’ hours are the same everywhere. Next I called Schmidt. His messages were always marked ‘Urgent,’ but in view of the revelations of the previous evening I thought I had better take these ‘Urgents’ seriously. Schmidt kept erratic hours – being the director, he could keep any hours he liked – and, having neither kith nor kin, wife nor child, he often stayed late at the office.
I almost dropped the phone when I heard the voice of Schmidt’s secretary. Gerda’s punctual departures are a staff joke; it is claimed that the wind of her passage out of the office can knock a strong man flat. I said, ‘What did you do, sit on a tube of glue?’
Gerda was not amused. She said stiffly, ‘Herr Professor Dr Director Schmidt has departed. He asked me to remain to deliver a message.’
‘To me?’
‘Aber natürlich,’ Gerda said. It is also a staff joke that I am Schmidt’s pet. I’m not supposed to know that, but of course I do.
‘That was kind of you,’ I said, in my most ingratiating voice. ‘What’s the message?’
Gerda switched to English. Her self-conscious voice and stumbling pronunciation showed she was reading aloud.
‘“Cousin Gustaf checks out with carillon. Golden boys say he is night attire of felines, Empress of Germany.”’
After a moment I said, ‘You had better give me that again.’
She gave it to me again. I scribbled. Then I said, ‘I appreciate it, Gerda. Thanks a lot. You run on home. Oh were there any calls for me today?’
‘Nein.’
‘Gerda, are you mad at me?’
‘Nein.’
‘Then why do you sound like the Ice Queen?’
‘Herr Director Schmidt has said, “Read the message, then shut up.”’ The phrase she used was German slang, not exactly vulgar, but definitely not the kind of language she was accustomed to hearing from Schmidt, who treated women with the courtliness of a vanished age.
I thought it over. Then I said cunningly, ‘If he had not said that, is there anything you would tell me?’
Gerda giggled. ‘Nein,’ she said.
I tried