Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [31]
I did not open a bottle of wine. At midnight Schmidt switched from coffee to Coke and demanded more snapshots.
At twelve-fifteen the telephone rang. This prompted a ribald comment from Schmidt, which I ignored. Some of my friends have no idea of time, but I had a premonition about the identity of this caller; and I was right.
“I understand you telephoned earlier,” said John brightly.
“I didn’t leave a message.”
“My heart told me it was you.”
“Your heart, and the fact that you never bothered to tell me—” I bit my lip. The cold fury in my voice had aroused the interest of my inquisitive boss; he turned to stare and I moderated my tone. “So what’s new?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nihil, niente, nichts. No rumors, no information, no news. If the subject we discussed earlier has aroused interest, it is not in the quarters with which I am—was—familiar.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“It didn’t take you long.”
“Efficiency is my most admirable characteristic.”
“You have so few of them.”
A chuckle from John and a more intense stare from Schmidt reminded me to control my temper and my tongue.
“My, my, what a sour mood we’re in,” said the jeering voice at the other end of the line. “I didn’t expect gratitude, but you ought to be relieved at the absence of activity.”
Since I could not think of a reply that would not further arouse Schmidt’s suspicions, I remained silent. After a moment, John said, “Do forgive me, I neglected to inquire whether you had a guest.”
“I do.”
“Tony? Dieter? Tom, Dick—”
“Schmidt,” I said between my teeth.
“Who is it?” Schmidt demanded. “Is it someone I know? Does he wish to speak with me?”
“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said.
“Perhaps I had better ask leading questions,” John said.
“Why bother?”
“Tit for tat. Have there been any new developments?”
“No.”
“Hmmm,” said John.
“You said you weren’t interested.”
“Not under any circumstances whatever. I cannot conceive of any contingency that would persuade me.”
“Then you have no need to know.”
“Er—quite. Look here, suppose I ring you tomorrow. A late report may yet come in.”
“Who was that?” Schmidt demanded as I hung up.
“A friend of mine.”
“You did not sound very friendly,” said Schmidt.
Schmidt finally left at about one-thirty. As I pushed him out into the night he called, “I will telephone you at nine o’clock. We must get an early start.”
I nodded agreeably. At nine the next morning I expected to be halfway to Garmisch.
Four
AT NINE O’CLOCK I WAS JUST LEAVING MUNICH. I had overslept. I figured Schmidt had probably done the same, so I wasn’t worried about his following me. I was worried about two other people.
I lost more time taking a roundabout route through the suburbs instead of heading directly for the autobahn. The sun was trying to break through clustering clouds, but the side streets were slick with packed snow. I had to concentrate on my driving and try, at the same time, to keep an eye on the rearview mirror.
I didn’t expect to have any difficulty spotting Dieter. He was such a ham he wouldn’t be able to resist some silly trick. Having observed no bright purple Beetles painted with vulgar mottoes (Dieter’s last-owned car) or vehicles driven by gorillas or mummies, I turned onto the autobahn and put my foot down. The suggested speed limit is 130 kilometers per hour, but nobody pays much attention to it; I got in the (comparatively) slow lane and gave myself up to introspection.
Painful introspection. I wasn’t too pleased with myself. There is nothing wrong with having a positive self-image, but when self-esteem blossoms into conceit, it is apt