Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [60]
“No,” I said, feeling it was safer not to elaborate. Lord knows what fantasy John had spun.
“My friend would not do anything wrong,” the old man insisted.
“There is no question of that,” John said smoothly. “I can’t go into detail, Herr Müller, you understand, but we are certain that his involvement was accidental and, unhappily, fatal. He said nothing to you?”
“I have told you. I cannot believe…”
The cat jumped off the chair and walked stifflegged around the suitcase, sniffing it and grumbling to herself.
“She knows I am going away,” Müller said seriously. “She doesn’t like changes. Remember, Herr Inspektor, she must have a square of raw liver each evening….”
A spasm of profound distaste rippled over John’s face. “Er—Dr. Bliss, why don’t you take the nice pussy cat to the hotel with you? She likes you.”
Clara had given up her inspection of the suitcase and was rubbing around my ankles. I bent over to stroke her. “Don’t you like cats, sir?”
“I am fond of all animals. That cat doesn’t like me.”
“Why, sir,” I said, “you must be imagining things. Cats are splendid judges of character. I always say, never trust a person a cat dislikes,…sir.”
The cat started toward John. The hoarse purr with which she had welcomed my touch changed tone. It was more like a growl. To be accurate, it was a growl.
“Perhaps she would prefer to go with you, Fräulein,” said Müller. “It is her old home, after all.”
“I imagine she’ll go where she wants to go,” I said. “Don’t worry about her, Herr Müller. I’ll help the inspector to watch over her.”
“That would be most kind.”
John had retreated into the hallway, and the cat had backed him into a corner. Crouched, her tail twitching, she appeared to be on the verge of leaping. Much as the sight entertained me, I was anxious to get Müller on his way. I scooped Clara up and put her in the parlor while John made his getaway.
The back door opened onto a walled garden deep in snow. Paths had been shoveled to the gate and to a chalet-style bird feeder, obviously Müller’s own work, which hung from a pine tree. Its branches were strung with suet, bits of fruit and berries, and other scraps.
Müller hovered in the doorway, one foot in the house and one foot out. “I must make sure I turned off the fire under the glue pot.”
“It’s off,” John said firmly. “I watched you do it.”
“Fresh water for the cat—”
“I watched you do that, too.”
The old man’s eyes wandered over the dead garden. “I meant to take the Weihnachtsblumen to the grave today,” he said slowly. “Now there will be no remembrance for my poor friend.”
John was hopping from one foot to the other, whether from cold or the same formless sense of anxiety that nagged me, I did not know. “With all respect, Herr Müller—”
I slipped my arm through the old man’s. “I’ll take the flowers,” I said. “I meant to do it anyway.”
“You would be so good? For her as well—poor Amelie?”
“Of course.”
“Not flowers, they would only freeze. Green boughs as for Weihnachten—berries and wreaths—”
“I know,” I said gently. “They still do that in my home town in Minnesota. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”
That promise got him out of the house. While he was locking the door, he told me how to find the cemetery. “The church is abandoned now, no one goes there except to tend the graves, and there are few left who care; Anton’s grave will be the last, I think. For generations, the family of his wife was buried there, so he was given permission to rest alongside her; but one day the mountain will crumble and cover church and graves alike. The fools have cut away the trees for their sports, tampering with God’s work—they don’t know or care….”
Between us, we urged him down the path to the gate and through it, into a roofless corridor of an alleyway lined for its entire length with high fences. These people liked their privacy. I could see that John approved of it, too. He wrestled the suitcase from Müller and put it in the back of his car.
Impulsively I threw my arm around the old man and gave him a hearty smack on the cheek. “Happy Christmas,