Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [45]
Schmidt’s Mercedes was blazing merrily away. I hoped it wouldn’t start a forest fire. My own car was closer to the blaze than I liked.
“Wait here,” I told Schmidt. “I’ll turn around and come back and collect you.”
By the time I had reported the accident and taken Schmidt to be overhauled by a doctor, night had fallen on the charming mountain village of Bad Steinbach. I was prepared to spend the night—though not by choice—in the Gasthaus Hexenhut if Schmidt’s injuries demanded it, but he had come out relatively unscathed—only a bump and a cut on his forehead, which had hit the steering wheel. All those layers of fat had protected his body; he didn’t even have a cracked rib. However, he was out of sorts because the doctor had slapped a large-sized Band-Aid on his wound instead of swathing him in bandages like a hero in the movies, so I agreed to stop in Garmisch to replenish his strength, i.e., eat.
He insisted on one of the best restaurants in town. He was paying, so I didn’t object. When he had eaten his soup and a big hunk of saddle of venison, mit Preiselbeeren and all the rest, he announced that he was now feeling well enough to discuss our next move.
“What next move? We’re going straight back to Munich and you are going straight to bed.”
“There are many things we must discuss,” said Schmidt seriously. “To think I have seen him at last—the great, the famous Sir John Smythe!”
“The infamous Sir John Smythe. You didn’t see him, you only saw that mask.”
“I would have known him anywhere,” said Schmidt romantically. “Who else would appear out of thin air to save us from a flaming death? But you, Vicky—you have deceived me. You were not surprised to see him. You knew he was still alive—you have been seeing him, making love with him all these months—”
“Schmidt, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I think you’re jealous.”
Schmidt’s petulant scowl relaxed. “It was very nice when you were kissing me,” he said.
I couldn’t help smiling. “I am rather fond of you, you old goat.”
“Yes, but that is another thing. Always you say rude things to me, even when you thought I was dying. You blamed me for the accident, but it was not my fault, was it, if some madman shot out the tire of my car? I was driving magnificently until that moment—”
“You were driving like a maniac, as you always do. Hadn’t it occurred to you that we had been sent on a wild-goose chase, possibly into a trap? If I had been alone, I’d have turned back long before it happened.”
Since this was a valid complaint, Schmidt chose to ignore it. “How did he get there ahead of us?”
Since this was a valid question, I chose to answer it. “I wondered about that myself. He might live up that way, in the hills; a telephone call from the hotel could have sent him out to ambush us. Or there may be a trail from the valley, a short cut.”
“True.” Schmidt ruminated. “I will have the gateau with rum and strawberries. For you—”
“Just coffee.” After he had dealt with the pressing matter of dessert, he continued, “It was the concierge, you think? The fat boy who gave us the directions?”
“That’s not fat, that’s muscle,” I said fairly. “Muscle enough to climb a mountain and get to the spot before us. But we haven’t any proof. He may have passed on a message in all innocence.”
Schmidt’s curling lip showed what he thought of Freddy’s innocence. He’d have preferred to make Freddy the villain rather than Friedl, lady’s man that he was. I went on, “The police just laughed when I told them someone shot at us. They said it was probably a hunter.”
“A bad hunter who could mistake a Mercedes for a deer,” Schmidt grunted.
Schmidt slept most of the way back. He had eaten enough to render a gorilla comatose, but I was worried about him. He was too old and