Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“I assumed it was.”
“Yes, you assume, but I know. I have seen a picture of her, it is the same woman.”
I put my hands to my head. “Schmidt. You didn’t—you haven’t seen Friedl?”
“If Friedl is the second Frau Hoffman, yes, I have seen her. By the way, that young man at the desk behaves very strangely, Vicky. When I ask for Herr Hoffman and explain I knew him once, many years ago, he turns a strange color and cannot talk sensibly. Do you suppose…What is the matter, Vicky? Have I done something wrong?”
“Yes, dammit! You shouldn’t have…Oh well, maybe it doesn’t matter. What did you say to her?”
Schmidt insisted he had given nothing away, and if his version of the conversation was correct, it was true—except that his mere presence was enough to alarm a conspirator. He had been deliberately vague about where and when he had known Hoffman, and he had (aber natürlich!) said nothing about the gold, or about a bloodstained envelope. How he had talked Friedl into bringing out the family album I could not imagine; I was surprised that she hadn’t disposed of it as she had disposed of Hoffman’s other personal possessions.
“Poor girl, she is in a state of great distress,” Schmidt said sympathetically. “I advised her to go away for a holiday; her nerves are in terrible condition.”
“Schmidt, you are such a push-over,” I snapped. “She’s a cheap little tramp who married Hoffman for his money and is now trying to steal his—his prize possession for herself.”
“That is a terrible thing to say! How do you know?”
I gave him a brief rundown of what Friedl had said—and what she had not said. “What’s more,” I added, “I’m beginning to wonder whether she knows where—it—is. She tore that Schrank apart. Why would she destroy a valuable object unless she was looking for something?”
“It may be that she does not know for what she is looking,” Schmidt said shrewdly. “It would not be necessary to destroy a piece of furniture to make certain there was not hidden in it something so large as—as what we are seeking.”
“Good point. Maybe she hoped to find a clue—a map or a letter.”
Masticating, Schmidt shook his head mournfully. “I cannot believe so lovely a young woman would behave with such duplicity.”
“Believe it. I’ll tell you something, though—I’m beginning to suspect she is not acting on her own. She is unbelievably stupid. When I was talking to her, I felt as if I were conversing with—with a ventriloquist’s dummy, that was it. Someone had told her what to do, but not how to go about it.”
“Aha,” said Schmidt. “Cherchez I’homme!”
“I think you’ve got it, Schmidt. A woman like that always has to have a man around. Oh, hell. I don’t want to discuss it here. Let’s go.”
Schmidt swept a measuring glance over the table, popped an overlooked morsel of cheese into his mouth, and nodded agreement. “The lunch, it is on me,” he announced, summoning the waitress with a lordly gesture.
“It sure is,” I agreed, surveying his bulging tummy.
Not until Schmidt had risen and was waddling toward the door did I get the full effect of his costume—bright red, fitting him like a second skin. It was so appalling I let out a yelp. “Schmidt!”
“Was? Was ist los? Was ist’s?” Schmidt spun around like a top, bellowing in alarm.
A hush had fallen over the restaurant and every eye in the place was focused on us. I grabbed Schmidt by the seat of the pants (there was very little slack to grab) and the scruff of the neck and propelled him out the door.
We stood by his car arguing. Schmidt was hurt because I didn’t like his outfit—”so fitting for the season of Weihnachten”—and he didn’t want to go home. He was having fun.
We were still arguing when someone came running out of the hotel, calling my name. It was Freddy. “I am so glad I caught you up,” he exclaimed. “Frau Hoffman hoped you would return; she said to tell you a message. There was a bridal chest, very old, belonging to Herr Hoffman, that was given to a friend of his. Perhaps he will be willing to sell to you.”
Schmidt began