Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [39]
As if that weren’t enough of a hint, he continued to stand there with the look of a man who is prepared to remain in the same spot all night.
‘Good night, sir,’ John said. He looked at me. Gus looked at me. Neither of them moved until I had closed my door.
If I had kept my wits about me, I could have invented a valid reason for a private interview with John – vague references to ‘family matters’ would have done it. Gus’s old-fashioned notions of chaperonage did me in; I was too entertained to think quickly, and once those bedroom doors were closed, the die was cast. The dignified, loveable old man intimidated me. He wouldn’t say anything if he caught me sneaking into John’s room in the middle of the night, but he would be disappointed and hurt and disapproving.
Excuses, excuses. It’s easy to think of them once the damage is done. I didn’t have any sense of urgency. The physical isolation of the island gave me a feeling of security, and John’s relaxed air implied that he had no fear of immediate pursuit. I had even begun to wonder whether the far-out story about the criminal conspiracy and the fiendish silhouette cutter might not be an invention of John’s, and his attempt to get me to go back to Munich an example of reverse psychology. I definitely had to talk to the rat, but morning would be soon enough. I would corner him first thing, when I was rested and calm and better able to deal with his lies.
Like so many good intentions, that one now forms a paving block on the road to the bad place. In fact, a considerable stretch of that path owes its solidity to me. It is small consolation to reflect that even if I had acted on my instincts instead of trying to behave calmly, things would have turned out just the same.
Chapter Six
I WAS WAKENED once during the night by a strange, high-pitched cry. It was not repeated. I concluded I must have been dreaming, but I was sufficiently concerned to get out of bed and go to the door.
Dim lights burned in the hall. Gus’s door was slightly ajar. His room was dark, but as I listened I heard faint rustling noises, like someone turning over in bed. That put an end to any idea I might have had of seeking a midnight rendezvous with John. So I went back to bed. Not that it would have made any difference . . .
It was a little after five when I was awakened for the second time, and on this occasion the noises could not be mistaken for the products of my imagination. Crashes, thuds, and curses echoed through the house.
Like the fool that I am, I dashed into the hall. The noises came from John’s room. Gus’s door was now closed; either he was up and about, or he was a heavier sleeper than he had claimed, for he did not appear.
John’s door was open. By the time I reached it, the noises had stopped. The room was a disaster – furniture overturned, sheets torn off the bed, and a handsome lamp smashed to bits. At the foot of the bed, sprawled in awkward abandon, was a body. It was that of a man with longish brown hair, wearing a dirty white sweater and faded jeans. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, miraculously unbroken, lay on the floor by his hand. Over him, breathing heavily and dripping blood from a split lip, stood John.
I hadn’t quite taken all this in, much less absorbed the full effect of John’s pale-blue silk pajamas with the gold crest on the pocket, when the muslin curtains exploded into the room and another man appeared. There was no mistaking his identity. It was fully light outside, and he filled the entire window embrasure. His eyes bulged, and his hair bristled like that of an antique warrior in the grip of the insane berserker rage. After one quick glance, from the recumbent body to John, he let out an animal howl and flung himself forward.
His shoulders stuck in the window. The delay gave John time enough to leap aside. Leif stumbled forward, assisted by John’s foot, and hit the floor with a crash that shook the room. One of his outflung arms sent me reeling backward. I bounced off the wall and sat down