Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [40]
“No, I have this with me.” He reached for a paper-wrapped sandwich. “Will you share? It is good ham and cheese.”
I refused with thanks; but a rustling noise heralded the appearance of someone who was definitely interested in the offer. As the sleek fawn body slid out from under a bench I exclaimed, “Surely, that is Herr Hoffman’s cat.”
“Yes. Her name is Clara—”
“After Clara Schumann,” I said with a smile. “The great love of Brahms’s life. I’m so glad she’s with you. Frau Hoffman said she had gotten rid of her, and I was afraid…”
“I would not let Anton’s pet come to harm.”
The cat leaped onto the table with the air of spontaneous flight common to Siamese. It sauntered casually toward the sandwich, looking as if food were the farthest thing from its mind. The old man pulled out a chunk of ham and offered it; after sniffing the morsel, the cat condescended to accept it.
“I am not a lover of cats,” Müller admitted. “And this one does not love me; she misses Anton. But we respect one another.”
“That’s about the most you can expect from a cat,” I said, holding out my hand. I didn’t expect the aristocratic animal to respond; in fact, her initial reaction was a long hard stare from eyes as blue and brilliant as—as other eyes I knew. After she had finished the ham, she sauntered toward me and butted my hand with her head.
“She does remember me,” I said, flattered.
“No doubt. She is very intelligent, and very choosy about her friends. It is a compliment.”
The cat began to purr as my fingers moved across its head and behind its ears. “Would you like to have her?” Müller asked.
I pulled my hand away. Deeply affronted, the cat turned its back and sat down with a thump. “Good God, no. I mean—I can’t. I have a dog—a Doberman. They wouldn’t get along.”
“She is company for me,” the old man admitted, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the cat would hear and take advantage. “But she will outlive me—she is not two years old. I would like to think she will find a home when I am gone.”
“Oh, that won’t be for a long time,” I said firmly.
I gave him my card, and he promised to let me know when the Schrank was ready. Clara relented and allowed me to scratch her chin. I was almost at the door when Müller’s quiet voice stopped me.
“There is some reason why you came, isn’t there? Something beyond coincidence and kindness.”
“I don’t want…” I began.
“I don’t want either.” He grinned broadly. “At my age I have not the time or the strength for distractions. There is work I must finish before I die. But if there is a thing I can do for my friend, you must tell me.”
“I will tell you,” I said.
“That is good. Go with God, Fräulein. I hope you will not have need of His help.”
I hoped so, too, but the picture was looking blacker and blacker. Müller’s description of Hoffman’s death had shocked me badly. Hit and run? There was no evidence of anything more sinister, but it was, to say the least, an ugly coincidence that Hoffman had actually been on his way to mail the letter to me when he was struck down.
I was so distracted I almost walked past my car. Pausing, I heard my empty stomach protest; Herr Müller’s ham sandwich had reminded it that lunchtime was long past. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to eat in Bad Steinbach or drive on to Garmisch. Then I saw something that decided me. It was a familiar maroon Mercedes, parked, with unbelievable effrontery, only a short distance from my car.
I marched straight into the restaurant without going through the lobby; and there he was, at one of the best tables near the window. The table was piled with platters, some empty, some in the process of being emptied. He had been watching for me; he raised his hand and waved furiously.
“I saved you a place,” he announced, indicating a chair.
“A chair you have saved, but not a square inch on the table.” I sat down. “Don’t tell me you followed me, Schmidt, because I know you didn’t. How did you get here?”
Schmidt waved at the waitress. She responded a lot faster than she had