Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [67]
John had reached the same conclusion. His seemingly erratic behaviour had one purpose – delay. He was hoping for darkness – twilight, rather – before making his attempt to escape. I was pessimistic about his chances. Twelve hours is a long time.
Nagged by Max, Georg collected the equipment he proposed to use. It wasn’t impressive; the stakes and string and other implements resembled gardening tools, and were, in fact, taken from the shed that served that function. At Max’s pressing invitation I joined the group and we left the house.
The sky threatened, and a chill breeze denied the approach of midsummer. I demanded a coat, and Max let me go up to get it. When I returned he glanced at the purse I had slung over my shoulder, but did not object; he had searched it himself and knew I had no weapon.
When we reached the pasture, everyone stared expectantly at Max. The wind that ruffled John’s flaxen locks and blew my hair into my eyes didn’t stir a strand of Max’s grey wig. He took a paper out of his breast pocket, studied it, and turned a minatory eye on John.
‘Fifteen paces due west from the large boulder at the northeast corner. Fifty paces due south. Sixteen paces west from the dead pine on the southeast corner, fifty paces due north from there. Is that it?’
‘I told you it was rough,’ John said defensively.
It was straight out of ‘The Gold Bug’ or some other fiction. Perhaps Max had not been raised on the classics. He was sceptical, though; as his chilly gaze remained fixed on John, the latter shivered exaggeratedly and wrapped both arms around his body. ‘The Second set of measurements is obviously a cross-bearing,’ he added.
Georg shook his head and made disapproving noises. ‘It is very inaccurate. How long is a pace? There are too many boulders; which is the correct one? And I cannot believe that none of you had the intelligence to bring a compass.’
Mine was in my purse at that very moment, disguised as the butt end of a flashlight. At least one of Gus’s boats must have direction-finding apparatus, but since none of the gang had thought of that, I didn’t see any reason to bring it up.
The men scattered, looking for landmarks. There was no dead pine at the southeast corner. Finally someone found a stump and concluded that must be the remains of the tree. Georg sat down on the stump, took out notebook and pencil, and began making calculations, muttering, ‘If we take it that true north lies that way . . .’
The proceedings had a certain macabre humour, but I was in no mood to enjoy them. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ I told Max. ‘It’s freezing.’
‘Stay away from the hut,’ Max said curtly. His eyes were on John, who, closely followed by Rudi, was pretending to look for a boulder. They wouldn’t let him out of their sight from now on.
The hut didn’t interest me. Gus wasn’t there. The Austrian had been following me the day before. Max had ordered him to give the impression that he was guarding the hut if I seemed to be interested in it, but he had had to run to get there before I did.
I was almost certain I knew where they were keeping Gus, but almost wasn’t good enough. If I was wrong, there might not be time for a second guess. So I went into the forest.
It had been eerie before, in the dimness of twilight. Under a stormy sky, with wind lashing the upper branches, it was a perfect setting for a horror film. One expected to see the Frankenstein monster come lurching along between the trees.
The search didn’t take long, since I was looking for a man-made structure. I found a few blocks of dressed stone, tumbled down by the growth of tree roots that had heaved them to the surface. Man had left his mark, but not in the recent past The blocks might have lined a grave.
When I emerged from the trees onto the headland above the water, the wind blew my hair back like a banner. It was a north wind, carrying the snowy breath of the high mountains. Thirty feet below, waves attacked the tumbled