Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [70]
‘Enough, enough,’ he sputtered, spitting out mud. ‘This is madness. Smythe – ’
‘It’s around here somewhere,’ John insisted. ‘I told you the estimates were rough. What about there? Dig there.’
He indicated one of the pits that had been dug the day before. Max sneered. ‘A naive effort, Smythe. We have explored that area.’
‘Maybe you didn’t dig deep enough,’ I said. With a look that eloquently expressed his opinion of my contribution Max thrust a shovel into John’s reluctant hands. ‘You think it is there? You think we did not dig deep enough?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ John protested. ‘She was the one – ’
‘Dig.’
‘Max, old chum, I’d love to, but my wrist – ’
‘Dig!’
The least I could do was add a few more seconds to the delaying action. John was obviously getting desperate.
‘He can’t dig with a sprained wrist,’ I said. ‘Give me the shovel, John.’
We played tug of war, mutually protesting, until Max intervened. John started digging, ostentatiously favouring his right arm. As he deposited the third spadeful to one side, I saw something shine.
Max saw it at the same moment. Our cries blended. ‘Wait. Stop digging.’
The other diggers, sweating even in the chilly air, were happy to assume the order was directed at them. When Max fished the object out of the dirt and held it up, all eyes were upon him. He let out a little hiss of breath and a slow smile curved his lips.
‘It appears I did you an injustice, Smythe.’
The brooch would be a good three inches in diameter when the crumpled gold was straightened. The tortuous patterns of Anglo-Saxon design formed writhing abstract animal forms around the rim, encircling a rough polished stone. Deep in its garnet depths a sullen glow of crimson glimmered. It was a lovely thing, quite typical of its period. I would have expected nothing less. John dealt with only expert forgers.
I didn’t doubt for an instant that John had planted the brooch during the night. I was afraid to look at him. Max was as tickled as a kid who sees a fat, bearded man in a red suit coming down the chimney, after he has decided there is no Santa Claus.
‘I told you,’ John said.
‘Get out of the way.’ Max snatched the shovel from him. In his exuberance he almost went so far as to dig himself. Recollecting himself in time, he handed the shovel to Rudi. ‘Carefully’ he cautioned. ‘Carefully.’
‘Shouldn’t use spades,’ Georg muttered thickly. ‘Bad technique. Trowels, brushes . . .’
Leif, who had pressed forward as eagerly as the others at the seductive gleam of gold, turned anxiously to his brother.
‘Georg, you are not well. Come back to the house. I will help you.’
Georg struck his arm aside. ‘Don’t need your help. Leave me alone, damn it.’ He marched off.
‘Maybe you had better go with him,’ I said.
Leif shook his head. ‘He is angry with me. I can’t help him now. But later – I will take him to a hospital, a sanitarium. They will cure him.’ He looked at me as if expecting agreement. All I could say was ‘I hope so.’
‘They will cure him! He will resume his career, he will succeed. And I will make sure no other devils like this one corrupt him.’
He turned to John, who returned his glare with bland indifference. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Leif,’ he said. ‘Once a junkie, always a junkie.’
‘I ignore your cheap taunts,’ Leif said. ‘You know the saying: He who laughs last . . .’
‘Tactless,’ John said. ‘Uncouth and tactless, Leif. An honest, law-abiding chap like you shouldn’t revel in murder, even mine.’
The diggers took the hole down almost six feet before they gave up. They weren’t disheartened, however; as Max himself admitted, the treasure trove might have been scattered to some degree. They started another excavation beside the first.
According to my watch, it was after one o’clock. In another nine or ten hours the light would be as dim as it was going to get. I gave the quiescent clouds a critical stare. A good wet, dark, noisy thunderstorm would be a big help.
The discovery of the brooch had whetted appetites that had become jaded, and prolonged the search. Yet I held to my original belief