Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [59]
“Ah, it is you,” Müller exclaimed, and threw the door wide.
“I thought you’d gone.”
“I am about to go—to my daughter’s, for Weihnachtszeit. Come in, come in.” He locked the door after me and then went on, “I had not intended to leave until tomorrow, but your friend persuaded me otherwise. He is waiting now to drive me to Füssen. A kindly gesture, though I cannot believe—”
“My friend,” I repeated.
“Yes, he is here. Perhaps you wish to speak to him.”
I indicated that I definitely did wish to speak to him.
The door to the shop was closed; Müller escorted me into a tiny hall that led to his living quarters.
Already the small parlor had the cold, waiting look of a place whose occupants have left it for a protracted period of time—dark, fireless, overly neat. Two comfortable chairs flanked the fireplace. In one—obviously her usual place—was the cat, bolt upright, tail curled neatly around her hindquarters, wide blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on the occupant of the other chair.
John was dressed with less than his habitual elegance; I deduced that the jeans and shabby boots and worn jacket had been selected in an effort to convince Herr Müller he was just one of the boys and hence trustworthy. He was staring back at the cat with a nervous intensity that reminded me of a character in one of the Oz books, who tries to cow the Hungry Tiger with the terrible power of the human eye. The cat appeared no more impressed than the Hungry Tiger had been.
Glancing in my direction, he said sternly, “You’re late, Dr. Bliss. I expected you an hour ago.”
“I had to…We stopped by…I’m sorry.”
“If you’re ready, Herr Müller.” John got to his feet. The cat let out a raucous Siamese squawl. John flinched.
“Yes, I will get my suitcase. But I still cannot believe…”
“It’s just a precaution,” John said. “Our investigation is in the preliminary stages.”
Shaking his head, the old man ambled out. “Who is ‘our’?” I inquired. “Interpol, British Intelligence, or some exotic organization invented by you?”
John whipped a leather folder from his pocket and presented it for my inspection. I must say when he did a job, he did it properly; the shield glittered busily in the light, and the ID card was frayed authentically around the edges. Even the picture was perfect—it had the ghastly, staring look typical of drivers’ licenses, passport photos, and other official documents.
“International Bureau of Arts and Antiquities Frauds,” I read.
“IBAAF,” said John, returning the folder to his hip pocket. “It was your name that won the old boy’s confidence, however. You’re a district inspector.”
“And you, of course, are my superior?”
“Regional inspector.”
“That’s modest of you. I had expected a title with the word ‘Chief’ in it.”
“I have no time for idle persiflage,” said John coldly. “You should have been here before this. Let me be brief—”
“That I want to see.”
The cat yowled as if in agreement. John started nervously. “I’m staying here,” he said rapidly. “At least for the time being. I want to have a look at the fragments of the Schrank. It might be a good idea if we weren’t seen together. Thus far, I am unknown to any of the gang—”
“The man who was shooting at us must have seen you.”
“I was wearing one of those handy-dandy ski masks, remember? I might have been any casual traveler, rushing to the rescue. If you want to see me, come to the back door and give the signal—”
“What signal?”
“Anything you like,” John said magnanimously. “Whistle ‘Yankee Doodle,’ rap three times—”
“Three, then a pause, then two.”
“How unoriginal. I’ll telephone or leave word at the desk should anything interesting arise.” The sound of footsteps descending the stairs quickened his voice. “Watch for familiar faces. Be careful. Don’t tell Tony I’m here. Let me know—”
“I’ll report later this evening, sir,” I said, as Herr Müller entered.
John tried to take the suitcase from him but was rebuffed. “I am not so old as that,” the old man said huffily. “We can go now. I still cannot believe…Fräulein, do you know what it is, this