Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [56]
My meditations were interrupted by an object that came flying in through the open window. It landed on a table and squatted there, staring with malevolent emerald eyes.
‘Ah,’ Max exclaimed. ‘What a beautiful cat. Hello, my friend; what is your name?’ He held out his hand and made cooing sounds.
To my surprise and disgust, the cat promptly responded. Another flying leap took it to the desk. Max scratched it under the chin. Not only did it accept the caress, it squirmed and wriggled and started to purr.
‘So much,’ I said, ‘for stereotypes.’
Leif would have said, ‘What?’ Max laughed, his hand moving over the cat’s head and neck with practised skill.
‘I’m sorry to disturb your prejudices, Dr Bliss. I am very fond of animals, and they like me. I have a cat of my own, an aristocratic Siamese named Marguerite.’
He certainly knew how to handle the species. The big tabby literally drooled on him. Finally it flung itself on its back in an abandonment of bliss, knocking Max’s briefcase to the floor. The crash startled it. With a hiss it bounced up and departed, via the window.
Smiling, Max bent to pick up his possessions. The briefcase had sprung open, scattering the contents – scissors, black papers, white cardboard mounts. Not all the papers were black, however. A few sheets were scarlet, bright as fresh blood.
‘You use red paper?’ I asked curiously.
Max’s deft hands paused in their work of gathering up the papers. ‘Sometimes,’ he said curtly.
‘When the mood takes you, or . . .’ The funniest feeling came over me; I don’t know why. I swallowed. ‘Or – or for a particular reason?’
‘For a particular . . . collection.’ Max’s back straightened, the briefcase in his hands. His eyes avoided mine. ‘We all have personal idiosyncrasies, Dr Bliss.’
‘Right,’ I mumbled. ‘Sure.’
Max selected a sheet of black paper. ‘You permit?’
I gave him the profile he wanted, without further comment. He made a sound of satisfaction. ‘You are a good subject, Dr Bliss. Such well-defined features.’
The sticky subject had been dropped. We were back on our old terms. I thought I knew the significance of the scarlet silhouettes, and I was no more anxious to talk about them than Max was. But, my God, the psychological impact of that little ‘idiosyncrasy’ . . .
Max was still snipping when a delegation trooped in, headed by John. He gestured at Rudi.
‘Must I have Peter Lorre dogging my footsteps?’
Instead of appearing offended, Rudi beamed with pleasure. I suppose if you are imitating a villain, it is a compliment to be compared to one of the greatest.
‘I have decided you require a permanent escort,’ Max said equably. ‘Don’t feel persecuted; Mr Hasseltine will also be guarded.’
He indicated Hans. That literal-minded soul was standing so close to Leif that his heavy breathing blew the latter’s hair into his face. Leif glowered.
‘I will not endure this,’ he exclaimed.
‘Sit down!’ Max shouted. ‘All of you, sit and be quiet. I am in no mood for childishness tonight.’
I gestured towards the sofa where I was sitting, and Leif joined me. Hans tried to squeeze his bulk into the narrow space between us. ‘Hey,’ I said. Max rolled his eyes.
‘Heaven give me patience. Hans, take a chair – that one, behind the sofa.’
Everyone subsided. The glum silence was broken by Max. He held up the finished silhouette.
‘It is not so pleasant as the last,’ he said in a worried voice.
‘I don’t feel as pleasant,’ I assured him. He had caught my scowl and out-thrust lip quite accurately.
Max picked up another piece of paper. It was black, not scarlet, but as his eyes focused on John, the latter sprang from his chair as if he had been stung.
‘This is a dull group,’ he announced. ‘What about a game?’
Without waiting for an answer, he threw open one of the cupboard doors. ‘Chess, checkers, Go, Monopoly . . . He must have bought out a toy shop. Anyone for a game of Scrabble?’
‘Why not?’ I stood up.
I don’t know