Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [4]
‘What of that night in the perfumed, silk-swathed tent of the Emir Ahmed?’
‘That was not rape.’
‘Ah, so,’ said Schmidt, like Fu Manchu.
‘You’ll just have to wait, Schmidt. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’
‘Could you not give me a small hint?’
I couldn’t. I never know myself what Rosanna is going to do until I sit down at the typewriter. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘The new Valerie Valentine is out – it’s called Passion’s Burning Lust. That should hold you for two weeks.’
‘She is good, but not as good as you,’ Schmidt said. ‘She has not your imagination.’
He gave me one of his pouts – an elderly baby yearning for his bottle. I shook my head. Schmidt sighed.
‘Oh, very well. I hope you enjoy yourself.’
‘So do I,’ I said grimly.
‘The land of your ancestors,’ Schmidt mused. ‘Seeking out your roots – yes, it is very romantic. You will stay at the Grand?’
‘Fat chance. It’s too expensive.’
‘But you must stay there. It is very romantic. And very convenient.’
He meant it was convenient for him. He’d know how to find me if he started to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. It was a tempting idea, though. The Grand is almost as romantic as Schmidt thinks it is, one of the famous old hotels of Europe. And – needless to say – it was not the hotel where John had booked a room for me.
‘Yes,’ Schmidt insisted. ‘You will stay at the Grand. The manager is an acquaintance of mine. I will telephone at once.’
Oh, well, I thought. Why not? In for a penny, in for a few thousand kronor. I could always move to a cheaper place if I ran short of cash.
It was raining what else? – the day I left, after depositing Caesar at a hideously expensive kennel. It was – of course – also raining in Stockholm. The plane glided down through soupy grey clouds into a landscape so shrouded in mist I couldn’t see a thing. Resignedly I struggled into the raincoat I had brought in the hope that I wouldn’t need it.
I had decided to use the plane reservation. I doubted that John would meet me at the airport; he was conceited enough to assume I would trot obediently to the hotel he had selected and sit with folded hands until he condescended to get in touch with me. But with John I would never be certain. I came out of customs in a wary crouch, looking for trouble in the form of a dapper blond crook.
There were a good many fair heads visible, but none had the silver-gilt glimmer of John’s. Reassured, I straightened up and went looking for the currency exchange.
I love airports – the bustle and excitement, the air of expectation – people beginning or ending adventures of their own – tearful farewells, smiling reunions. The well-dressed balding man with the expensive briefcase and the frown of concentration – he might be a diplomat on a secret mission to an eastern trouble spot, or a businessman, brooding on the complexities of a billion-dollar deal, or a nervous husband meeting a lady friend in Copenhagen for the weekend and hoping to God his wife wouldn’t call the office. (Don’t worry about the well-dressed man, you’ll never see him again. He’s just an example of my imagination at work.)
Nobody was paying any attention to me. You have no idea how great that made me feel. Bavarians are short and stocky and brown-haired. Usually I’m a head taller than any woman in a Munich crowd, taller than most of the men, and my yellow head glares like a beacon. But this place was filled with Swedes wonderful, tall, blond Swedes. There were at least three females in the vicinity who were my height. I knew then that the trip was going to be a success. Wonderful country! Wonderful people! Roots!
I was so dazzled by this discovery that I didn’t mind the fact that I had, as usual, selected the slowest moving of the lines at the currency exchange. Some poor idiot with no idea of what he wanted or how to ask for it was at the counter arguing with the teller; the people ahead of me in line grimaced, muttered, or left to try their luck in another queue. I just stood there admiring the view. Tall, blond people – people like me. I knew