Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [25]
“Public enemy number one.”
“More like number one hundred and ten. I never aspired to greatness. Neither do I aspire to spending ten to fifteen years in prison.”
“So you won’t help me.”
“No.”
“All right.” I reached for the handle of the door.
John’s hand closed over mine. “Don’t be a sorehead. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll reminisce about old times.”
“No, thanks. You can drop me at my car if you will. It’s parked near the gallery.”
Conversation during the drive back was minimal. His brow unclouded, his hands light on the wheel, John whistled tunefully as he drove. I recognized the song: “Oh Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roving?”
Good question. John acted like a man who was at peace with the world, having fulfilled a tedious duty to an old acquaintance. His behavior was unexceptional, his logic was unassailable—and he had been courteous enough to refrain from hinting, even obliquely, that I must have invented the whole preposterous story as an excuse for trying to locate him.
I could have killed him.
“That’s my car,” I said, pointing.
“I know,” said John, driving past.
“Of course you do. I should send you the mechanic’s bill.”
“I trust it wasn’t excessive,” John said anxiously. “There were only a few minuscule wires dislocated.” He turned the corner and stopped. “This is a bit more private,” he explained. “I presume you’d rather not be seen in my company.”
“You mean you’d rather not be seen in mine.”
“Just a precaution. You do have an untidy habit of attracting predators.” Before I could reply to this blow below the belt—the most recent set of predators had been put on my trail by John himself—he leaned across me and opened my door.
I took the hint. For fear of scraping his precious tires, he had stopped a safe distance from the curb, and I stepped out into six inches of icy slush.
I turned. “I won’t bother putting an advertisement in the papers when I find the gold. You’ll see the headlines.”
“Would you mind letting go of the door?”
“Oh—sorry.”
Instead of closing it, he remained stretched out across the seat, peering up at me from under lowered brows. “You aren’t going to take my well-meant advice?”
“No.”
John’s frown deepened. “Do you know something you haven’t told me?”
“A few ideas are swimming briskly about in my head,” I said. “But they needn’t concern you. You aren’t interested.”
Still prone, he took a card and a pen from his pocket. “I might be able to extend a few tentacles into the old-boy network. See if anything is stirring.”
I watched him scribble on the card. “I’d appreciate that. But please don’t bother giving me a phone number; it would just turn out to be the Soviet chancellery or the Society for the Prevention of Extramarital Sex.”
John grinned reluctantly, but held on to the card. “I’ll be in touch. We might have dinner. Or perhaps a spot of extramarital—”
“Sorry. I’m saving myself for Tony.”
“Who’s Tony?”
“An old friend of mine. He’s coming all the way from Chicago to spend Christmas with me. He’s an assistant professor—six-five, tall, dark, and handsome.” I don’t know why I went on talking; I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “If Tony should fail me, I’m afraid I would have to consider Dieter’s application before yours. He’s shorter than you are, but he’ll be a curator at the Antikenmuseum by the time he’s forty. A nice, honest job.”
John propped his chin on his hands and politely smothered a yawn. “Do go on,” he urged. “How far down the list am I?”
The slush had soaked through my supposedly waterproof boots and my feet were getting numb. “Never mind,” I snapped. “I’ll be seeing you. Or not, as the case may be.”
“Take this.” He handed me the card.
“Well!” I said, examining it.
John’s smile shone with seraphic innocence. “It’s an answering service,” he murmured.
The door slammed; the car pulled away.
“Bastard,” I said, staring after it.
I had spoken English; but many Münchener understand the language. A woman passing along the sidewalk stopped and looked at me. “Aren’t they all, dearie,” she said.
It was a good thing I had