Silhouette in Scarlet - Elizabeth Peters [81]
Schmidt grinned from ear to ear with reminiscent pride. ‘You did not see me, did you? Not ever! I was following you everywhere. I have not lost the touch. You think I am too old and too fat, but not once did you see Papa Schmidt when he was on the trail.’
‘And a fat lot of good it did me.’
‘If you had stayed in Stockholm, I would have helped,’ Schmidt said angrily. ‘But no, you must go rushing into the wilderness. I could not find where you had gone. I rented a car, I was lost, many times, many times. . .’
‘You must not speak to her that way,’ said Gus, from the door.
I introduced the two, adding, ‘We always yell at each other, Gus. Schmidt is one of my oldest and dearest friends, and I would not deny that he has a point.’
‘Yes, he is right to scold you for doing foolish things,’ Gus said. He took a chair next to Schmidt’s, and the two of them stared at me with matching expressions of stern disapprobation.
I wondered what local deity I had offended to incur such a curse. Most heroines (in which category I account myself, of course) pick up handsome, dashing heroes as they pass through their varied adventures I seemed to be building up a collection of critical grandpas.
Schmidt, being the more sentimental of the two, was the first to remember my bereavement. His eyes got watery again.
‘We must not scold her now,’ he said to Gus.
Gus nodded. ‘You are right. She must not be alone. We will show her how much she is treasured by us.’
‘It is very romantic,’ Schmidt assured me. A tear trembled on his eyelid, as if terrified by the vast pink expanse of cheek below, then took the plunge. ‘You have redeemed this man, my dear. His love for you turned him from his path of crime He died a hero, saving the life of the woman he loved. Let that comfort you, and let the memory of his gallant death shine in your thoughts through the years of – ’
‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I snarled.
The two heads turned, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and nodded solemnly in tempo.
‘She is distraught,’ Schmidt said.
‘She does not know what she says,’ Gus agreed.
What was the use of trying to explain? They wouldn’t understand. On the surface the whole affair had been a succession of simple clichés; but motives are never so simple. I didn’t even understand my own.
After the first few hours I was pretty sure Gus and I weren’t in danger of being killed. Crazy as it may sound, I believed Max. I don’t know why; maybe it was the cat that convinced me that I could trust his word. Even after I realized that Leif was one of the gang, I wasn’t afraid for myself. He’d have let me survive, as the latest of what was undoubtedly a long list of infatuated dupes; his vanity was so overweening that he couldn’t believe I had penetrated his disguise until I hit him over the head with it – literally.
I could have played along. It would have been the safest and most sensible course. I owed John nothing. And the funniest thing about it, the thing nobody would believe – except John himself – was that I had not risked myself because I was in love with him. I had always known John for what he was – a corrupt, unscrupulous man with the morals of a tomcat – and I’m not referring to the cat’s sexual habits, but to its incurable tendency to put its own interests ahead of everyone else’s. I didn’t love that man; I didn’t even like him. The one I loved was the guy with the perverse sense of humour and the peculiar brand of courage and the occasional streak of quixotry and the clever, twisty mind. But that man was part of the other, buried so deep it was hard to be certain he existed.
I caught a glimpse of him in those last few seconds, just before John went over the side. That was why I tried to stop him. He must have realized, as I did, that I was Leif’s primary target. He stood a good chance of getting away while Leif was busy with me. He had a bad arm and a bad head and he was half Leif’s size, but he hadn’t made a break for it. If he had, I might