Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [12]
The grisly bloodstain on the envelope wasn’t John’s style. Unless the joke had backfired. Unless the blood was his.
The shiny white cardboard reflected the lamplight, enclosing the black profile in a soft golden halo. The inappropriateness of that image brought a sour smile to my lips. The smile turned to a grimace as I remembered what I had done that afternoon.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. In retrospect it struck me as the most idiotic move I had ever made—and I speak as one whose career has not been unblemished by foolish actions.
I had put personal ads in the major newspapers of the world. All of them. Figaro, Die Welt, La Prensa, Neue Zurcher Zeitung, II Corriere della Sera, ABC, the New York and London Times….
Even now I hate to admit I did it. However, a lot of underworld characters use the personals as a means of communication, and I knew John sometimes read them for the sake of amusement. I felt certain the message would capture his attention. It read: “Rudolph. Not roses, Helen’s jewels. Michael and Rupert no problem. Contact soonest. Flavia.”
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Few people would understand that string of absurdities, but I knew John would; the single red rose he had sent me came from the same corny old novel. The reference to Michael and Rupert cost me an extra twenty bucks, but I thought I had a better chance of arousing John’s interest if I assured him the villains were out of the picture.
Caesar moaned. The wind wailed. The sleet kept on falling. The wine was gone. I was all alone and nobody loved me. Worse than that—I was drunk and all alone and nobody loved me.
Which only goes to show that those boring clichés about optimism are true. “Tomorrow is another day; it’s always darkest before the dawn.” Unbeknownst to me, a lot of people were concerned about me—thinking, worrying, caring, talking. The most provocative of the conversations might have gone something like this:
It began with commiserations, half-ironic, half-furious, on her husband’s death.
“But there was nothing else to do! He had made up his mind. He was actually on his way to the Postamt, to send the photograph. I had to act quickly!”
“Stupidly, you mean. You have silenced the only man who knew where it was hidden.”
“Perhaps he told her. A note, a letter, sent with the photograph—”
“And now you’ve lost that too. What the devil could have become of it?”
“I tell you, I don’t know! Someone may have found it lying in the snow—”
“Are you sure that was the only copy? Did he communicate with anyone else?”
“No—I don’t think so…How can I be sure? Any of them might—”
“Shut up and let me think.”
A long silence followed. She ran shaking fingers through her hair, nibbled on her bitten nails. Then the voice at the other end of the wire said, “I have received nothing. That would suggest that she was the only one he confided in.”
“Yes. Yes. We can deal with her—”
“As you dealt with the old man? I forbid it. Do you hear? Keep that degenerate follower of yours under control. Leave it to me.”
“Yes, my darling. I am sorry—”
“Rather late for regrets, isn’t it?”
Tears filled her eyes, smearing her heavy makeup. “Don’t be angry with me. You will break my heart. I promise, I will do whatever you say.”
“Do nothing. Keep searching. Notify me at once—at once, do you hear?—if she communicates with you. In the meantime, I will take steps to correct your mistake.”
“You think you can—”
“I have several ideas,” the far-off voice murmured.
For the next few days I was followed around Munich by little fat men—or, sometimes, little fat women. They were all Schmidt. He loves dressing up in funny costumes. I wouldn’t dream of destroying his illusion that he is a great detective, so I pretended not to recognize him. I didn’t try to lose him either, which wouldn’t