Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [54]
“Dr. Tony Lawrence, this is—”
“Sir John,” Schmidt squeaked. “I am so glad to see you again. I have not yet thanked you for saving—”
“An honor, I assure you,” said John.
“Sir John?” said Tony, eyebrows gyrating. “Saving—?”
I gave up on introductions. I gave up on everything.
I can’t say that the next few minutes were comfortable. Tony refused to sit down; he stood in the middle of the living room like a Puritan divine about to thunder denunciations, and demanded the telephone. “I’ll start calling hotels,” he said stiffly.
“But my dear chap!” John’s smile was a study in guileless good will. “There’s plenty of room.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in the way,” said Tony.
“No, no. I must be off myself shortly; delighted to know Vicky will have someone to keep her company.”
They went on like that for a while, with Schmidt listening in openmouthed fascination, until I got tired of the badinage.
“Sit down, Tony,” I said sharply. “John, why don’t you get us something to drink?”
I gave him a hearty shove to emphasize the suggestion, and followed him into the kitchen. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to be a good host.” John opened the refrigerator. “What are we serving?”
“He’s not staying here.” I pushed him aside and inspected the shelves. “Beer, I suppose. I always keep Löwenbräu for Schmidt…. As soon as I can find him a hotel room, he’s leaving.”
“Do as you like of course,” John said smoothly. “But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s one of the gang of six, isn’t he?”
The opener slipped as I applied pressure and a fountain of beer shot heavenward. I tipped the bottle into the sink and turned on John. “Are you crazy? Tony wouldn’t…”
John had already selected a tray from the rack under the counter; now he reached unerringly for the cupboard where I keep my beer glasses. He had certainly made good use of his time alone in the house. “Isn’t he the chap you told me about—the one who was involved in the Riemenschneider affair?”
“Yes. He’s a friend of mine, dammit!”
“Doesn’t it strike you as a bit of a coincidence that he should drop in on you just now?”
“He explained that. He—it is a coincidence. They happen.”
The swinging door opened and Schmidt slipped in. “Ah, you are still here,” he said with satisfaction. He wasn’t talking to me. “We must have a conference. Vicky, it was foolish of you to bring Tony here. We don’t want another person to join us. We are enough.”
“We are too much,” I said, sighing. “I’ll get rid of Tony, I promise. It’s only for a few days; he’s going on to Turin on the twenty-seventh. Now we’d better get back in there before he starts wondering what we’re doing.”
“You go,” said Schmidt. “I wish to confer with Sir John.”
“Sir John” had filled the glasses; leaning against the counter, arms folded and a supercilious smile on his face, he said nothing. I picked up the tray.
Tony had the Munich directory open on his lap and the telephone in his hand. I was sorry to see that he had already reached the stage of plaintive pleading. “Nothing? Not even a single, small…yes, I see. I’ll try there.”
He took the glass I offered him, glared at me, and dialed again.
Half of my mind was fighting off the nasty hints John had reawakened. Coincidences do happen. Tony wouldn’t…The other half was wondering what wild yarn John was telling Schmidt.
A furious cacophony of barks and whines burst out, mingled with Schmidt’s shrill expletives. John had let the dog in. Caesar didn’t linger; in search of me, his best beloved, he came barreling through the swinging door. The back swing ended with a thud and a curse from Schmidt; I deduced it had hit him in the stomach, which is the part of him that sticks out the farthest.
Tony had not had the pleasure of meeting Caesar. He dropped the telephone and went over the couch in a vault that would have done credit to an Olympic athlete. Of course that attracted Caesar