Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [69]
‘What do you expect me to say, Max?’ I demanded. ‘“Okay, thanks a lot, you just go right ahead and slaughter him”’? You do what you have to do, and I’ll do the same.’
Max raised his arms and let them fall. ‘I have tried.’
‘Right. But . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It goes against the grain,’ I said. ‘But – thanks for the warning, Max.’
He blinked. ‘Why don’t you go back and get something to eat? It must be close to lunchtime.’
‘Damned if I will.’
‘I promise I won’t touch him while you are gone.’
‘No.’ I sat down, cross-legged. ‘I want to watch.’
Max snapped out an expletive, turned on his heel, and addressed Rudi. ‘Start walking.’
‘In which direction, Max?’
Another argument ensued. Max suggested one direction, John another (which Max instantly dismissed), and Georg offered to calculate the spatial errors that would result from a mistaken bearing of five or ten degrees. Finally Max did what I would have done. He told Rudi to use Willy, still rigid as a flagpole in the middle of the pasture, as his focal point, and walk straight towards him. Somewhat to my surprise the resultant path took Rudi along the line John had indicated. When Rudi finished counting, he and Willy were only a few feet apart.
Max looked pleased. ‘It appears to work. The error is no more than might be expected.’
‘But your method is riddled with errors,’ Georg complained, in a pettish tone. ‘You assume too much; you compound your errors by – ’
‘Be quiet,’ Max ordered. ‘The rest of you – dig.’
Up to this point John had been uncharacteristically quiet, his only contributions consisting of brief comments and suggestions. Max hadn’t forbidden direct communication, so I said to John, ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’
‘Christ, no, I’m not all right. I’m sick.’
‘Serves you right,’ Max said, without turning. ‘Those disgusting eggs of yours have unsettled my stomach as well.’
‘I could make a delicious stew,’ John muttered, swaying like a birch in a breeze. ‘Let me go back and lie down for a bit, Max, and I’ll cook – ’
‘I allowed you to prepare breakfast because I was watching every move you made,’ was the curt reply. ‘If you are bored, you can give Hans help with the digging. Your upset stomach will be cured soon enough.’
I honestly don’t believe he knew what he was doing. It was all part of the day’s work to him. But anticipation is agonizing in itself, and offhand references to a man’s imminent demise don’t settle his nerves. John turned a shade greener, and I said angrily, ‘Lay off, Max. He’s going to pass out.’
‘No,’ John said wanly. ‘Not until I have to.’ Max took this as a reference to the moment of permanent collapse that was rapidly approaching and gave John a sour smile. I suspected another significance, and took due note of the suggestion.
The digging went on apace. I counted heads. The only one of the gang who was missing was Pierre. Leif had disappeared. I had not noticed his absence, which is some indication of my state of nerves. When I asked Max where he was, I was told he had gone to get water. Georg was thirsty.
Thirst wasn’t Georg’s only problem. He sat staring at his notebook, pretending to make his useless calculations. His fingers were shaking badly. No wonder his mathematics had been inaccurate.
Before long Leif returned, carrying a thermos. He started to offer me the first drink; Georg snatched the cup out of his hands. ‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, wiping dribbles off his chin with his sleeve. ‘A man could die of thirst before you helped him. Give me more.’
Leif obliged, with an apologetic glance at me. ‘Perhaps you should rest for a while, Georg,’ he suggested.
‘The hell with resting. I’m needed here. These morons are digging in the wrong place.’
‘I think they aren’t digging deep enough,’ I offered.
Max bit his lip. ‘Dig deeper,’ he ordered.
As the pit deepened, so did Max’s impatience. When Hans, whose excavation techiques were obviously unpractised, tossed a shovelful of dirt into Max’s face, the latter