Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [31]
I saw no point in denying it. ‘Who’s the man you’re afraid of?’
‘The field director of one of the most unscrupulous gangs of art thieves in Europe. I don’t know what he looks like, since I have sincerely endeavoured to avoid making his acquaintance. However, he is said to have an unusual hobby.’
‘What hobby?’ I asked. But I thought I knew.
John’s hand seized the doorknob. He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘He cuts silhouettes.’
He twisted the knob and flung the door open. His timing was perfect. Leif barrelled through the opening like the Cannonball Express, reeled across the room, hit the bed, and crashed down on it. The bed collapsed.
I looked out into the hall. There was no one in sight.
Chapter Five
I COULD HAVE SAVED myself a lot of bother if I had mentioned Cousin Gustaf’s name to the hotel management. The arrival of his Mercedes brought all the higher-ups out of their offices, bowing and smiling and hoping I had enjoyed my stay. Nobody mentioned the bed.
I wasn’t ready when the car came. I didn’t get to sleep until after two a.m. Leif tore the room apart. John had departed with such celerity that Leif hadn’t laid eyes on him, and the big oaf refused to accept my statement that I was not concealing someone in the room. He made havoc among the clothes in the closet and stripped the bed down to the matress. It took me half an hour to get things in order after he finally stormed out, muttering threats and dire warnings of disaster.
More than once, as pillows went flying across the room and blouses tumbled off their hangers, I was tempted to ask why he didn’t call in his cohorts from the Department of Art and Antiquities. I controlled the impulse for the same reasons that had kept me silent earlier. After the first quick survey of the room he must have known there wasn’t anyone there; throwing blankets around was just his way of letting off steam.
I propped up the bed as best I could, but it wasn’t very stable.
I was up at eight sharp. After a quick breakfast I headed for the museum, and argued my way into the office of the director. My official card gained me admittance to the library, though the place wasn’t supposed to be open to the public till later.
I had some idea of what I was looking for, but even so it took a long time to find it. I kept wandering off into side tracks, some unexpectedly productive, others of purely academic interest. I took a lot of notes, though it was not necessary; the things I discovered had a poignant immediacy that branded them onto my memory.
Delayed by my research and by some last-minute shopping, I was still packing my suitcases when the phone rang and an awed voice announced that Herr Jonsson’s car was waiting. Three bellboys arrived to carry my two suitcases. The third tried to take my purse, which was admittedly large enough to warrant his interest, but I insisted on carrying it myself. In stately procession, amid ranks of bowing officialdom, we passed through the lobby. I loved it, especially when I caught a glimpse of Leif hiding behind a pillar, bent almost double in his attempt to look shorter. He rose to his full height, gaping, when he saw my entourage. I waved. A few discreet inquiries would tell him where I was going, but I figured it would take him a while to get on the trail. It was unlikely that he had a car, or he would have used it before this.
The chauffeur, a solemn middle-aged man, swept off his cap and handed me an envelope. I started to stuff it into my pocket. He frowned anxiously and said, ‘Please – read . . .’ So I did. The minuscule script covered the entire page; the text consisted solely of repetitive statements as to the reliability of Tomas and the happiness of Gus at my condescending to visit him.
The car lacked ostentatious gadgetry – TV sets, bars, and the like – but every appointment