Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [5]
Hearing our footsteps ring in dismal echoes along the authentic-stone-paved passageway, Carl, the janitor, opened the door of his room. His face lit up when he saw me, and he greeted me with flattering enthusiasm. At least it would have been flattering if I had not known that I was not the object of his adoration. It was my dog he doted on.
There’s an antique witticism that runs, “I don’t have a dog, he has me.” Caesar is a Doberman, big as a pony and slobberingly affectionate. I had to bring him to work with me one day when the exterminators were dealing with an infestation of some strange little purple bugs in my house. Carl was in the courtyard when we arrived, and it was love at first sight, on both parts. Carl was in the habit of paying a formal call on Caesar every few weeks; he always brought presents of bones and took Caesar for a long walk.
I had to give him a detailed rundown on Caesar’s health before he allowed me to question him. Yes, he had emptied Gerda’s wastebasket that morning. He emptied her wastebasket every morning and every afternoon. No, the trash men had not collected that day; Tuesday and Friday were their regular days. Certainly, we could prowl around in the trash all we liked. He hoped we enjoyed ourselves.
He didn’t offer to help, and I didn’t ask, since I couldn’t tell him what I was looking for. I only hoped I would recognize it if I saw it.
Snowflakes trickled down out of a pewter-gray sky as I climbed on a packing case and peered down into the bin which, according to Carl, held that day’s garbage. Schmidt, who would have needed a ladder to reach the same height, jumped up and down to keep warm and demanded that I toss down an armful or two so he could help me search. I was tempted to give him a bundle of the riper refuse—the remains of people’s lunches, from the smell—but controlled myself. A handful of papers stopped his outcries; he hunkered down in the lee of the bin and began sorting them, happy as a puppy with a moldy bone.
Cold had turned Schmidt’s pink face a delicate shade of lavender by the time I found the envelope. It should have been on the top of the heap; but in the manner of all desired objects, it had slid down into a corner, behind a soggy paper bag containing two apple cores and the crusts of a Gorgonzola-and-wurst sandwich. For once Gerda had not exaggerated. The paper was filthy. A disfiguring brown stain covered much of the envelope. It was an old stain, hardened and dark; and although I am not particularly fastidious, my fingers were slow to close over it.
A shiver ran through me. The shiver was not one of apprehension; it was freezing out there. I only wish I did have premonitory chills when something awful is about to happen to me. Then I might be able to avoid it.
I dragged my purpling superior from the papers he was examining. Once inside, we examined my find.
“Ha,” Schmidt cried eagerly. “Blood!”
“Mud,” I said shortly. “Schmidt, your imagination is really deplorable.”
“There is no return address.”
“Oh well, I tried. Now I can forget the whole thing.”
“But, Vicky—”
“But me no buts, Schmidt. Don’t think it hasn’t been fun; we must meet and pick through garbage again someday.”
“Where are you going now?”
“To the library. I have work to do.”
I had work to do, all right, but not in the library. I stayed there only long enough to get the book I wanted. Then I took it upstairs