Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [41]
‘You mean Leif – ’ I began.
‘Is a Geman engineer named Hasseltine,’ Max said. ‘The disgusting apparition he tends so lovingly is his brother Georg – once a promising young archaeologist.’
They didn’t look like brothers, but Max’s explanation accounted for several things that had puzzled me. I said, ‘I should have known Leif wasn’t your real name.’
His hand on his brother’s shoulder, he gave me a strained smile. ‘The friends of my youth sometimes called me that.’
‘I was pretty sure you weren’t a Swede, though. You slipped a few times, used a German word.’
‘I am a simple man,’ Leif said simply. ‘Intrigue and deceit are not easy for me. I have business in Munich, that is how I knew of you, Vicky. I am ashamed I did not tell you the truth, but. . .’
He indicated his brother, who was mumbling in German and making ineffectual attempts to rise.
‘I understand,’ I said.
Leif turned to Max. ‘I must take care of him. He wants his rucksack. He needs . . . He must have . . .’
‘He does indeed.’ Max studied the mumbling object with dispassionate contempt. ‘Well, why not? Pierre – the luggage, please.’
It was brought from our rooms – John’s expensive matched calfskin bags, my battered plastic ditto, a big leather two-suiter, and a canvas backpack. At the sight of the latter Georg Hasseltine made sick, mewing noises. Max gestured. The Frenchman opened the pack and dumped its contents onto the floor.
In addition to the usual toilet articles and clothing, the bag contained two interesting items – a wicked-looking knife and a tin box that rattled when Max nudged it with a fastidious toe. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of dirty socks, Max snapped out directions. Pierre confiscated the knife; Leif got the box, and his brother. He carried both out of the room. The other objects were cramned back into the pack, and John’s suitcases were brought forward. Pierre dropped them at Max’s feet like a dog presenting his master with a fat rat.
There wasn’t much left of the bags or their contents by the time Pierre finished searching them. He ripped seams and tore out linings with zealous pleasure. John winced every time a garment was desecrated; once he made a mild protest. ‘You know I never carry a weapon, Max. Have a heart. That shirt cost me – ’
‘What is this?’ Max pounced on a monogrammed leather case.
‘Hair dryer,’ John said, without even blushing.
‘How decadent,’ Max muttered, adding it to the pile of confiscated objects – a set of ivory-handled razors, a pair of small dumbbells (whose evil significance eludes me to this day), and a manicure set exquisitely encoiffed in morocco leather and red plush, which included several lockpicks.
By contrast, my beat-up cases were handled with gentlemanly tenderness. The clothes I had unpacked the night before had been replaced in the suitcases – not too neatly, but I had no real cause for complaint, since I am a notoriously sloppy packer. Max inspected each garment, except for the underwear. Even his nasty, suspicious mind couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a weapon in a pair of bikini panties. When he had finished with the suitcases, he reached for my purse.
A man can’t understand why a woman’s handbag is such a sensitive object – almost an extension of her person. I don’t fully understand it myself. Maybe it’s because we keep so many private, intimate possessions in our purses – love letters, cosmetics, jelly doughnuts . . . Maybe a purse is a symbol of the womb, or something equally Freudian. I can’t explain it, but I know I hate the idea of a stranger’s hands rummaging in my bag. I had to bite back a yelp of protest when Max dumped the contents out onto the desk.
He made a few jokes, naturally. I suppose he thought they relieved the tension. He grinned and raised his eyebrows over the little black book in which I had, unwisely, made some personal comments beside certain addresses. Some of the cosmetics raised a ridiculous amount of mirth. What’s so funny about eyelash curlers, for heaven’s sake?
He was not so amused as to neglect his precautions. My Swiss pocket