Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [28]
A dialogue like that was the last thing I wanted. So I said meekly, ‘I’m still curious, Leif. What is John after this time?’
‘It is a reasonable question,’ Leif conceded. ‘You must realize, however, that the information is classified.’
‘Don’t tell me Mr Smythe has gone into espionage. He used to specialize in art.’
‘Oh, yes, that is his expertize. But it is a state secret, all the same.’
‘Give me a hint.’
‘I would be violating my oath as a police officer if I did that.’
I could see his dilemma. I don’t mean to disparage my ancestral homeland when I say there wasn’t much in the entire country that was worth stealing. John didn’t fool around with minor treasures, he went for the big stuff, the Mona Lisas and Koh-i-noors. Leif didn’t even know enough about the Swedish collections to invent a believable lie; he must be aware that I knew more than he did.
I couldn’t resist. I owed him for insulting my intelligence with his inept fabrications and his macho lovemaking.
‘Oh,’ I cried, as if enlightenment had suddenly dawned on me. ‘You don’t mean . . . It isn’t . . .’
Leif waited hopefully for me to finish. I just sat there, wide-eyed and fascinated.
Finally he said between his teeth, ‘Don’t speak the word aloud. There are enemies everywhere.’
‘Naturally. But how is he going to do it?’
‘If we knew for certain, we would not be so concerned.’
‘I wish I could help you.’
‘You can help me by dropping the subject,’ Leif said sincerely.
‘But I’m intrigued. I can’t believe even John would try . . . What a scandal it would cause!’
‘Oh, yes.’ Leif was sweating. I decided to let him off the hook, not because I didn’t enjoy watching him sweat, but because it was getting late. John might come or he might not; if he came, I wanted to be there in good time.
‘Well, I hope you can tell me about it once the case is solved,’ I said, untangling myself from Leif and rising to my feet. ‘I’d better be getting back to the hotel now.’
‘Must you?’ But he rose with alacrity, and offered me another stiff elbow.
As we walked along the flower-lined path, Leif said, ‘I did not answer your questions.’
‘I noticed that.’
We left the park and stood on the corner waiting for the lights to change. Leif put his hand over mine. ‘You are not a criminal. But I think you know more of this John Smythe than you have told me. Are you not aware that one of his confederates has followed us this evening?’
‘You’re imagining things. Unless it was one of your men – ’
‘He was no police officer. I saw him at the restaurant and also at the park – short, very fat man, with large whiskers, wearing a straw hat.’
The light changed. Leif towed me across the street.
I had kept an eye out for followers, but I was looking for brown beards, not bushy whiskers, and for a familiar profile, however garbed. The man Leif had seen might have been John. I discounted the description; anyone under six and a half feet tall might seem short to Leif, and false whiskers and fat tummies are easily procurable.
‘Why didn’t you apprehend the miscreant?’ I inquired.
‘How could I prove what I suspected? It is not a crime to be in the same places we are in.’ He added, ‘You do not seem alarmed. Do you know who it is that follows you?’
‘You’re the only one I know who is following me.’
‘Vicky, I beg you to tell me the truth,’ Leif said earnestly. ‘I only wish to protect you. Oh, I know the power a man like Smythe has over young and inexperienced females. You think he is romantic, nicht? He is handsome and brave, he robs only the rich. But he will break your heart – he will throw you on the trash, like a wilted flower.’
Nobody, not even my father, who thinks I am still six years old, has ever pictured me as a fragile blossom. The image had a certain eccentric charm. It was also hysterically