Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [72]
I put a couple of loaves in the oven and switched it on. As I moved back and forth between pantry and sink, refrigerator and stove, I had ample opportunity to dispose of the white powder. It would take only a second or two to dump it into – into what? Not the milk; the pitcher was at Max’s elbow. Besides, he and Hans were the only members of the gang who drank milk.
‘What about some soup?’ I suggested. ‘There’s tomato, chicken noodle – ’
‘No soup.’
I don’t think he was really worried about my slipping something into the soup; his objection was pure reflex, instinctive professional caution. Sugar? I thought. No good. Some of them took their coffee black. I plugged in the gleaming chrome-and-porce-lain device Mrs Andersson used for making coffee, and tested the bread. It was pre-sliced; I was able to separate the slices and spread them on the counter to finish thawing. As I did so, I heard voices outside. The diggers were back. I had to make up my mind in a hurry. With all of them milling around the kitchen, my chances of being detected rose a hundredfold.
So I put it in the butter. It was soft, since Max had not let me clear away after breakfast. It also showed signs of having been licked. ‘Wonderful for hair balls,’ I said aloud, mixing furiously.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing,’ If I hadn’t been so rattled, I wouldn’t have spoken; for all his fondess of animals, Max might be one of those fastidious souls who would refuse to eat food a cat had tasted. The cat had clearly been on the table; there wasn’t a scrap of bacon left, and several plates were suspiciously clean.
I started putting the sandwiches together. No self-respecting Swede would have touched them; they were slapped into shape with such speed that the contents leaked over the sides. I took care not to let the butter ooze, though. It was strangely lumpy-looking.
Grimy, sweaty, and dishevelled, the diggers filed in and took their places. Hans grabbed a sandwich, and my heart stopped with a grinding thud as he pried back the top piece of bread and peered at what was inside.
‘Gibt es keinen Senf?’ he inquired.
I didn’t trust myself to speak. I got the mustard out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.
It was not one of my more elegant table settings. I hadn’t bothered to put plates down, just a few glasses and a dozen bottles of beer. Hans reached for the pitcher of milk. John got it first, and pulled it towards him. Rudi asked for a bottle opener. Turning to get it, I heard a crash, a splash, and a cry of outrage from Max. John had dropped the pitcher. The milk was soaking into Max’s hand-stitched suede shoes.
‘Weak wrist,’ John whined, nursing it.
So everybody drank beer. I made sandwiches like an assembly line. I had to do something; every time one of them took a bite I expected a complaint or a puzzled look.
They had almost finished eating when Leif entered. ‘Have a sandwich,’ I said compulsively.
‘No, thank you. My brother is ill. We must have a doctor.’
Several of the men exchanged cynical grins, but Max looked up sharply. ‘Ill? What do you mean?’
‘I insist you look at him,’ Leif said. ‘At once.’
His peremptory tone made Max frown, and he added, in a more conciliatory voice, ‘It may be food poisoning; I cannot tell. Would it not be advisable for you to investigate?’
They went out of the room. The men went right on eating. The suggestion of food poisoning didn’t bother them; they had diagnosed Georg’s illness sight unseen, and – I thought – correctly. John sat slumped in his chair. He had not touched the sandwiches. I nudged him and offered another plateful.
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘you prefer plain ham.’
He took one. Our eyes met for an instant, then he looked away.
Max and Leif came back. I looked up interestedly, but no explanations were forthcoming. Max only said, ‘Back to work.’
There was some subdued grumbling, especially from Hans; five sandwiches and four bottles of beer had not filled his huge stomach. John had to be dragged to his feet. He kept complaining that he was sick, but as he stumbled out, roughly assisted by Hans, Leif