Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [49]
I rose ostentatiously, and he said, ‘Now, now, this is no time for petty spite. We ought to have a little chat about . . .’ Max trotted towards us and John went on, without a change of tone, ‘. . . lunch. Who’s in charge of the kitchen?’
‘A good question,’ Max said.
‘I suppose you all expect me to do it,’ I grumbled.
‘You object?’ Max inquired.
‘Of course I object. But I guess I haven’t much choice.’
Before Max could comment, John said quickly, ‘I wouldn’t advise it, Max. When a liberated woman offers to take on a chore that violates her precious principles, she always has an ulterior motive.’
‘I do not underrate Dr Bliss’s intelligence,’ Max said. ‘We can subsist on cold meats and cheese for a few days.’
He gave me a patronizing smile. I said, addressing the air six inches above John’s head, ‘You lousy fink.’
‘It was a rather ingenuous attempt,’ John said. ‘Max is not ingenuous.’
‘No,’ Max agreed. ‘Nor am I stupid enough to permit the two of you to confer privately. Smythe, since you are so concerned about your stomach, I will put you in charge. Bring the food here. We will have a luncheon al fresco – a picnic, as you would say.’
‘What makes you think he won’t poison you?’ I asked. ‘His motive is more pressing than mine.’
‘I am glad you realize that.’ Max bowed. ‘He will not poison the food because Pierre will watch every move he makes. Nothing elaborate, Smythe – bread, cheese, ham, beer. And don’t forget a bottle opener.’
Pierre was happy to be reassigned. His cohorts looked at him enviously as they mopped their dripping faces. Grass speckled them like green freckles. Hans complained that he was getting a blister on his thumb.
I might have known John would make a production out of the simple task. He and Pierre came back loaded with baskets and boxes, not to mention cushions and rugs and other luxuries. Among the latter was a stringed instrument of some variety – it looked like a cross between a lute and a guitar – that John had slung over his shoulder by its elaborately woven strap. Max’s eyebrows rose when he saw this device, but he did not comment.
It was – to put it mildly – an unusual kind of picnic. Sprawled on the rough ground munching sandwiches, we were not exactly your normal little gathering of friends. The assorted artillery struck a particularly inappropriate note. Max was the only one of the gang who wasn’t visibly armed to the teeth, but when he leaned forward to reach for a beer I saw the butt of an automatic under his coat. Other than that he didn’t look out of place. It was only my awareness of what he really was that gave his face a sinister cast. Before I knew his identity I had thought him inoffensive and harmless-looking.
The same could not be said of the others. Except for Hans, whose blunt features had the deceptive innocence of vacuity, the faces bore the same stamp of evil. There were six of them – Max and Hans and Pierre, a sandy-haired character who spoke German with a thick Austrian accent, another Frenchman, and a dapper little man with the coldest eyes I have ever seen. His name was Rudi, and he appeared to be an eastern European, country unknown but probably glad to be rid of Rudi. The (presumed) Italian guarding the barn made seven, but I couldn’t be sure that was the complete contingent.
After lunch Pierre took the empty bottles back to the house and the dig began in earnest. John reclined on his cushions like a sultan watching the serfs at work and strummed his guitar. I knew he played the piano with considerable skill, but I had not realized his musical talents were so diversified. He sang one folk song after another, in a dozen different languages; from time to time he switched to a piercing falsetto. If I hadn’t been so furious with him, I’d have enjoyed the game. It reduced poor old Max to the brink of hysteria. Every time he looked at John resting and crooning, he got a shade redder.
Leif, who had returned when the food appeared, sat like a monolith, hands